"Oui, monsieur. Vill you com'? I go for feesh."

"Well, wee; I go for fun."

They went accordingly and bore away to the northward along the coast before a light breeze, -- past the ruined towers which France had built to guard her port in days gone by; past the steep cliffs beyond Boulogne; past the lovely beach of Wimereux, with its cottages nestled among the sand-hills, and its silted-up harbour, whence Napoleon the First had intended to issue forth and descend on perfidious Albion -- but didn't; past cliffs, and bays, and villages further on, until they brought up off Cape Grisnez. Here the Frenchman let down his trawl, and fished up, among other curiosities of the deep, the submarine cable!

"Behold! fat is dis?" he exclaimed, with glaring eyes, uplifted brows, shoulders shrugged, hands spread out, and fingers expanded.

"The sea-sarpint grow'd thin," suggested the Englishman.

"Non; c'est seaveed -- veed de most 'strordinair in de vorld. Oui, donnez-moi de hache, de hax, mon ami."

His friend handed him the axe, wherewith lie cut off a small portion of the cable and let the end go. Little did that fisherman know that he had also let our Spark go free, and cruelly dashed, for a time at least, the budding hopes of two nations -- but so it was. He bore his prize in triumph to Boulogne, where he exhibited it as a specimen of rare seaweed with its centre filled with gold, while the telegraph clerks at both ends sat gazing in dismay at their useless instruments.

Thus was the first submarine electric cable destroyed. And with the details of its destruction little Robin was intimately acquainted, for cousin Sam had been a member of the staff that had worked that telegraph -- at least he had been a boy in the office, -- and in after years he so filled his cousin's mind with the importance of that cable, and the grandeur and difficulty of the enterprise, that Robin became powerfully sympathetic -- so much so that when Sam, in telling the story, came to the point where the Frenchman accomplished its destruction, Robin used to grieve over it as though he had lost a brother, or a kitten, or his latest toy!

We need scarcely add that submarine cable telegraphy had not received its death-blow on that occasion. Its possibility had been demonstrated. The very next year (1851) Mr T.R. Crampton, with Messrs. Wollaston, Kuper, and others, made and laid an improved cable between Dover and Calais, and ere long many other parts of the world were connected by means of snaky submarine electric cables.



Chapter Three.

Early Aspirations.

One pleasant summer afternoon, Mr Wright, coming in from the office, seated himself beside his composed little wife, who was patching a pair of miniature pantaloons.

"Nan," said the husband, with a perplexed look, "what are we to do with our Robin when he grows up?"

"George," answered the composed wife, "don't you think it is rather soon to trouble ourselves with that question? Robin is a mere child yet. We must first give him a good education."

"Of course, I know that," returned the perplexed husband, "still, I can't help thinking about what is to be done after he has had the good education. You know I have no relation in the world except brother Richard, who is as poor as myself. We have no influential friends to help him into the Army or the Navy or the Indian Civil Service; and the Church, you know, is not suitable for an imp. Just look at him now!"

Mrs Wright looked through the window, over one of those sunny landscapes which are usually described as "smiling," across a winding rivulet, and at last fixed her gorgeous eyes on a tall post, up which a small black object was seen to be struggling.

"What can he be up to?" said the father.

"He seems to be up the telegraph-post," said the mother, "investigating the wires, no doubt. I heard him talking about telegraphy to Madge this morning -- retailing what cousin Sam tries to teach him, -- and I shouldn't wonder if he were now endeavouring to make sure that what he told her was correct, for you know he is a thorough investigator."

"Yes, I know it," murmured the father, with a grim pursing of his lips; "he investigated the inside of my watch last week, to find out, as he said, what made the noise in its 'stummick,' and it has had intermittent fever ever since. Two days ago he investigated my razor, -- it is now equal to a cross-cut saw; and as to my drawers and papers, excepting those which I lock up, there is but one word which fully describes the result of his investigations, and that is -- chaos."

There was, in truth, some ground for that father's emotions, for Master Robin displayed investigative, not to say destructive, capacities far in advance of his years.

"Never mind, George," said Mrs Wright soothingly, "we must put up with his little ways as best we may, consoling ourselves with the reflection that Robin has genius and perseverance, with which qualities he is sure to make his way in the world."

"He has at all events made his way up the telegraph-post," said Mr Wright, his smile expanding and the grimness of it departing; "see! the rascal is actually stretching out his hand to grasp one of the wires. Ha! hallo!"

The composed wife became suddenly discomposed, and gave vent to a scream, for at that moment the small black object which they had been watching with so much interest was seen to fall backward, make a wild grasp at nothing with both hands, and fall promptly to the ground.

His father threw up the window, leaped out, dashed across the four-feet-wide lawn, cleared the winding rivulet, and cut, like a hunted hare, over the smiling landscape towards the telegraph-post, at the foot of which he picked up his unconscious though not much injured son.

"What made you climb the post, Robin?" asked his cousin Madge that evening as she nursed the adventurous boy on her knee -- and Madge was a very motherly nurse, although a full year younger than Robin.

"I kimed it to see if I could hear the 'trissity," replied the injured one.

"The lek-trissity," said Madge, correcting. "You must learn to p'onounce your words popperly, dear. You'll never be a great man if you are so careless."

"I don't want to be a g'eat man," retorted Robin. "I on'y want t'understand things whats puzzlesum."

"Well, does the telegraph puzzle you?"

"Oh! mos' awfully," returned Robin, with a solemn gaze of his earnest eyes, one of which was rendered fantastic by a yellow-green ring round it and a swelling underneath. "I's kite sure I's stood for hours beside dat post listin' to it hummin' an hummin' like our olianarp -- "

"Now, Robin, do be careful. You know mamma calls it an olian harp."

"Yes, well, like our olian harp, only a deal louder, an' far nicer. An' I's often said to myself, Is that the 'trissity -- ?"

"Lek, Robin, lek!"

"Well, yes, lek-trissity. So I thought I'd kime up an' see, for, you know, papa says the 'trissity -- lek, I mean -- runs along the wires -- "

"But papa also says," interrupted Madge, "that the sounds you want to know about are made by the vi -- the vi -- "

"Bratin'," suggested the invalid.

"Yes, vibratin' of the wires."

"I wonder what vi-bratin' means," murmured Robin, turning his lustrous though damaged eyes meditatively on the landscape.

"Don'no for sure," said Madge, "but I think it means tremblin'."

It will be seen from the above conversation that Robert Wright and his precocious cousin Marjory were of a decidedly philosophical turn of mind.



Chapter Four.

Extraordinary Result Of An Attempt At Amateur Cable-Laying.

Time continued to roll additional years off his reel, and rolled out Robin and Madge in length and breadth, though we cannot say much for thickness. Time also developed their minds, and Robin gradually began to understand a little more of the nature of that subtle fluid -- if we may venture so to call it -- under the influence of which he had been born.

"Come, Madge," he said one day, throwing on his cap, "let us go and play at cables."

Madge, ever ready to play at anything, put on her sun-bonnet and followed her ambitious leader.

"Is it to be land-telegraphs to-day, or submarine cables?" inquired Madge, with as much gravity and earnestness as if the world's welfare depended on the decision.

"Cables, of course," answered Robin, "why, Madge, I have done with land-telegraphs now. There's nothing more to learn about them. Cousin Sam has put me up to everything, you know. Besides, there's no mystery about land-lines. Why, you've only got to stick up a lot o' posts with insulators screwed to 'em, fix wires to the insulators, clap on an electric battery and a telegraph instrument, and fire away."

"Robin, what are insulators?" asked Madge, with a puzzled look.

"Madge," replied Robin, with a self-satisfied expression on his pert face, "this is the three-hundred-thousandth time I have explained that to you."

"Explain it the three-hundred-thousand-and-first time, then, dear Robin, and perhaps I'll take it in."

"Well," began Robin, with a hypocritical sigh of despair, "you must know that everything in nature is more or less a conductor of electricity, but some things conduct it so well -- such as copper and iron -- that they are called conductors, and some things -- such as glass and earthenware -- conduct it so very badly that they scarcely conduct it at all, and are called non-conductors. D'ee see?"

"Oh yes, I see, Robin; so does a bat, but he doesn't see well. However, go on."

"Well, if I were to run my wire through the posts that support it, my electricity would escape down these posts into the earth, especially if the posts were wet with rain, for water is a good conductor, and Mister Electricity has an irresistible desire to bolt into the earth, like a mole."

"Naughty fellow!" murmured Madge.

"But," continued Robin impressively, "if I fix little lumps of glass with a hole in them to the posts, and fix my wires to these, Electricity cannot bolt, because the glass lumps are non-conductors, and won't let him pass."

"How good of them!" said Madge.

"Yes, isn't it? So, you see," continued Robin, "the glass lumps are insulators, for they cut the electricity off from the earth as an island is, or, at all events, appears to be, cut off from it by water; and Mister Electricity must go along the wires and do what I tell him. Of course, you know, I must make my electricity first in a battery, which, as I have often and often told you, is a trough containing a mixture of acid and water, with plates or slices of zinc and copper in it, placed one after the other, but not touching each other. Now, if I fix a piece of wire to my first copper slice or plate, and the other end of it to my last zinc slice or plate, immediately electricity will begin to be made, and will fly from the copper to the zinc, and so round and round until the plates are worn out or the wire broken. D'ee see?"

"No, Robin, I don't see; I'm blinder than the blindest mole."

"Oh, Madge, what a wonderful mind you must have!" said Robin, laughing. "It is so simple."

"Of course," said Madge, "I understand what you mean by troughs and plates and all that, but what I want to know is why that arrangement is necessary. Why would it not do just as well to tempt electricity out of its hiding-hole with plates or slices of cheese and bread, placed one after the other in a trough filled with a mixture of glue and melted butter?"

"What stuff you do talk, Madge! As well might you ask why it would not do to make a plum-pudding out of nutmegs and coal-tar. There are some things that no fellow can understand, and of course I don't know everything!"

The astounding modesty of this latter remark seemed to have furnished Madge with food for reflection, for she did not reply to it. After a few minutes' walk the amateur electricians reached the scene of their intended game -- a sequestered dell in a plantation, through which brawled a rather turbulent stream. At one part, where a willow overhung the water, there was a deep broad pool. The stream entered the pool with a headlong plunge, and issued from it with a riotous upheaval of wavelets and foam among jagged rocks, as if rejoicing in, and rather boastful about, the previous leap.

The game was extremely simple. The pool was to be the German Ocean, and a piece of stout cord was to serve as a submarine cable.

The boy and girl were well-matched playmates, for Madge was ignorant and receptive -- in reference to science, -- Robin learned and communicative, while both were intensely earnest.

"Now, this is the battery," said Robin, when he had dug a deep hole close to the pool with a spade brought for the purpose.

"Yes, and the muddy water in it will do for the mixture of acid and water," said Madge.

As she spoke, Robin's toe caught on a root, and he went headlong into the battery, out of which he emerged scarcely recognisable. It was a severe, though not an electric, shock, and at first Robin seemed inclined to whimper, but his manhood triumphed, and he burst into a compound laugh and yell, to the intense relief of Madge, who thought at first that he had been seriously injured.

"Never mind, Madge," said Robin, as he cleansed his muddy head; "cousin Sam has often told me that nothing great was ever done except in the face of difficulties and dangers. I wonder whether this should be counted a difficulty or a danger?"

"At first I thought it a danger," said Madge, with a laugh, "but the trouble you now have with the mud in your hair looks like a difficulty, doesn't it?"

"Why, then, it's both," cried Robin. "Come, that's a good beginning. Now, Madge, you get away round to the opposite side of the pool, and mind you don't slip in, it's rather steep there."

"This is England," cried Robin, preparing to throw the line over to his assistant, who stood eager to aid on the other side, "and you are standing on -- on -- what's on the other side of the German Ocean?"

"I'm not sure, Robin. Holland, I think, or Denmark."

"Well, we'll say Denmark. Look-out now, and be ready to catch. I'm going to connect England and Denmark with a submarine cable."

"Stay!" cried Madge, "is that the way submarine cables are laid, by throwing them over the sea?"

"N-no, not exactly. They had a steamboat, you know, to carry over the telegraph from England to France; but we haven't got a steamer -- not even a plank to make-believe one. Cousin Sam says that a good workman can do his work with almost any tools that come to hand. As we have no tools at all, we will improve on that and go to work without them. Now, catch!"

Robin made a splendid heave -- so splendid indeed that it caused him to stagger backward, and again he stumbled into his own battery! This time, however, only one leg was immersed.

"Another danger!" shouted Madge in great glee, "but I've caught the cable."

"All right. Now make fast the shore-end to a bush, and we'll commence telegraphing. The first must be a message from the Queen to the King of Denmark -- Or is it the President?"

"King, I think, Robin, but I'm not sure."

"Well, it won't matter. But -- I say -- "

"What's wrong now?"

"Why, the cable won't sink. It is floating about on the top of the pool, and it can't be a submarine cable, you know, unless it sinks."

"Another difficulty, Robin."

"We will face and overcome it, Madge. Cast off the shore-end and I'll soon settle that."

Having fastened a number of small stones to the cable, this persevering electrician would certainly have overcome the difficulty if the line had not, when thrown, unfortunately caught on a branch of the willow, where it hung suspended just out of Madge's reach.

"How provoking!" she said, stretching out her hand to the utmost.

"Take care -- you'll -- ha!"

The warning came too late. The edge of the bank gave way, and Madge went headlong into the pool with a wild shriek and a fearful plunge.

Robin stood rooted to the spot -- heart, breath, blood, brain, paralysed for the moment -- gazing at the spot where his playmate had disappeared.

Another moment and her head and hands appeared. She struggled bravely for life, while the circling current carried her quickly to the lower end of the pool.

Robin's energies returned, as he afterwards said, like an electric shock, but accompanied with a terrible sinking of the heart, for he knew that he could not swim! His education in this important particular had been neglected. He sprang round to the lower end of the pool just in time to hold out his hand to the drowning girl. He almost touched her outstretched hand as she swept towards the turbulent waters below, but failed to grasp it.

For the first time in his life our little hero was called on to face death voluntarily. Another moment and Madge would have been caught in the boiling stream that rushed towards the fall below. He was equal to the occasion. He sprang right upon Madge and caught her in his arms. There was no need to hold on to her. In the agony of fear the poor child clasped the boy in a deadly embrace. They were whirled violently round and hurled against a rock. Robin caught it with one hand, but it was instantly torn from his grasp. The waters overwhelmed them, and again sent them violently towards the bank. This time Robin caught a rock with both hands and held on. Slowly, while almost choked with the water that splashed up into his face, he worked his right knee into a crevice, then made a wild grasp with the left hand at a higher projection of the rock. At the same moment his left foot struck the bottom. Another effort and he was out of danger, but it was several minutes ere he succeeded in dragging Madge from the hissing water of the shallows to the green sward above, and after this was accomplished he found it almost impossible to tear himself from the grasp of the now unconscious girl.

At first poor Robin thought that his companion was dead, but by degrees consciousness returned, and at last she was able to rise and walk.

Drenched, dishevelled, and depressed, these unfortunate electricians returned home.

Of course they were received with mingled joy and reproof. Of course, also, they were forbidden to go near the pool again -- though this prohibition was afterwards removed, and our hero ultimately became a first-rate swimmer and diver.

Thus was frustrated the laying of the first submarine cable between England and Denmark!



Chapter Five.

Prospects Of Real Cable-Laying -- Robin Meets With His First Electrical Acquaintances.

Circumstances require that we should shift the scene and the date pretty frequently in this tale. We solicit the reader's attendance at an office in London.

The office is dingy. Many offices are so. Two clerks are sitting in it making faces at each other across their desk. They are not lunatics. They are not imbeciles or idlers. On the contrary, they have frequent spells of work that might throw the toils of an Arab ass into the shade. They are fine strapping young fellows, with pent-up energies equal to anything, but afflicted with occasional periods of having nothing particular to do. These two have been sitting all morning in busy idleness. Their muscular and nervous systems rebelling, have induced much fidgeting and many wry faces. Being original, they have turned their sorrows into a game, and their little game at present is to see which can make a face so hideous that the other shall be compelled to laugh! We have deep sympathy with clerks. We have been a clerk, and know what it is to have the fires of Vesuvius raging within, while under the necessity of exhibiting the cool aspect of Spitzbergen without.

But these clerks were not utterly miserable. On the contrary, they were, to use one of their own familiar phrases, rather jolly than otherwise. Evening was before them in far-off but attainable perspective. Home, lawn-tennis, in connection with bright eyes and pretty faces, would compensate for the labours of the day and let off the steam. They were deep in their game when a rap at the door brought their faces suddenly to a state of nature.

"Come in," said the first clerk.

"And wipe your feet," murmured the second, in a low tone.

A gentleman, with an earnest countenance, entered.

"Is Mr Lowstoft in his office?"

"He is, sir," said the first clerk, descending from his perch with an air of good-will, and requesting the visitor's name and business.

The visitor handed his card, on which the name Cyrus Field was written, and the clerk, observing it, admitted the owner at once to the inner sanctum where Mr Lowstoft transacted business.

"There's something up," murmured the clerk, with a mysterious look at his comrade, on resuming his perch.

"Time's up, or nearly so," replied the comrade, with an anxious look at the clock:

"The witching hour which sets us free To saunter home and have our tea -- 

"approaches."

"D'you know that that is Cyrus Field?" said the first clerk.

"And who is Cyrus Field?" demanded the second clerk.

"O ignoramus! Thy name is Bob, and thou art not worth a 'bob' --  miserable snob! Don't you know that Cyrus Field is the man who brought about the laying of the great Atlantic Cable in 1858?"

"No, most learned Fred, I did not know that, but I am very glad to know it now. Moreover, I know nothing whatever about cables -- Atlantic or otherwise. I am as blind as a bat, as ignorant as a bigot, as empty as a soap-bubble, and as wise as Solomon, because I'm willing to be taught."

"What a delicious subject to work upon!" said Fred.

"Well then, work away," returned Bob; "suppose you give me a discourse on Cables. But, I say -- be merciful. Don't overdo it, Frederick. Remember that my capacity is feeble."

"I'll be careful, Bob. -- Well then, you must know that from the year 1840 submarine cables had been tried and laid, and worked with more or less success, in various parts of the world. Sir W. O'Shaughnessy, I believe, began it. Irishmen are frequently at the root of mischief! Anyhow, he, being Superintendent of Electric Telegraphs in India in 1839, hauled an insulated wire across the Hooghly at Calcutta, and produced what they call 'electrical phenomena' at the other side of the river. In 1840 Mr Wheatstone brought before the House of Commons the project of a cable from Dover to Calais. In 1842 Professor Morse of America laid a cable in New York harbour, and another across the canal at Washington. He also suggested the possibility of laying a cable across the Atlantic Ocean. In 1846 Colonel Colt, of revolver notoriety, and Mr Robinson, laid a wire from New York to Brooklyn, and from Long Island to Correy Island. In 1849 -- "

"I say, Fred," interrupted Bob, with an anxious look, "you are a walking dictionary of dates. Haydn was nothing to you. But -- couldn't you give it me without dates? I've got no head for dates; never could stomach them -- except when fresh off the palm-tree. Don't you think that a lecture without dates would be pleasantly original as well as instructive?"

"No, Bob, I don't, and I won't be guilty of any such gross innovation on time-honoured custom. You must swallow my dates whether you like them or not. In 1849, I say, a Mr Walker -- "

"Any relation to Hookey?"

"No, sir, none whatever -- he laid a wire from Folkestone to a steamer two miles off the shore, and sent messages to it. At last, in 1851. Mr Brett laid down and successfully wrought the cable between Dover and Calais which had been suggested by Wheatstone eleven years before. It is true it did not work long, but this may be said to have been the beginning of submarine telegraphy, which, you see, like your own education, Bob, has been a thing of slow growth."

"Have you done with dates, now, my learned friend?" asked Bob, attempting to balance a ruler on the point of his nose.

"Not quite, my ignorant chum, but nearly. That same year -- 1851, remember -- a Mr Frederick N. Gisborne, an English electrician, made the first attempt to connect Newfoundland with the American continent by cable. He also started a company to facilitate intercourse between America and ireland by means of steamers and telegraph-cables. Gisborne was very energetic and successful, but got into pecuniary difficulties, and went to New York to raise the wind. There he met with Cyrus Field, who took the matter up with tremendous enthusiasm. He expanded Gisborne's idea, and resolved to get up a company to connect Newfoundland with Ireland by electric cable. Field was rich and influential, and ultimately successful -- "

"Ah! would that you and I were rich, Fred," interrupted Bob, as he let fall the ruler with a crash on the red-ink bottle, and overturned it; "but go on, Fred, I'm getting interested; pardon the interruption, and never mind the ink, I'll swab it up. -- He was successful, was he?"

"Yes, he was; eminently so. He first of all roused his friends in the States, and got up, in 1856, the 'New York, Newfoundland, and London Telegraph Company,' which carried a line of telegraph through the British Provinces, and across the Gulf of Saint Lawrence to Saint John's, Newfoundland -- more than 1000 miles -- at a cost of about 500,000 pounds. Then he came over to England and roused the British Lion, with whose aid he started the 'Atlantic Telegraph Company,' and fairly began the work, backed by such men as Brett, Bidden, Stephenson, Brunel, Glass, Eliot, Morse, Bright, Whitehouse, and a host of others. But all this was not done in a day. Cyrus Field laboured for years among preliminaries, and it was not until 1857 that a regular attempt was made to lay an Atlantic cable. It failed, because the cable broke and was lost. A second attempt was made in 1858, and was successful. In that year, my boy, Ireland and Newfoundland were married, and on the 5th of August the first electric message passed between the Old World and the New, through a small wire, over a distance of above 2000 miles. But the triumph of Field and his friends was short-lived, for, soon after, something went wrong with the cable, and on the 6th September it ceased to work."

"What a pity!" exclaimed Bob; "so it all went off in smoke."

"Not quite that, Bob. Before the cable struck work about 400 messages had been sent, which proved its value in a financial point of view, and one of these messages -- sent from London in the morning and reaching Halifax the same day -- directed that 'the 62nd Regiment was not to return to England,' and it is said that this timely warning saved the country an expenditure of 50,000 pounds. But the failure, instead of damping, has evidently stimulated the energies of Mr Field, who has been going about between America and England ever since, stirring people up far and near, to raise the funds necessary for another attempt. He gives himself no rest; has embarked his own fortune in the affair, and now, at this moment, in this year of grace 1865, is doing his best, I have no doubt, to induce our governor, Mr Lowstoft, to embark in the same boat with himself."

It would seem as if Fred had been suddenly endowed with the gift of second-sight, for at that moment the door of his employer's room opened, and Mr Lowstoft came out, saying to his visitor, in the most friendly tones, that he had the deepest sympathy with his self-sacrificing efforts, and with the noble work to which he had devoted himself.

Bob, in a burst of sudden enthusiasm, leaped off his stool, opened the office-door, and muttered something as the distinguished visitor passed him.

"I beg pardon," said Mr Field, checking himself, "what did you say?"

"I -- I wish you good luck, sir, with -- with the new cable," stammered the clerk, blushing deeply.

"Thank you, lad -- thank you," said Mr Field, with a pleasant smile and nod, as he went away.

"Mr Sime," said Mr Lowstoft to Bob, turning at the door of his room, "send young Wright to me."

"Yes, sir," replied the obedient Bob, going to a corner of the room and applying his lips to a speaking-tube.

Now young Wright was none other than our hero Robin grown up to the mature age of fifteen.

He was perched on the top of a three-legged stool, and, from the slow and intensely earnest manner in which his head turned from side to side as he wrote, it was quite evident that he dotted all his i's and stroked all his t's with conscientious care. As he sat there -- a sturdy little broad-shouldered fellow, so deeply engrossed with his work that he was oblivious of all around -- he seemed the very beau-ideal of a painstaking, hard-working clerk. So deeply was he engrossed in his subject -- the copying of an invoice -- that he failed to hear the voice of his fellow-clerk, although the end of the speaking-tube was not far, from where he sat. After listening a few seconds at the other end of the tube, Bob Sime repeated the summons with such vigour that Robin leaped from his stool as though he had received one of his favourite electric shocks. A minute later he stood in the presence of the Head of the House.

"Robert Wright," said the Head, pushing his spectacles up on his brow, "I shall be sorry to lose your services, but -- "

He paused and turned over the papers before him, as if searching for something, and Robin's heart sank. Was he going to be dismissed? Had he done anything wrong, or had he unwittingly neglected some duty?

"Ah! here it is," resumed Mr Lowstoft, "a letter from a friend who has come by a slight injury to his right hand, and wants a smart amanuensis and general assistant. Now I think of sending you to him, if you have no objection."

As the Head again paused while glancing over the letter, Robin ventured timidly to state that he had very strong objections; that he was very much satisfied with his situation and work, and had no desire to change.

Mr Lowstoft did not appear to listen to his remarks, but said suddenly -- "You've studied the science of electricity, I believe?"

"Yes, sir -- to some extent," answered the lad, with a look of surprise.

"I know you have. Your father has told me about your tastes and studies. You've heard of Mr Cyrus Field, I presume?"

"Indeed I have," said Robin, brightening up, "it was through his efforts that the Atlantic Cable was laid in 1858 -- which unfortunately went wrong."

"Well, my boy, it is through his efforts that another cable is to be laid in this year 1865, which we all hope sincerely won't go wrong, and my friend, who wants an assistant, is one of the electricians connected with the new expedition. Would you like to go?"

Robin's eyes blazed, and he could scarcely find breath or words to express his willingness -- if his father did not object.

"Go home at once, then, and ask leave, for the Great Eastern is almost ready for sea, and you have to hasten your preparations."

Robin stroked no more t's and dotted no more i's that day. We fear, indeed, that he even left the invoice on his desk unfinished, with the last i imperfect.

Bursting into his father's house, he found Madge -- now become a pretty little slip of feminine thread-paper -- seated at the piano agonising over a chord which her hand was too small to compass.

"Madge, Madge, cousin Madge!" he shouted, seizing both the extended little hands and kissing the musical wrinkles from her brow, "why am I like a magnet? You'll never guess."

"Because you attract everybody to you," said Madge promptly.

"Pooh! not at all. A magnet doesn't attract every body. It has two poles, don't you know, and repels some bodies. No, Madge, it's because I have been electrified."

"Indeed? and what has electrified you, Robin?"

"The Atlantic Cable, Madge."

"Well, that ought to be able to do it powerfully," returned Madge, with a laugh; "but tell me all about it, and don't make more bad conundrums. I'm sure something has happened. What is it?"

Mrs Wright, entering at the moment, her son calmed himself as well as he could, and sat down to tell his tale and talk the matter over.

"Now, what think you, mother? Will father consent?"

"I think he will, Robin, but before going into the matter further, I will lay it before our Father in heaven. He must show us the way, if we are to go right."

According to invariable custom, Robin's mother retired to her own room to consider the proposal. Thereafter she had a long talk with her husband, and the result was that on the following day our hero found himself in a train with a small new portmanteau by his side, a new billy-cock hat on his head, a very small new purse in his pocket, with a remarkably small sum of money therein, and a light yet full heart in his breast. He was on his way to the Nore, where the Great Eastern lay, like an antediluvian macaroni-eater, gorging itself with innumerable miles of Atlantic Cable.

To say truth, Robin's breast -- capacious though it was for his size --  could hardly contain his heart that day. The dream of his childhood was about to be realised! He had thirsted for knowledge. He had acquired all that was possible in his father's limited circumstances. He had, moreover, with the valuable assistance of Sam Shipton, become deeply learned in electrical science. He had longed with all his heart to become an electrician -- quite ready, if need were, to commence as sweeper of a telegraph-office, but he had come to regard his desires as too ambitious, and, accepting his lot in life with the quiet contentment taught him by his mother, had entered on a clerkship in a mercantile house, and had perched himself, with a little sigh no doubt, yet cheerfully, on the top of a three-legged stool. To this stool he had been so long attached -- physically -- that he had begun to regard it almost as part and parcel of himself, and had made up his mind that he would have to stick to it through life. He even sometimes took a quaint view of the matter, and tried to imagine that through long habit it would stick to him at last, and oblige him to carry it about sticking straight out behind him; perhaps even require him to take it to bed with him, in which case he sometimes tried to imagine what would be the precise effect on the bedclothes if he were to turn from one side to the other. Thus had his life been projected in grey perspective to his mental eye.

But now -- he actually was an electrician-elect on his way to join the biggest ship in the world, to aid in laying the greatest telegraph cable in the world, in company with some of the greatest men in the universe! It was almost too much for him. He thirsted for sympathy. He wanted to let off his feelings in a cheer, but life in a lunatic asylum presented itself, and he refrained. There was a rough-looking sailor lad about his own age, but much bigger, on the seat opposite, (it was a third class). He thought of pouring out his feelings on him -- but prudence prevented. There is no saying what might have been the result, figuratively speaking, to his boiler if the sailor lad had not of his own accord opened a safety-valve.

"You seems pretty bobbish this morning, young feller," he said, after contemplating his vis-a-vis, for a long time in critical silence. "Bin an' took too much, eh?"

"I beg your pardon," said Robin, somewhat puzzled.

"You're pritty considerable jolly, I say," returned the lad, who had an honest, ugly face; and was somewhat blunt and gruff in manner.

"I am indeed very jolly," said Robin, with a bland smile, "for I'm going to help to lay the great Atlantic Cable."

"Wot's that you say?" demanded the lad, with sudden animation.

Robin repeated his remark.

"Well, now, that is a go! Why, I'm goin' to help lay the great Atlantic Cable too. I'm one the stooard's boys. What may you be, young feller?"

"Me? Oh! I'm -- I -- why, I'm on the electrical staff -- I'm -- " he thought of the word secretary, but a feeling of modesty induced him to say -- "assistant to one of the electricians."

"Which 'un?" demanded the lad curtly.

"Mr Smith."

"Mr Smith, eh? Well -- it ain't an unusual name -- Smith ain't. P'r'aps you'll condescend on his first name, for there's no less than three Smiths among the electricians."

"Ebenezer Smith, I believe," said Robin.

"Ebbysneezer Smith -- eh? well, upon my word that's a Smith-mixtur that I've never heerd on before. I don't know 'im, but he's all right, I dessay. They're a rum lot altogether."

Whether this compliment was meant for the great Smith family in general, or the electrical branch in particular, Robin could not guess, and did not like to ask. Having thus far opened his heart, however, he began to pour out its contents, and found that the ugly sailor lad was a much more sympathetic soul than he had been led to expect from his looks. Having told his own name, he asked that of his companion in return.

"My name -- oh! it's Slagg -- Jim Slagg; James when you wants to be respeckful -- Slagg when familiar. I'm the son o' Jim Slagg, senior. Who he was the son of is best known to them as understands the science of jinnylology. But it don't much matter, for we all runs back to Adam an' Eve somehow. They called me after father, of course; but to make a distinction they calls him Jimmy -- bein' more respeckful-like, -- and me Jim. It ain't a name much to boast of, but I wouldn't change it with you, young feller, though Robert ain't a bad name neither. It's pretty well-known, you see, an' that's somethin'. Then, it's bin bore by great men. Let me think -- wasn't there a Robert the Great once?"

"I fear not," said Robin; "he is yet in the womb of Time."

"Ah, well, no matter; but there should have bin a Robert the Great before now. Anyhow, there was Robert the Bruce -- he was a king, warn't he, an' a skull-cracker? Then there was Robert Stephenson, the great engineer -- he's livin' yet; an' there was Robert the -- the Devil, but I raither fear he must have bin a bad 'un, he must, so we won't count him. Of course, they gave you another name, for short; ah, Robin! I thought so. Well, that ain't a bad name neither. There was Robin Hood, you know, what draw'd the long-bow a deal better than the worst penny-a-liner as ever mended a quill. An' there was a Robin Goodfellow, though I don't rightly remember who he was exactly."

"One of Shakespeare's characters," interposed Robin.

"Jus' so -- well, he couldn't have bin a bad fellow, you know. Then, as to your other name, Wright -- that's all right, you know, and might have bin writer if you'd taken to the quill or the law. Anyhow, as long as you're Wright, of course you can't be wrong -- eh, young feller?"

Jim Slagg was so tickled with this sudden sally that he laughed, and in so doing shut his little eyes, and opened an enormous mouth, fully furnished with an unbroken set of splendid teeth.

Thus pleasantly did Robin while away the time with his future shipmate until he arrived at the end of his journey, when he parted from Jim Slagg and was met by Ebenezer Smith.

That energetic electrician, instead of at once taking him on board the Great Eastern, took him to a small inn, where he gave him his tea and put him through a rather severe electrical examination, out of which our anxious hero emerged with credit.

"You'll do, Robin," said his examiner, who was a free-and-easy yet kindly electrician, "but you want instruction in many things."

"Indeed I do, sir," said Robin, "for I have had no regular education in the science, but I hope, if you direct me what to study, that I shall improve."

"No doubt you will, my boy. Meanwhile, as the big ship won't be ready to start for some time, I want you to go to the works of the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company, see the making of the cable, learn all you can, and write me a careful account of all that you see, and all that you think about it."

Robin could not repress a smile.

"Why, boy, what are you laughing at?" demanded Mr Smith, somewhat sternly.

Robin blushed deep scarlet as he replied -- 

"Pardon me, sir, but you said I am to write down all that I think about it."

"Well, what then?"

"I -- I'm afraid, sir," stammered Robin, "that if I write down all I think about the Atlantic Cable, as well as all that I see, I shall require a very long time indeed, and a pretty large volume."

Mr Smith gazed at our hero for some time with uplifted brows, then he shook his head slowly and frowned, then he nodded it slightly and smiled. After that he laughed, or rather chuckled, and said -- 

"Well, you may go now, and do what I have told you -- only omitting most of what you think. A small portion of that will suffice! Don't hurry back. Go home and make a fair copy of your observations and thoughts. I'll write when I require you. Stay -- your address? Ah! I have it in my note-book. What's your first name, Mister Wright?"

Robin grew two inches taller, or more, on the spot; he had never been called Mister before, except in jest!

"Robert, sir," he replied.

"Robert -- ha! h'm! I'll call you Bob. I never could stand ceremony, so you'll accustom yourself to the new name as quickly as you can -- but perhaps it's not new to you?"

"Please, sir, I've been used to Robin; if you have no objection, I should -- "

"No objection -- of course not," interrupted Mr Smith; "Robin will do quite as well, though a little longer; but that's no matter. Good-bye, Robin, and -- and -- don't think too hard. It sometimes hurts digestion; good-bye."

"Well, what d'ee think of Ebbysneezer Smith, my electrical toolip?" asked Jim Slagg, whom Robin encountered again at the station. "He's a wiry subject, I s'pose, like the rest of 'em?"

"He's a very pleasant gentleman," answered Robin warmly.

"Oh, of coorse he is. All the Smiths are so -- more or less. They're a glorious family. I knows at least half a dozen of 'em in what superfine people call the 'slums' of London."

"And I know more than half a dozen of 'em," retorted Robin, somewhat sharply, "in what unrefined people call the haristocracy of London."

"Whew!" whistled Mister Slagg, gazing at Robin in silent surprise.

What the whistle implied was not explained at that time, because the locomotive whistle took up the tune with intense violence, causing a rush to the train, in which the two lads -- like many other friends -- were abruptly parted for a season.



Chapter Six.

Tells Of Our Hero's Visit To The Great Cable.

Robin Wright returned home with a bounding heart. Since his electrical appointment he had become, figuratively speaking, an indiarubber ball -- a sort of human "squash." His heart bounded; his feet bounded; if his head had fallen off, it also would have bounded, no doubt.

On arriving he found his father's elder brother -- a retired sea-captain of the merchant service -- on a visit to the family.

There was not a more favourite uncle in the kingdom than uncle Rik -- thus had his name of Richard been abbreviated by the Wright family. Uncle Rik was an old bachelor and as bald as a baby -- more so than many babies. He was good-humoured and liberal-hearted, but a settled unbeliever in the world's progress. He idolised the "good old times," and quite pleasantly scorned the present.

"So, so, Robin," he said, grasping our hero by both hands (and uncle Rik's grasp was no joke), "you're goin' in for batteries -- galvanic batteries an' wires, are you? Well, lad, I always thought you more or less of a fool, but I never thought you such a born idiot as that comes to."

"Yes, uncle," said Robin, with a pleasant laugh, for he was used to the old captain's plain language, "I'm going to be an electrician."

"Bah! pooh! -- an electrician!" exclaimed uncle Rik with vehemence, "as well set up for a magician at once."

"Indeed he won't be far short of that," said Mrs Wright, who was seated at the tea-table with her husband and Madge -- "at least," she added, "if all be true that we hear of this wonderful science."

"If only half of it be true," interjected Mr Wright.

"But it ain't true," said Captain Rik firmly. "They talk a deal of stuff about it, more than nine-tenths of which is lies -- pure fable. I don't believe in electricity; more than that, I don't believe in steam. Batteries and boilers are both bosh!"

"But, uncle, you can't deny that they exist," said Robin.

"Of course not," replied the captain. "I know as well as you do -- maybe better -- that there's a heap o' telegraph-wires rove about the world like great spiders' webs, and that there are steamboats hummin' an' buzzin' --  ay, an' bu'stin' too -- all over the ocean, like huge wasps, an' a pretty mess they make of it too among them! Why, there was a poor old lady the other day that was indooced by a young nephy to send a telegraphic message to her husband in Manchester -- she bein' in London. She was very unwillin' to do it, bein' half inclined to regard the telegraph as a plant from the lower regions. The message sent was, 'Your lovin' wife hopes you'll be home to-morrow.' It reached the husband, 'Your lowerin' wife hopes you'll be hung to-morrow.' Bad writin' and a useless flourish at the e turned home into hung. The puzzled husband telegraphs in reply, 'Mistake somewhere -- all right -- shall be back three o'clock -- to-morrow -- kind love.' And how d'ye think this reached the old lady? -- 'Mistake somewhere -- all night -- stabbed in back -- through cloak --  two more rows -- killed, love.' Now, d'you call that successful telegraphing?"

"Not very," admitted Robin, with a laugh, "but of the thousands of messages that pass to and fro daily there cannot be many like these, I should think."

"But what did the poor wife do?" asked Madge anxiously.

"Do?" repeated Rik indignantly, as though the misfortune were his own --  for he was a very sympathetic captain -- "do? Why, she gave a yell that nigh knocked the young nephy out of his reason, and fell flat on the floor. When she came to, she bounced up, bore away for the railway station under full sail, an' shipped for Manchester, where she found her husband, alive and hearty, pitchin' into a huge beefsteak, which he very properly said, after recovering from his first surprise, was big enough for two."

"But what objection have you to steamers, uncle Rik?" asked Mrs Wright; "I'm sure they are very comfortable and fast-going."

"Comfortable and fast-goin'!" repeated the old sailor, with a look of supreme contempt, "yes, they're comfortable enough when your berth ain't near the paddles or the boilers; an' they're fast-goin', no doubt, specially when they bu'st. But ain't the nasty things made of iron --  like kitchen kettles? and won't that rust? an' if you knock a hole in 'em won't they go down at once? an' if you clap too much on the safety-valves won't they go up at once? Bah! pooh! -- there's nothin' like the wooden walls of old England. You may take the word of an old salt for it, -- them wooden walls will float and plough the ocean when all these new-fangled iron pots are sunk or blowed to atoms. Why, look at the Great Eastern herself, the biggest kettle of 'em all, what a precious mess she made of herself! At first she wouldn't move at all, when they tried to launch her; then they had to shove her off sidewise like a crab; then she lost her rudder in a gale, an' smashed all her cabin furniture like a bad boy with his toys. Bah! I only hope I may be there when she bu'sts, for it'll be a grand explosion."

"I'm sorry you have so bad an opinion of her, uncle, for I am appointed to serve in the Great Eastern while layin' the Atlantic Cable."

"Sorry to hear it, lad; very sorry to hear it. Of course I hope for your sake that she won't blow up on this voyage, though it's nothin' more or less than an absurd ship goin' on a wild-goose chase."

"But, uncle, submarine cables have now passed the period of experiment," said Robin, coming warmly to the defence of his favourite subject. "Just consider, from the time the first one was laid, in 1851, between Dover and Calais, till now, about fifteen years, many thousands of miles of conducting-wire have been laid along the bottom of the sea to many parts of the world, and they are in full and successful operation at this moment. Why, even in 1858, when the first Atlantic Cable was laid, the Gutta-percha Company had made forty-four submarine cables."

"I know it, lad, but it won't last. It's all sure to bu'st up in course of time."

"Then, though the attempt to lay the last Atlantic Cable proved a failure," continued Robin, "the first one, the 1858 one, was a success at the beginning, no one can deny that."

"Ay, but how long did it last?" demanded the skipper, hitting the table with his fist.

"Oh, please, have pity on the tea-cups, uncle Rik," cried the hostess.

"Beg pardon, sister, but I can't help getting riled when I hear younkers talkin' stuff. Why, do you really suppose," said the captain, turning again to Robin, "that because they managed in '58 to lay a cable across the Atlantic, and exchange a few messages, which refused to travel after a few days, that they'll succeed in layin' down a permanent speakin' trumpet between old England and Noof'nland -- 2000 miles, more or less -- in spite o' gales an' currents, an' ships' anchors, an' insects, an' icebergs an' whales, to say nothing o' great sea-sarpints an' such like?"

"Uncle Rik, I do," said Robin, with intensely earnest eyes and glowing cheeks.

"Bravo! Robin, you'll do it, I do believe, if it is to be done at all; give us your hand, lad."

The old sailor's red countenance beamed with a huge smile of kindness as he shook his enthusiastic nephew's hand.

"There," he added, "I'll not say another word against iron kettles or Atlantic cables. If you succeed I'll give batteries and boilers full credit, but if you fail I'll not forget to remind you that I said it would all bu'st up in course of time."

With note-book and pencil in hand Robin went down the very next day to the works of the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company, where the great cable was being made.

Presenting his letter of introduction from Mr Smith, Robin was conducted over the premises by a clerk, who, under the impression that he was a very youthful and therefore unusually clever newspaper correspondent, treated him with marked respect. This was a severe trial to Robin's modesty; nevertheless he bore up manfully, and pulling out his note-book prepared for action.

The reader need not fear that we intend to inflict on him Robin's treatise on what he styled the "Great Atlantic Cable," but it would be wrong to leave the subject without recording a few of those points which made a deep impression on him.

"The cable when completed, sir," said the clerk, as he conducted his visitor to the factory, "will be 2300 nautical miles in length."

"Indeed," said Robin, recording the statement with solemn gravity and great accuracy; "but I thought," he added, "that the exact distance from Ireland to Newfoundland was only 1600 miles."

"You are right, sir, but we allow 700 miles of 'slack' for the inequalities of the bottom. Its cost will be 700,000 pounds, and the whole when finished will weigh 7000 tons."

Poor Robin's mind had, of course, been informed about ton-weights at school, but he had not felt that he realised what they actually signified until the thought suddenly occurred that a cart-load of coals weighed one ton, whereupon 7000 carts of coals leaped suddenly into the field of his bewildered fancy. A slightly humorous tendency, inherited from his mother, induced 7000 drivers, with 7000 whips and a like number of smock-frocks, to mount the carts and drive in into the capacious hold of the Great Eastern. They turned, however, and drove instantly off his brain when he came into the august presence of the cable itself.

The central core of the cable -- that part by which the electric force or fluid was to pass from the Old World to the New, and vice versa, was made of copper. It was not a solid, single wire, but a strand composed of seven fine wires, each about the thickness of a small pin. Six of these wires were wound spirally round the seventh. This was in order to prevent what is termed a "breach of continuity," for it will be at once perceived that while a single wire of the core might easily break in the process of laying the cable, and thereby prevent the flow of electricity, the probability of the seven small wires all breaking at the same spot was so remote as to be almost impossible, and if even one wire out of the seven held, the continuity would remain. Nay, even all the seven might break, but, so long as they did not all break at the same place, continuity would not be lost, because copper would still continue to touch copper all throughout the cable's length.

In the process of construction, the central wire of the copper core was first covered with a semi-liquid coating of gutta-percha, mixed with tar -- known as "Chatterton's Compound." This was laid on so thick that when the other wires were wound round it all air was excluded. Then a coating of the same compound was laid over the finished conductor, and thus the core was solidified. Next, the core was surrounded with a coating of the purest gutta-percha -- a splendid non-conductor, impervious to water -- which, when pressed to it, while in a plastic state, formed the first insulator or tube to the core. Over this tube was laid a thin coat of Chatterton's Compound for the purpose of closing up any small flaws or minute holes that might have escaped detection. Then came a second coating of gutta-percha, followed by another coating of compound, and so on alternately until four coats of compound and four of gutta-percha had been laid on.

This core, when completed, was wound in lengths on large reels, and was then submerged in water and subjected to a variety of severe electrical tests, so as to bring it as near as possible to a state of perfection, after which every inch of it was examined by hand while being unwound from the reels and re-wound on the large drums, on which it was to be forwarded to the covering works at East Greenwich, there to receive its external protecting sheath.

All this, and much more besides, did Robin Wright carefully note down, and that same evening went home and delivered a long and luminous lecture, over which his mother wondered, Madge rejoiced, his father gloried, and uncle Rik fell asleep.

Next day he hastened to the covering works, and, presenting his credentials, was admitted.

Here he saw the important and delicate core again carefully tested as to its electrical condition, after which it received a new jacket of tanned jute yarn to protect it from the iron top coat yet to come. Its jute jacket on, it was then coiled away in tanks full of water, where it was constantly kept submerged and continuously tested for insulation. Last of all the top coat was put on. This consisted of ten wires of peculiarly fine and strong iron. Each of these ten wires had put on it a special coat of its own, made of tarred Manilla yarn, to protect it from rust as well as to lighten its specific gravity. The core being brought from its tank, and passed round several sheaves, which carried it below the factory floor, was drawn up through a hole in the centre of a circular table, around the circumference of which were ten drums of the Manilla-covered wire. A stout iron rod, fastened to the circumference of the table, rose from between each drum to the ceiling, converging in a cone which passed through to the floor above. Our core rose in the middle of all, and went through the hollow of the cone. When all was put in noisy and bewildering motion, the core which rose from the turning-table and whirling drums as a thin jute-clad line, came out in the floor above a stout iron-clad cable, with a Manilla top-dressing, possessing strength sufficient to bear eleven miles of its own length perpendicularly suspended in water -- or a margin of strength more than four and a half times that required, -- and with a breaking strain of seven tons fifteen hundredweight.

When thoroughly charged and primed, Robin went off home to write his treatise.

Then he received the expected summons to repair on board the Great Eastern, and bade adieu to his early home.

It was of no use that Robin tried to say good-bye in a facetious way, and told Madge and his mother not to cry, saying that he was only going across the Atlantic, a mere fish-pond, and that he would be home again in a month or two. Ah! these little efforts at deception never avail. Himself broke down while urging Madge to behave herself, and when his mother gave him a small Bible, and said she required no promise, for she knew he would treasure and read it, he was obliged hastily to give her a last fervent hug, and rush from the house without saying good-bye at all.



Chapter Seven.

The Big Ship -- First Night Aboard.

When our hero at last reached the Great Eastern, he soon found himself in what may be termed a lost condition. At first he was disappointed, for he saw her at a distance, and it is well-known that distance lends deception as well as "enchantment to the view." Arrived alongside, however, he felt as if he had suddenly come under the walls of a great fortress or city.

Presently he stood on the deck of the Big Ship, as its familiars called it, and, from that moment, for several days, was, as we have said, in a lost condition. He was lost in wonder, to begin with, as he gazed at the interminable length and breadth of planking styled the deck, and the forest of funnels, masts, and rigging, and the amazing perspective, which caused men at the further end from where he stood to look like dolls.

Then he was lost in reality, when he went below and had to ask his way as though he were wandering in the labyrinths of a great city. He felt -- or thought he felt -- like a mere mite in the mighty vessel. Soon he lost his old familiar powers of comparison and contrast, and ere long he lost his understanding altogether, for he fell down one of the hatchways into a dark abyss, where he would probably have ended his career with electric speed if he had not happily fallen into the arms of a human being, with whom he rolled and bumped affectionately, though painfully, to the bottom of the stair.

The human being, growled intense disapprobation during the process, and Robin fancied that the voice was familiar.

"Come, I say," said the being, remonstratively, "this is altogether too loving, you know. Don't squeeze quite so tight, young 'un, whoever you be."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," gasped Robin, relaxing his grasp when they stopped rolling; "I'm so sorry. I hope I haven't hurt you."

"Hurt me!" laughed Jim Slagg, for it was he; "no, you small electrician, you 'aven't got battery-power enough to do me much damage; but what d'ye mean by it? Is this the way to meet an old friend? Is it right for a Wright to go wrong at the wery beginnin' of his career? But come, I forgive you. Have you been introdooced to Capting Anderson yet?"

"No! Who is he?"

"Who is he, you ignorant crokidile! why, he's the capting of the Great Eastern, the commander o' the Big Ship, the Great Mogul o' the quarter-deck, the king o' the expedition. But, of course, you 'aven't bin introdooced to him. He don't associate much with small fry like us -- more's the pity, for it might do 'im good. But come, I'll take you under my wing for the present, because your partikler owner, Ebbysneezer Smith, ain't come aboard yet -- ashore dissipatin', I suppose, -- an' everybody's so busy gettin' ready to start that nobody will care to be bothered with you, so come along."

There was same truth in this eccentric youths' remarks, for in the bustle of preparation for an early start every one on board seemed to be so thoroughly engrossed with his own duty that he had no time to attend to anything else, and Robin had begun to experience, in the absence of his "partikler owner," an uneasy sensation of being very much in people's way. As he felt strangely attracted by the off-hand good-humoured impudence of his new friend, he consented to follow him, and was led to a small apartment, somewhere in the depths of the mighty ship, in which several youths, not unlike Slagg, were romping. They had, indeed, duties to perform like the rest, but the moment chanced to be with them a brief period of relaxation, which they devoted to skylarking.

"Hallo who have you got here?" demanded a large clumsy youth, knocking off Slagg's cap as he asked the question.

"Come, Stumps, don't you be cheeky," said Slagg, quietly picking up his cap and putting it on; "this is a friend o' mine -- one o' the electricians, -- so you needn't try to shock his feelin's, for he can give better than he gets. He's got no berth yet, so I brought 'im here to show him hospitality."

"Oh, indeed," said Mr Stumps, bowing with mock respect; then, turning to the comrade with whom he had been skylarking, "Here, Jeff, supply this gentleman with food."

Jeff, entering into Stumps' humour, immediately brought a plate of broken ship-biscuit with a can of water, and set them on the table before Robin. Our hero, who had never been accustomed to much jesting, took the gift in earnest, thanked Jeff heartily, and, being hungry, set to work with a will upon the simple fare, while Stumps and Jeff looked at each other and winked.

"Come, I can add something to improve that feast," said Slagg, drawing a piece of cheese from his pocket, and setting it before his friend.

Robin thanked him, and was about to take the cheese when Stumps snatched it up, and ran out of the room with it, laughing coarsely as he went.

"The big bully," growled Slagg; "it's quite obvious to me that feller will have to be brought to his marrow-bones afore long."

"Never mind," said Jeff, who was of a more amiable spirit than Stumps, "here's more o' the same sort." He took another piece of cheese from a shelf as he spoke, and gave it to Robin.

"Now, my young toolip," said Slagg, "havin' finished your feed, p'r'aps you'd like to see over the big ship."

With great delight Robin said that he should like nothing better, and, being led forth, was soon lost a second time in wonderment.

Of what use was it that Slagg told him the Great Eastern was 692 feet long by 83 feet broad, and 70 feet deep? If he had said yards instead of feet it would have been equally instructive to Robin in his then mentally lost condition. Neither was it of the slightest use to be told that the weight of the big ship's cargo, including cable, tanks, and coals, was 21,000 tons.

But reason began to glimmer again when Slagg told him that the two largest vessels afloat could not contain, in a convenient position for passing out, the 2700 miles then coiled in the three tanks of the Great Eastern.

"This is the main tank," said Slagg, leading his friend to a small platform that hung over a black and apparently unfathomable gulf.

"I see nothing at all," said Robin, stretching his head cautiously forward and gazing down into darkness profound, while he held on tight to a rail. "How curious! -- when I look down everything in this wonderful ship seems to have no bottom, and when I look up, nothing appears to have any top, while, if I look backward or forward things seem to have no end! Ah! I see something now. Coming in from the light prevented me at first. Why, it's like a huge circus!"

"Yes, it on'y wants hosses an' clowns to make it all complete," said Slagg. "Now, that tank is 58 feet 6 inches in diameter, and 20 feet 6 inches deep, an' holds close upon 900 miles of cable. There are two other tanks not much smaller, all choke-full. An' the queer thing is, that they can telegraph through all its length now, at this moment as it lies there, -- an' they are doing so continually to make sure that all's right."

"Oh! I understand that," said Robin quickly; "I have read all about the laying of the first cable in 1858. It is the appearance of things in this great ship that confounds me."

"Come along then, and I'll confound you a little more," said Slagg.

He accordingly led his friend from one part of the ship to another, explaining and commenting as he went, and certainly Robin's wonder did not decrease.

From the grand saloon -- which was like a palatial drawing-room, in size as well as in gorgeous furniture -- to the mighty cranks and boilers of its engines, everything in and about the ship was calculated to amaze. As Slagg justly remarked, "It was stunnin'."

When our hero was saturated with the "Big Ship" till he could hold no more, his friend took him back to his berth, and left him there for a time to his meditations.

Returning soon after, he sat down on a looker.

"I say, Robin Wright," he began, thrusting his hands into his trousers-pockets, "it looks a'most as if I had smuggled you aboard of this ship like a stowaway. Nobody seems to know you are here, an' what's more, nobody seems to care. Your partikler owner ain't turned up yet, an' it's my opinion he won't turn up to-night, so I've spoke to the stooard -- he's my owner, you know -- an' he says you'd better just turn into my berth to-night, an' you'll get showed into your own to-morrow."

"But where will you sleep?" asked Robin, with some hesitation.

"Never you mind that, my young electrician. That's my business. What you've got to do is to turn in."

Jeff and another lad, who were preparing to retire for the night at the time, laughed at this, but Robin paid no attention, thanked his friend, and said that as he was rather tired he would accept his kind offer.

Thereafter, pulling out the small Bible which he had kept in his pocket since leaving home, he went into a corner, read a few verses, and then knelt down to pray.

The surprise of the other lads was expressed in their eyes, but they said nothing.

Just then the door opened, and the lad named Stumps entered. Catching sight of Robin on his knees he opened his eyes wide, pursed his mouth, and gave a low whistle. Then he went up to Robin and gave him a slight kick. Supposing that it was an accident, Robin did not move, but on receiving another and much more decided kick, he rose and turned round. At the same moment Stumps received a resounding and totally unexpected slap on the cheek from Jim Slagg, who planted himself before him with clenched fists and flashing eyes.

"What d'ye mean by interferin' wi' my, friend at his dewotions, you monkey-faced polypus?" he demanded fiercely.

The monkey-faced polypus replied not a word, but delivered a right-hander that might have felled a small horse. Jim Slagg however was prepared for that. He turned his head neatly to one side so as to let the blow pass, and at the same moment planted his knuckles on the bridge of his opponent's nose and sent him headlong into Jeff's bunk, which lay conveniently behind. Jumping furiously out of that, and skinning his shins in the act, Stumps rushed at Slagg, who, leaping lightly aside, tripped him up and gave him a smack on the left ear as he passed, by way of keeping him lively.

Unsubdued by this, Stumps gathered himself up and made a blind rush at his adversary, but was abruptly stopped by what Jeff called a "dab on the nose." Repeating the rush, Stumps was staggered by a plunging blow on the forehead, and he paused to breathe, gazing the while at his foe, who, though a smaller youth than himself, was quite as strong.

"If you've had enough, monkey-face," said Slagg, with a bland smile, "don't hesitate to say so, an' I'll shake hands; but if you'd prefer a little more before goin' to bed, just let me know, and -- "

Slagg here performed some neat and highly suggestive motions with his fists by way of finishing the sentence.

Evidently Stumps wanted more, for, after a brief pause, he again rushed at Slagg, who, stepping aside like a Spanish matador, allowed his foe to expend his wrath on the bulkhead of the cabin.

"You'll go through it next time, Stumps, if you plunge like that," said Jeff, who had watched the fight with lively interest, and had encouraged the combatants with sundry marks of applause, besides giving them much gratuitous advice.

Regardless alike of encouragement and advice, the angry youth turned round once more and received a buffet that sent him sprawling on the table, off which he fell and rolled under it. There he lay and panted.

"Now, my sweet polypus," said the victor, going down on one knee and patting the vanquished on his shoulder, "next time you feels tempted to kick a gentleman -- specially a electrician -- at his dewotions, think of Jim Slagg an' restrain yourself. I bear you no ill-will however -- so, good-night."

Saying this, Robin's champion left the room and Stumps retired to his berth growling.

Before passing from the subject, we may add that, the next night, Robin -- whose owner was still absent -- was again hospitably invited to share the cabin of his friend and protector. When about to retire to rest he considered whether it was advisable to risk the repetition of the scene of the previous, night, and, although not quite easy in his conscience about it, came to the conclusion that it would be well to say his prayers in bed. Accordingly, he crept quietly into his berth and lay down, but Jim Slagg, who was present, no sooner saw what he was about than he jumped up with a roar of indignation.

"What are you about?" he cried, "ain't you goin' to say your prayers, you white-livered electrician? Come, git up! If I'm to fight, you must pray! D'ye hear? Turn out, I say."

With that he seized Robin, dragged him out of bed, thrust him on his knees, and bade him "do his dooty."

At first Robin's spirit rose in rebellion, but a sense of shame at his moral cowardice, and a perception of the justice of his friend's remark, subdued him. He did pray forthwith, though what the nature of his prayer was we have never been able to ascertain, and do not care to guess. The lesson, however, was not lost. From that date forward Robin Wright was no longer ashamed or afraid to be seen in the attitude of prayer.



Chapter Eight.

Laying The Cable -- "Faults" And Fault-Finding -- Anxieties, Accidents, And Other Matters.

Come with us now, good reader, to another and very different scene -- out upon the boundless sea. The great Atlantic is asleep, but his breast heaves gently and slowly like that of a profound sleeper.

The Great Eastern looks like an island on the water -- steady as a rock, obedient only to the rise and fall of the ocean swell, as she glides along at the rate of six knots an hour. All is going well. The complicated-looking paying-out machinery revolves smoothly; the thread-like cable passes over the stern, and down into the deep with the utmost regularity.

The shore-end of the cable -- twenty-seven miles in length, and much thicker than the deep-sea portion -- had been laid at Valentia, on the 22nd of July, amid prayer and praise, speech-making, and much enthusiasm, on the part of operators and spectators. On the 23rd, the end of the shore cable was spliced to that of the main cable, and the voyage had begun.

The first night had passed quietly, and upwards of eighty miles of the cable had gone out of the after-tank, over the big ship's stern, and down to its ocean-bed, when Robin Wright -- unable to sleep -- quietly slipped into his clothes, and went on deck. It was drawing near to dawn. A knot of electricians and others were chatting in subdued tones about the one subject that filled the minds of all in the ship.

"What! unable to sleep, like the rest of us?" said Ebenezer Smith, accosting Robin as he reached the deck.

"Yes, sir," said Robin, with a sleepy smile, "I've been thinking of the cable so much that I took to dreaming about it when I fell asleep, and it suddenly turned into the great sea-serpent, and choked me to such an extent that I awoke, and then thought it better to get up and have a look at it."

"Ah! my boy, you are not the only one whom the cable won't let sleep. It will be well looked after during the voyage, for there are two sets of electricians aboard -- all of them uncommonly wide awake -- one set representing the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company, under Monsieur de Sauty; the other set representing the Atlantic Telegraph Company, under Mr Varley and Professor Thomson. The former are to test the electrical state of the cable, and to keep up signals with the shore every hour, night and day, during the voyage, while the latter are to watch and report as to whether the cable fulfils her conditions, as specified in the contract. So you see the smallest fault or hitch will be observed at once."

"Do you mean, sir," asked Robin in surprise, "that telegraphing with the shore is to be kept up continually all the voyage!"

"Yes, my boy, I do," answered Smith. "The lengths of the cable in the three tanks are joined up into one length, and telegraphing -- for the purpose of testing it -- has been kept up with the shore without intermission from the moment we left Ireland, and began to pay out. It will be continued, if all goes well, until we land the other and in Newfoundland. The tests are threefold, -- first, for insulation, which, as you know, means the soundness and perfection of the gutta-percha covering that prevents the electricity from escaping from the wires, through the sea, into the earth; secondly, for continuity, or the unbroken condition of the conductor or copper core throughout its whole length; and, thirdly, to determine the resistance of the conductor, by which is meant its objection to carry our messages without vigorous application of the spur in the form of increased electrical power in our batteries. You see, Robin, every message sent to us from the shore, as well as every message sent by us in reply, has to travel through the entire length of the cable, namely about 2400 miles, and as every mile of distance increases this unwillingness, or resistance, we have to increase the electrical power in the batteries, in proportion to the distance to which we want to send our message. D'you understand?"

"I think I do, sir; but how is the exact amount of resistance tested?"

Mr Smith smiled as he looked at the earnest face of his young questioner.

"My boy," said he, "you would require a more fully educated mind to understand the answer to that question. The subtleties of electrical science cannot be explained in a brief conversation. You'll have to study and apply to books for full light on that subject. Nevertheless, although I cannot carry you into the subject just now, I can tell you something about it. You remember the testing-room which I showed you yesterday -- the darkened room between the captain's state-room and the entrance to the grand saloon?"

"Yes, sir, I remember it well," responded Robin, -- "the room into which the conducting-wires from the ends of the cable are led to the testing-tables, on which are the curious-looking galvanometers and other testing machines."

"Just so," returned Smith, pleased with his pupil's aptitude. "Well, on that table stands Professor Thomson's delicate and wonderful galvanometer. On that instrument a ray of light, reflected from a tiny mirror suspended to a magnet, travels along a scale and indicates the resistance to the passage of the current along the cable by the deflection of the magnet, which is marked by the course of this speck of light. Now, d'you understand that, Robin?"

"I -- I'm afraid not quite, sir."

"Well, no matter," rejoined Smith, with a laugh.

"At all events you can understand that if that speck of light keeps within bounds -- on its index -- all is going well, but if it travels beyond the index -- bolts out of bounds -- an escape of the electric current is taking place somewhere in the cable, or what we call a fault has occurred."

"Ah, indeed," exclaimed Robin, casting a serious look at the cable as it rose from the after-tank, ran smoothly over its line of conducting wheels, dropped over the stern of the ship and glided into the sea like an an endless snake of stealthy habits. "And what," he added, with a sudden look of awe, "if the cable should break?"

"Why, it would go to the bottom, of course," replied Smith, "and several hearts would break along with it. You see these two gentlemen conversing near the companion-hatch?"

"Yes."

"One is the chief of the electricians; the other the chief of the engineers. Their hearts would probably break, for their position is awfully responsible. Then my heart would break, I know, for I feel it swelling at the horrible suggestion; and your heart would break, Robin, I think, for you are a sympathetic donkey, and couldn't help yourself. Then you see that stout man on the bridge -- that's Captain Anderson --  well, his heart would -- no -- perhaps it wouldn't, for he's a sailor, and you know a sailor's heart is too tough to break, but it would get a pretty stiff wrench. And you see that gentleman looking at the paying-out gear so earnestly?"

"What -- Cyrus Field?" said Robin.

"Yes; well, his heart and the Atlantic Cable are united, so as a matter of course the two would snap together."

Now, while Smith and his young assistant were conversing thus facetio-scientifically, the electricians on duty in the testing-room were watching with silent intensity the indications on their instruments. Suddenly, at 3:15 a.m., when exactly eighty-four miles of cable had been laid out, he who observed the galvanometer saw the speck of light glide to the end of the scale, and vanish!

If a speck of fire had been seen to glide through the key-hole of the powder-magazine it could scarcely have created greater consternation than did the disappearance of that light! The commotion in the testing-room spread instantly to every part of the ship; the whole staff of electricians was at once roused, and soon afterwards the engines of the Great Eastern were slowed and stopped, while, with bated breath and anxious looks, men whispered to each other that there was "a fault in the cable."

A fault! If the cable had committed a mortal sin they could scarcely have looked more horrified. Nevertheless there was ground for anxiety, for this fault, as in moral faults, indicated something that might end in destruction.

After testing the cable for some time by signalling to the shore, Monsieur de Sauty concluded that the fault was of a serious character, and orders were at once given to prepare the picking-up apparatus at the bow for the purpose of drawing the cable back into the ship until the defective portion should be reached and cut out.

"O what a pity!" sighed Robin, when he understood what was going to be done, and the feeling, if not the words, was shared by every one on board with more or less intelligence and intensity; but there were veterans of submarine telegraphy who spoke encouragingly and treated the incident as a comparatively small matter.

Two men-of-war, the Terrible and the Sphinx, had been appointed to accompany and aid the Great Eastern on her important mission. A gun was fired, and signals were made, to acquaint these with what had occurred while the fires were being got up in the boilers of the picking-up machinery.

Electricians as well as doctors differ, it would seem, among themselves, for despite their skill and experience there was great difference of opinion in the minds of those on board the big ship as to the place where the fault lay. Some thought it was near the shore, and probably at the splice of the shore-end with the main cable. Others calculated, from the indications given by the tests, that it was perhaps twenty or forty or sixty miles astern. One of the scientific gentlemen held that it was not very far from the ship, while another gentleman, who was said to be much experienced in "fault"-finding, asserted that it was not more than nine or ten miles astern.

While the doctors were thus differing, the practical engineers were busy making the needful preparations for picking-up -- an operation involving great risk of breaking the cable, and requiring the utmost delicacy of treatment, as may be easily understood, for, while the cable is being payed out the strain on it is comparatively small, whereas when it is being picked up, there is not only the extra strain caused by stoppage, and afterwards by hauling in, but there is the risk of sudden risings of the ship's stern on the ocean swell, which might at any moment snap the thin line like a piece of packthread.

The first difficulty and the great danger was to pass the cable from the stern to the bow, and to turn the ship round, so as to enable them to steam up to the cable while hauling it in. Iron chains were lashed firmly to the cable at the stern, and secured to a wire-rope carried round the outside of the ship to the picking-up apparatus at the bows. The cable was down in 400 fathoms of water when the paying-out ceased, and nice management was required to keep the ship steady, as she had now no steerage-way; and oh! with what intense interest and curiosity and wonder did Robin Wright regard the varied and wonderful mechanical appliances, with which the whole affair was accomplished!

Then the cable was cut, and, with its shackles and chains, allowed to go plump into the sea. Robin's heart and soul seemed to go along with it, for, not expecting the event, he fancied it was lost for ever.

"Gone!" he exclaimed, with a look of horror.

"Not quite," said Jim Slagg, who stood at Robin's elbow regarding the operations with a quiet look of intelligence. "Don't you see, Robin, that a wire-rope fit a'most to hold the big ship herself is holdin' on to it."

"Of course; how stupid I am!" said Robin, with a great sigh of relief; "I see it now, going round to the bows."

At first the rope was let run, to ease the strain while the ship swung round; then it was brought in over the pulley at the bow, the paddles moved, and the return towards Ireland was begun. The strain, although great, was far from the breaking-point, but the speed was very slow -- not more than a mile an hour being considered safe in the process of picking-up.

"Patience, Robin," observed Mr Smith, as he passed on his way to the cabin, "is a virtue much needed in the laying of cables. We have now commenced a voyage at the rate of one mile an hour, which will not terminate till we get back to Owld Ireland, unless we find the fault."

Patience, however, was not destined to be so severely tried. All that day and all night the slow process went on. Meanwhile -- as the cable was not absolutely unworkable, despite the fault -- the chief engineer, Mr Canning, sent a message to Mr Glass in Ireland, asking him to send out the Hawk steamer, in order that he might return in her to search for the defect in the shore-end of the cable, for if that were found he purposed sacrificing the eighty odd miles already laid down, making a new splice with the shore-end, and starting afresh. A reply was received from Mr Glass, saying that the Hawk would be sent out immediately.

Accordingly, about daybreak of the 25th the Hawk appeared, but her services were not required, for, about nine that morning, when the cable was coming slowly in and being carefully examined foot by foot -- nay, inch by inch -- the fault was discovered, and joy took the place of anxiety. Ten and a quarter miles of cable had been picked up when the fault came inboard, and a strange unaccountable fault it turned out to be -- namely, a small piece of wire which had been forced through the covering of the cable into the gutta-percha so as to injure, but not quite to destroy, the insulation. How such a piece of wire could have got into the tank was a mystery, but the general impression was that it had been carried there by accident and forced into the coil by the pressure of the paying-out machinery as the cable flew through the jockey-wheels.

Signals were at once made to the fleet that the enemy had been discovered. Congratulatory signals were returned. The fault was cut out and a new splice made. The Hawk was sent home again. The big ship's bow was turned once more to the west, and the rattling of the machinery, as the restored and revived cable passed over the stern, went merrily as a marriage bell.

The detention had been only about twelve hours; the great work was going on again as favourably as before the mishap occurred, and about half a mile had been payed out, when -- blackness of despair -- the electric current suddenly ceased, and communication with the shore was ended altogether.



Chapter Nine.

In Which Joys, Hopes, Alarms, Ghosts, And Leviathans Take Part.

That man who can appreciate the feelings of one who has become suddenly bankrupt may understand the mental condition of those on board the Great Eastern when they were thus tossed from the pinnacle of joyous hope to the depths of dark despair. It was not, however, absolute despair. The cable was utterly useless indeed -- insensate -- but it was not broken. There was still the blessed possibility of picking it up and bringing it to life again.

That, however, was scarcely an appreciable comfort at the moment, and little could be seen or heard on board the Great Eastern save elongated faces and gloomy forebodings.

Ebenezer Smith and his confreres worked in the testing-room like Trojans. They connected and disconnected; they put in stops and took them out; they intensified currents to the extent of their anxieties they reduced them to the measure of their despair -- nothing would do. The cable was apparently dead. In these circumstances picking-up was the only resource, and the apparatus for that purpose was again rigged up in the bows.

In the meantime the splice which had been made to connect the tanks was cut and examined, and the portions coiled in the fore and main tanks were found to be perfect -- alive and well -- but the part between ship and shore was speechless.

So was poor Robin Wright! After Mr Field -- whose life-hope seemed to be doomed to disappointment -- the blow was probably felt most severely by Robin. But Fortune seemed to be playfully testing the endurance of these cable-layers at that time, for, when the despair was at its worst, the tell-tale light reappeared on the index of the galvanometer, without rhyme or reason, calling forth a shout of joyful surprise, and putting an abrupt stoppage to the labours of the pickers-up!

They never found out what was the cause of that fault; but that was a small matter, for, with restored sensation in the cable-nerve, renewed communication with the shore, and resumed progress of the ship towards her goal, they could afford to smile at former troubles.

Joy and sorrow, shower and sunshine, fair weather and foul, was at first the alternating portion of the cable-layers.

"I can't believe my eyes!" said Robin to Jim Slagg, as they stood next day, during a leisure hour, close to the whirling wheels and never-ending cable, about 160 miles of which had been laid by that time. "Just look at the Terrible and Sphinx; the sea is now so heavy that they are thumping into the waves, burying their bows in foam, while we are slipping along as steadily as a Thames steamer."

"That's true, sir," answered Slagg, whose admiration for our hero's enthusiastic and simple character increased as their intimacy was prolonged, and whose manner of address became proportionally more respectful, "She's a steady little duck is the Great Eastern! she has got the advantage of length, you see, over other ships, an' rides on two waves at a time, instead of wobblin' in between 'em; but I raither think she'd roll a bit if she was to go along in the trough of the seas. Don't the cable go out beautiful, too -- just like a long-drawn eel with the consumption! Did you hear how deep the captain said it was hereabouts?"

"Yes, I heard him say it was a little short of two miles deep, so it has got a long way to sink before it reaches its oozy bed."

"How d'ee know what sort o' bed it's got to lie on?" asked Slagg.

"Because," said Robin, "the whole Atlantic where the cable is to lie has been carefully sounded long ago, and it is found that the ocean-bed here, which looks so like mud, is composed of millions of beautiful shells, so small that they cannot be distinguished by the naked eye. Of course, they have no creatures in them. It would seem that these shell-fish go about the ocean till they die, and then fall to the bottom like rain." See note one.

"You don't say so!" returned Slagg, who, being utterly uneducated, received suchlike information with charming surprise, and regarded Robin as a very mine of knowledge. "Well now, that beats cock-fighting. But, I say, how is it that the electricity works through the cable? I heerd one o' your electrical fellers explaining to a landlubber t'other evenin' that electricity could only run along wires when the circuit was closed, by which he meant to say that it would fly from a battery and travel along a wire ever so far, if only that wire was to turn right round and run back to the same battery again. Now, if that's so, seems to me that when you've got your cable to Newfoundland you'll have to run another one back again to Ireland before it'll work."

"Ah, Slagg, that would indeed be the case," returned Robin, "were it not that we have discovered the important fact that the earth -- the round globe on which we stand -- itself acts the part of a grand conductor. So we have only to send down earth-wires at the two ends -- one into the earth of Ireland, the other into the earth of Newfoundland, and straightway the circuit is closed, and the electricity generated in our batteries passes through the cable from earth to earth."

"Robin," said Slagg doubtingly, "d'you expect me for to believe that?"

"Indeed I do," said Robin simply.

"Then you're greener than I took you for. No offence meant, but it's my opinion some o' these 'cute electricians has bin tryin' the width of your swallow."

"No, you are mistaken," returned Robin earnestly; "I have read the fact in many books. The books differ in their opinions as to the causes and nature of the fact, but not as to the fact itself."

It was evident that Robin looked upon this as an unanswerable argument, and his friend seemed perplexed.

"Well, I don' know how it is," he said, after a pause, "but I do believe that this here wonderful electricity is fit for a'most anything, an' that we'll have it revoloosionising everything afore long -- I do indeed."

The intelligent reader who has noted the gigantic strides which we have recently made in electric lighting of late will observe that Slagg, unwittingly, had become almost prophetic at this time.

"We're going along splendidly now," said Mr Smith, coming up to Robin that evening while he was conversing with Slagg, who immediately retired. -- "Who is that youth? He seems very fond of you; I've observed that he makes up to you whenever you chance to be on deck together."

"He is one of the steward's lads, sir; I met him accidentally in the train; but I suspect the fondness is chiefly on my side. He was very kind to me when I first came on board, and I really think he is an intelligent, good fellow -- a strange mixture of self-confidence and humility. Sometimes, to hear him speak, you would think he knew everything; but at the same time he is always willing -- indeed anxious --  to listen and learn. He is a capital fighter too."

Here Robin related the battle in the boys' berth, when Slagg thrashed Stumps, whereat Mr Smith was much amused.

"So he seems a peculiar lad -- modest, impudent, teachable, kindly, and warlike! Come below now, Robin, I have some work for you. Did you make the calculations I gave you yesterday?"

"Yes, sir, and they corresponded exactly with your own."

"Good. Go fetch my little note-book: I left it in the grand saloon on the furthest aft seat, port side."

Robin found the magnificent saloon of the big ship ringing with music and conversation. Joy over the recent restoration to health of the ailing cable, the comfortable stability of the ship in rough weather, and the satisfactory progress then being made, all contributed to raise the spirits of every one connected with the great work, so that, while some were amusing themselves at the piano, others were scattered about in little groups, discussing the profounder mysteries of electric science, or prophesying the speedy completion of the enterprise, while a few were speculating on the probability of sport in Newfoundland, or planning out journeys through the United States.

"There's lots of game, I'm told, in Newfoundland," said one of the youthful electricians, whose ruling passion -- next to the subtle fluid --  was the gun.

"So I've been told," replied an elder and graver comrade. "Polar bears are quite common in the woods, and it is said that walrus are fond of roosting in the trees."

"Yes, I have heard so," returned the youthful sportsman, who, although young, was not to be caught with chaff, "and the fishing, I hear, is also splendid. Salmon and cod are found swarming in the rivers by those who care for mild occupation, while really exciting sport is to be had in the great lakes of the interior, where there are plenty of fresh-water whales that take the fly."

"The swan, you mean," said another comrade. "The fly that is most killing among Newfoundland whales is a swan fastened whole to a shark hook -- though a small boat's anchor will do if you haven't the right tackle."

"Come, don't talk nonsense, but let's have a song!" said a brother electrician to the sporting youth.

"I never sing," he replied, "except when hurt, and then I sing out. But see, our best musician has just seated himself at the instrument."

"I don't talk shop, Nimrod; call it the piano."

Most of those present drew towards the musical corner, where Ebenezer Smith, having just entered the saloon in search of Robin, had been prevailed on to sit down and enliven the company. Robin, who had been delayed by difficulty in finding the note-book, stopped to listen.

Smith had a fair average voice and a vigorous manner.

"You wouldn't object to hear the cook's last?" asked Smith, running his fingers lightly over the keys.

"Of course not -- go on," chorused several voices.

"I had no idea," lisped a simple youth, who was one of a small party of young gentlemen interested in engineering and science, who had been accommodated with a passage, -- "I had no idea that our cook was a poet as well as an admirable chef de cuisine."

"Oh, it's not our cook he means," explained the sporting electrician; "Mr Smith refers to a certain sea-cook -- or his son, I'm not sure which -- who is chef des horse-marines."

"Is there a chorus?" asked one.

"Of course there is," replied Smith; "a sea-song without a chorus is like a kite without a tail -- it is sure to fall flat, but the chorus is an old and well-known one -- it is only the song that is new. Now then, clear your throats, gentlemen."

Song -- The Loss of the Nancy Lee.

I.

'Twas on a Friday morning that I went off, An' shipped in the Nancy Lee, But that ship caught a cold and with one tremendous cough Went slap to the bottom of the sea, the sea, the sea, Went slap to the bottom of the sea.

Chorus. -- Then the raging sea may roar, An' the stormy winds may blow, While we jolly sailor boys rattle up aloft, And the landlubbers lie down below, below, below And the landlubbers lie down below.

II.

For wery nigh a century I lived with the crabs, An' danced wi' the Mermaids too, An' drove about the Ocean in mother o' pearl cabs, An' dwelt in a cavern so blue, so blue, so blue, An' dwelt in a cavern so blue. Chorus. -- Then the raging sea, etcetera.

III.

I soon forgot the sorrows o' the world above In the pleasures o' the life below; Queer fish they made up to me the want o' human love, As through the world o' waters I did go, did go, did go; As through the world o' waters I did go. Chorus. -- Then the raging sea, etcetera.

IV.

One day a horrid grampus caught me all by the nose, An' swung me up to the land, An' I never went to sea again, as everybody knows, And as everybody well may understand, 'derstand, 'derstand, And as everybody well may understand. Chorus. -- Then the raging sea, etcetera.

The plaudits with which this song was received were, it need scarcely be remarked, due more to the vigour of the chorus and the enthusiasm of the audience than to intrinsic merit. Even Robin Wright was carried off his legs for the moment, and, modest though he was, broke in at the chorus with such effect -- his voice being shrill and clear -- that, he unintentionally outyelled all the rest, and would have fled in consternation from the saloon if he had not been caught and forcibly detained by the sporting electrician, who demanded what right he had to raise his steam-whistle in that fashion.

"But I say, young Wright," he added in a lower tone, leading our hero aside, "what's this rumour I hear about a ghost in the steward's cabin?"

"Oh! it is nothing to speak of," replied Robin, with a laugh. "The lad they call Stumps got a fright -- that's all."

"But that's enough. Let us hear about it."

"Well, I suppose you know," said Robin, "that there's a ghost in the Great Eastern."

"No, I don't know it from personal experience, but I have heard a report to that effect."

"Well, I was down in Jim Slagg's berth, having a chat with him about the nature of electric currents -- for he has a very inquiring mind, -- and somehow we diverged to ghosts, and began to talk of the ghost of the Great Eastern.

"'I don't believe in the Great Eastern ghost -- no, nor in ghosts of any kind,' said Stumps, who was sitting near us eating a bit of cheese.

"'But I believe in 'em,' said the boy Jeff, who was seated on the other side of the table, and looked at us so earnestly that we could scarce help smiling -- though we didn't feel in a smiling humour at the time, for it was getting dark, and we had got to talking in low tones and looking anxiously over our shoulders, you know -- 

"'Oh yes, I know,' replied the sportsman, with a laugh; 'I have shuddered and grue-oo-ed many a time over ghost-stories. Well?'

"'I don't believe in 'em, Jeff. Why do you?' asked Stumps, in a scoffing tone.

"'Because I hear one every night a'most when I go down into the dark places below to fetch things. There's one particular spot where the ghost goes tap-tap-tapping continually.'

"'Fiddlededee,' said Stumps.

"'Come down, and you shall hear it for yourself,' said Jeff.

"Now, they say that Stumps is a coward, though he boasts a good deal -- "

"You may say," interrupted the sportsman, "that Stumps is a coward because he boasts a good deal. Boasting is often a sign of cowardice -- though not always."

"Well," continued Robin, "being ashamed to draw back, I suppose, he agreed to accompany Jeff.

"'Won't you come too, Slagg?' said Stumps.

"'No; I don't care a button for ghosts. Besides, I'm too busy, but Wright will go. There, don't bother me!' said Jim.

"I noticed, as I went last out of the room, that Slagg rose quickly and pulled a sheet off one of the beds. Afterwards, looking back, I saw him slip out and run down the passage in the opposite direction. I suspected he was about some mischief, but said nothing.

"It was getting dark, as I have said, though not dark enough for lighting the lamps, and in some corners below it was as dark as midnight. To one of these places Jeff led us.

"'Mind how you go now,' whispered Jeff; 'it's here somewhere, and there's a hole too -- look-out -- there it is!'

"'What! the ghost?' whispered Stumps, beginning to feel uneasy. To say truth, I began to feel uneasy myself without well knowing why. At that moment I fell over something, and came down with a crash that shook Stumps's nerves completely out of order.

"'I say, let's go back,' he muttered in a tremulous voice.

"'No, no,' whispered Jeff seizing Stumps by the arm with a sudden grip that made him give a short yelp, 'we are at the place now. It's in this dark passage. Listen!'

"We all held our breath and listened. For a few seconds we heard nothing, but presently a slight tapping was heard.

"'I've heard,' whispered Jeff in a low tone, 'that when the big ship was buildin', one o' the plate-riveters disappeared in some hole between the two skins o' the ship hereabouts, and his comrades, not bein' able to find him, were obliged at last to rivet him in, which they did so tight that even his ghost could not get out, so it goes on tappin', as you hear, an' is likely to go on tappin' for ever.'

"'Bosh!' whispered Stumps; thus politely intimating his disbelief, but I felt him trembling all over notwithstanding.

"At that moment we saw a dim shadowy whitish object at the other end of the dark passage. 'Wha' -- wha' -- what's that?' said I.

"Stumps gasped. I heard his teeth chattering, and I think his knees were knocking together. Jeff made no sound, and it was too dark to see his face. Suddenly the object rushed at us. There was no noise of footsteps -- only a muffled sound and a faint hissing. I stood still, unable to move. So did Jeff. I felt the hair of my head rising. Stumps gasped again -- then turned and fled. The creature, whatever it was, brushed past us with a hideous laugh. I guessed at once that it was Jim Slagg, but evidently Stumps didn't, for he uttered an awful yell that would have roused the whole ship if she had been of an ordinary size; at the same moment he tripped and fell on the thing that had upset me, and the ghost, leaping over him, vanished from our sight.

"To my surprise, on returning to our cabin, we found Slagg as we had left him, with both hands on his forehead poring over his book. I was almost as much surprised to see Jeff sit down and laugh heartily. -- Now, what do you think it could have been?"

"It was Slagg, of course," answered the sporting electrician.

"Yes, but what causes the tapping?"

"Oh, that is no doubt some little trifle -- a chip of wood, or bit of wire left hanging loose, which shakes about when the ship heaves."

A sudden tramping of feet overhead brought this ghostly discussion to an abrupt close, and caused every man in the saloon to rush on deck with a terrible feeling in his heart that something had gone wrong.

"Not broken?" asked an electrician with a pale face on reaching the deck.

"Oh no, sir," replied an engineer, with an anxious look, "not quite so bad as that, but a whale has taken a fancy to inspect us, and he is almost too attentive."

So it was. A large Greenland whale was playing about the big ship, apparently under the impression that she was a giant of his own species, and it had passed perilously close to the cable.

A second time it came up, rolling high above the waves. It went close past the stern -- rose again and dived with a gentle flop of its great tail, which, if it had touched the cable, would have cut it like a thread. At that trying moment, as they saw its huge back glittering in the moonlight, the hearts of the helpless spectators appeared absolutely to stand still. When the monster dived its side even touched the cable, but did not damage it. Being apparently satisfied by that time that the ship was not a friend, the whale finally disappeared in the depths of its ocean home.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

Those who visited the Crystal Palace at Sydenham during the recent Electrical Exhibition had an opportunity of seeing the shells here referred to under a powerful microscope.



Chapter Ten.

Tells Of Great Efforts And Failures And Grand Success.

Thus happily and smoothly all things went, with little bursts of anxiety and little touches of alarm, just sufficient, as it were, to keep up the spirits of all, till the morning of the 30th July. But on that morning an appearance of excitement in the testing-room told that something had again gone wrong. Soon the order was given to slow the engines, then to stop them!

The bursting of a thunder-clap, the explosion of a powder-magazine, could not have more effectually awakened the slumberers than this abrupt stoppage of the ship's engines. Instantly all the hatchways poured forth anxious inquirers.

"Another fault," was the reply to such.

"O dear!" said some.

"Horrible!" said others.

"Not so bad as a break," sighed the hopeful spirits.

"It is bad enough," said the chief electrician, "for we have found dead earth."

By this the chief meant to say that insulation had been completely destroyed, and that the whole current of electricity was escaping into the sea.

About 716 miles had been payed out at the time, and as signals had till then been regularly received from the shore, it was naturally concluded that the fault lay near to the ship.

"Now then, get along," said an engineer to one of the cable-men; "you'll have to cut, and splice, and test, while we are getting ready the tackle to pick up."

"I don't like that cuttin' o' the cable, Bill," said one of the sailors, as he went forward, "it seems dangerous, it do."

"No more do I, Dick," replied his mate; "I feel as if it never could be rightly spliced again."

"Why, bless you, boys," said a cable-man near them, "cables is used to that now, like eels to bein' skinned; and so are we, for that matter. We think nothin' of it."

Clearly the cable-man was right, for, while the picking-up apparatus was being got ready, the cable was cut in no fewer than three places, in order to test the coils that lay in the tanks. These being found all right, the picking-up was begun with anxious care. The moment of greatest danger was when the big ship was swinging round. For a few, but apparently endless, moments the cable had to bear the strain, and became rigid like a bar of steel. Then it was got in over the bows, where all was bustle, and noise, and smoke, as the picking-up machinery panted and rattled.

All day the work went on. Night descended, but still the cable was coming in slowly, unwillingly, -- now jerkily, as if half inclined to yield, anon painfully, as if changing its mind, until the strain was equal to two and a half tons. A row of lanterns lighted it, and the men employed watched and handled it carefully to detect the "fault," while the clattering wheels played harsh music.

"We'll never find it," growled an impatient young electrician.

As if to rebuke him for his want of faith, the "fault" came in then and there -- at 9:50 p.m., ship's time.

"Ah!" said Mr Field, whose chief characteristic was an unwavering faith in ultimate success, "I knew we should find it are long. I have often known cables to stop working for two hours, no one knew why, and then begin again."

"Well now, Mr Wright, it floors me altogether, does this here talkin' by electricity."

The man who made this remark to our hero was one who could not have been easily "floored" by any other means than electricity. He was a huge blacksmith -- a stalwart fellow who had just been heaving the sledge-hammer with the seeming powers of Vulcan himself, and who chanced to be near Robin when he paused to rest and mop the streaming perspiration from his brow, while a well-matched brother took his place at the anvil.

"You see," he continued, "I can't make out nohow what the electricity does when it gits through the cable from Ireland to Noofun'land. Of course it don't actooally speak, you know -- no more does it whistle, I suppose; an' even if it did I don't see as we'd be much the wiser. What do it do, Mr Wright? You seem to be well up in these matters, an' not above explainin' of 'em to the likes o' us as ha'n't got much edication."

Few things pleased Robin more than being asked to impart what knowledge he possessed, or to make plain subjects that were slightly complex. He was not always successful in his attempts at elucidation, partly because some subjects were too complex to simplify, and partly because some intellects were obtuse, but he never failed to try.

"You must know," he replied, with that earnest look which was apt to overspread his face when about to explain a difficulty, "that a piece of common iron can be converted into a magnet by electrifying it, and it can be unconverted just as fast by removing the electricity. Well, suppose I have a bit of iron in America, with an electric battery in Ireland, or vice versa -- "

"W'ot's wicey wersa, Mr Wright?"

"Oh, it means the terms being changed -- turned the other way, you know --  back to the front, as it were -- in short, I mean the battery being in America and the bit of iron in Ireland."

"Well, well, who'd a thought there was so much in wicey wersa; but go on, Mr Wright."

"Now, you must suppose," continued Robin, "that a needle, like the mariner's compass needle, hangs beside my bit of iron, close to it, and that a wire, or conductor of electricity, connects the iron with my electric battery in Ireland. Well, that makes a magnet of it, and the suspended needle, being attracted, sticks to it. Then I disconnect the wire from my battery by touching a handle, the bit of iron ceases to be a magnet, and the needle was free. Again I connect the battery, and the needle flies to the remagnetised bit of iron. Thus, as fast as I choose, I can make the needle wag, and by a simple arrangement we can make it wag right or left, so many beats right or left, or alternately, representing letters. By varying the beats we vary the letters, and thus spell out our messages. Now, do you understand it?"

"I ain't quite sure that I does," replied Vulcan; "I've got a hazy notion that by touchin' and removin' the touch from a conductor, connecting and disconnecting wires and batteries, you can make electricity flow just as you let on or stop water by turnin' a stopcock -- "

"Not exactly," interrupted Robin, "because, you see, electricity does not really flow, not being a substance."

"Not a substance, sir! w'y, w'ot is it then?"

"Like light and sound, it is merely an effect, an influence, a result," answered Robin. "We only use the word flow, and talk of electricity as a fluid, for convenience' sake."

"Well, w'otever it is or isn't," continued the puzzled Vulcan, gazing at vacancy for a few seconds, "when you've set it agoin' -- or set agoin' the things as sets it agoin' -- you make a suspended needle wag, and when you stop it you make the needle stop waggin', and by the way in which that there needle wags you can spell out the letters o' the alphabit -- so many wags to the right bein' one letter, so many wags to the left bein' another letter, an' so on, -- so that, what between the number o' wags an' the direction o' the waggin's, you -- you come for to -- there, I'm lost again, an' I must go in for another spell wi' the sledge, so we'll have to tackle the subject another time, Mr Wright."

Thus speaking, Vulcan seized the ponderous hammer in his powerful grasp and proceeded to beat form into a mass of glowing metal with much greater ease than he had been able to thump telegraphy into his own brain.

In the discovery of the "fault" and the cutting out of the injured part of the cable, twenty-six hours were lost. During all the time Captain Anderson was obliged to remain on deck, while the minds and bodies of the engineers and electricians were subjected to a severe strain for the same period. They had scarcely begun to breathe freely again, and to congratulate each other on being able to continue the voyage, when they received another shock of alarm by the cable suddenly flying off the drum, while it was being transferred from the picking-up machinery in the bow to the paying-out arrangements in the stern. Before the machinery could be stopped, some fathoms of cable had become entangled among the wheels and destroyed. This part having been cut out, however, and new splices made, the paying-out process was resumed.

"I'll turn in now and have a snooze, Robin," said Ebenezer Smith, "and you had better do the same; you look tired."

This was indeed true, for not a man or boy in the ship took a more anxious interest in the cable than did our little hero; he had begun to regard it as a living creature, and to watch over it, and dream about it, as if it were a dear friend in extreme danger. The enthusiastic boy was actually becoming careworn and thin, for he not only performed all the duties required of him with zealous application, but spent his leisure, and much of the time that should have been devoted to rest, in the careful study of his idol -- intensely watching it, and all that was in the remotest way connected with it.

"You're a goose," said Stumps, in passing, when he heard Robin decline to retire as Smith had advised him.

"It may be so, and if so, Stumps, I shall continue to cackle a little longer on deck while they are examining the fault."

That examination, when finished, produced a considerable sensation. The process was conducted in private. The condemned portion was cut in junks and tested, until the faulty junk was discovered. This was untwisted until the core was laid bare, and when about a foot of it had been so treated, the cause of evil was discovered, drawing from the onlookers an exclamation of horror rather than surprise, as they stood aghast, for treachery seemed to have been at work!

"An enemy in the ship!" murmured one.

"What ship without an enemy?" thought another.

That mischief had been intended was obvious, for a piece of iron wire, bright as if cut with nippers at one end and broken off short at the other, had been driven right through the centre of the cable, so as to touch the inner wires -- thus forming a leak, or conductor, into the sea. There could be no doubt that it had not got there by accident; neither had it been driven there during the making or shipping of the cable, for in that case the testings for continuity would have betrayed its presence before the starting of the expedition. The piece of wire, too, was the same size as that which formed the protecting cover, and it was of the exact diameter of the cable. There was also the mark of a cut on the Manilla hemp, where the wire had entered. It could have been done only by one of the men who were at work in the tank at the time the portion went over, and, strange to say, this was the same gang which had been at work there when the previous "fault" occurred.

"Call all the men aft," was the order that quickly followed this discovery.

The piece of cable was handed to them, and they were allowed to examine it in silence. They did so in great surprise, mingled with indignation.

"It's bin done a'purpose, an' driven in by a skilful hand," said one.

"You're right, Joe," said another.

"I knows," whispered a third, "that one of the men expressed satisfaction when the last fault occurred, an' I've heard say that we've got enemies to the makers o' the cable aboard."

The man thus darkly referred to, whoever he was, of course looked as innocent and as indignant as the most virtuous among them; the guilt, therefore, could not be brought home to him. Woe betide him if it had been, for there was a serious talk of lynching some one among the wrathful men, each of whom was now subject to suspicion.

In these trying circumstances, the chief engineer accepted an offer made by the gentlemen in the ship, to take turn about in superintending the men at work in the tank paying-out the cable.

"It's not pleasant, of course," replied one of the men, speaking for the rest, "but we feel it to be justifiable, as well as necessary, and are very glad the plan has been adopted."

Once more the big ship went merrily on her way, and the great cable went down to its ocean-bed so smoothly and regularly, that men began to talk of speedy arrival at Heart's Content -- their destination in Newfoundland -- which was now only about 600 miles distant; but their greatest troubles still lay before them. About eight o'clock in the morning of 2nd August another bad fault was reported, and they had once again to resort to the wearisome process of picking-up.

At first all seemed about to go well. A gale was indeed blowing at the time, but that did not much affect the colossal ship. The cable was cut, fastened to its iron rope, passed to the bow, and got in over the pulleys. Then, and very slowly, it was drawn on board. When a mile or so had been recovered, the gearing of one of the engines got a little out of order, and the process had to be temporarily stopped; then something went wrong with the boilers, but soon these difficulties were removed. Immediately after, the Great Eastern drifted, so that it was impossible to prevent the cable from chafing against her bows. Equally impossible was it to go astern, lest the strain should be too great. Then the wind suddenly shifted, making matters worse. Suddenly the chain shackle and wire-rope attached to the cable came in over the wheel at the bows with considerable violence. Another moment and the cable parted, flew through the stoppers, and, with one bound, flashed into the sea and disappeared!

Now, at last, the fatal climax so much dreaded had arrived. The days and nights of anxious labour had been spent in vain. The cable was lost, and with it went not only hundreds of thousands of pounds, but the hopes of hundreds of thousands of people, whose sanguine expectations of success were thus rudely dispelled.

Need it be said that something very like despair reigned for the moment on board the Great Eastern?

Most of the gentlemen on board -- never dreaming of catastrophe -- were at luncheon, when Mr Canning entered the saloon with a look that caused every one to start.

"It is all over! -- it is gone!" he said, and hastened to his cabin.

Mr Field, with the composure of faith and courage, though very pale, entered the saloon immediately after, and confirmed the chief engineer's statement.

"The cable has parted," he said, "and has gone overboard."

From the chiefs down even to Stumps and his fraternity all was blank dismay! As for our hero Robin Wright, he retired to his cabin, flung himself on his bed, and sobbed as though his heart would break.

But such a state of things could not last. Men's spirits may be stunned and crushed, but they are seldom utterly overwhelmed so long as life endures.

Recovering from the shock, Mr Canning set about the process of grappling for the lost cable with persistent energy. But fishing in water two and a half miles deep is no easy matter. Nevertheless, it was done. Again and again, and over again, were two monster hooks in the shape of grapnels let down to the bottom of the sea, with an iron rope for a line, and the Great Eastern for a float!

The plan, of course, was to go back a few miles on their course and then drag across the known position of the lost treasure.

We say known, because good observations had fortunately been obtained by Captain Anderson just before the accident.

Two hours did the grapnels descend before they reached the bottom of the sea! All night did the cable-layers fish, with the characteristic patience of fishermen, but did not get a nibble. Towards morning, however, there was a decided bite, and the line became taut.

"Got him!" exclaimed an enthusiast eagerly.

"Don't be too sure," replied a philosopher cautiously.

"It may be a bit of wreck," suggested Ebenezer Smith, who was a natural doubter.

"Or a whale, or the great sea-serpent," said the sporting electrician, who was everything by turns and nothing long.

"We shall very soon know," remarked a matter-of-fact engineer. "If it is a loose object the strain will decrease as it nears the surface, but if it be the cable the strain will certainly increase, because its weight will be greater the more of it we lift off the bottom."

Earnestly did every one regard the dynamometer which told the exact amount of strain on the iron fishing-line, and to their joy the strain increased until the object caught had been raised three-quarters of a mile from the bottom. Then a swivel gave way, and the cable went back to its ocean-bed.

But those plucky engineers were not to be overcome by a first failure. Having started with five miles of fishing-line, they proceed at once to make a second attempt.

"Oh, I do hope they will hook it again!" said Robin Wright.

"And so they will," said Ebenezer Smith.

And so they did. Late in the afternoon of the Monday following, their fish was again hooked and raised a full mile from the bottom, when another swivel gave way, and down it went a second time!

The fishing-line was now getting short. It behoved them to act with more caution. New bolts were put in each shackle and swivel, and the capstan was increased in diameter, being belted with thick plates of iron. To effect these alterations the forges had to be erected on deck, and at night these cast a lurid glare on the busy workers, bringing out every near object in vivid relief against the ebony background of space behind, while they made preparations for a third cast of the fishing-line. The cast was made successfully, it was thought, but one of the grapnels had caught the line with one of its flukes, so that it could not catch anything else, and the result was -- nothing.

A fourth attempt was then made. It was to be the last. The fishing-line seemed too weak, and its frequent breakings had reduced it so much that other chains had to be attached to it. With this thing of shreds and patches the cable was once more hooked and brought up nearly eight hundred fathoms, when the line gave way once more, and the cable went down for the last time.

Nothing more could be done. The Great Eastern turned her large bows to the east and steered grandly though sadly, away for old England.

But don't imagine, good reader, that these cable-layers were beaten. They were baffled, indeed, for that year (1865), but not conquered. Cyrus Field had resolved that the thing should be done -- and done it was the following year; for the laying of the cable had been so nearly a success, that great capitalists, such as Brassey, Gooch, Barclay, Campbell, Pender, and others, at once came forward. Among these were the contractors, Glass and Elliot, who agreed not only to make and lay a new cable, but to pick up and complete the old one. Cyrus Field himself, besides energising like Hercules to push the matter on, was one of ten subscribers who each contributed 10,000 pounds. Thus 230,500 pounds were privately subscribed before a prospectus was issued.

Our little hero was at the laying of that (1866) cable, when the same great ship, with the same captain and most of the engineers and electricians who had gone out on the previous voyage, landed the end of the 1820-mile rope on the shores of Newfoundland, on Friday, 27th July. He cheered with the rest in wild enthusiasm when the Great Eastern dropped anchor in "Heart's Content." He accompanied Captain Anderson and the officers of the fleet when they went in a body to the little church there, to thank God for the successful completion of the great enterprise. He was present when the big ship, having received from other ships 8000 tons of coal, and some six hundred miles of the old cable, went back to mid-ocean to grapple for the lost cable of 1865. He assisted and watched with the deepest interest the amazing efforts of scientific and mechanical power put forth in the mere matter of dragging for the cable from the bottom, and observed with reverence, amounting almost to awe, the great moving spirit of the whole affair, the indomitable Mr Field, as he went to the bow and sat on the rope to feel the quiver which told him it was dragging the bottom of the sea two miles below. He was present, with blazing cheeks and eyes and bated breath, when, on the 17th of August, the cable was caught, dragged to the surface, and actually seen, and broke and sank again as deep as ever -- though not so deep as the hearts of those who saw it go! He shared in the weary delays that followed, and in the final triumph when the cable was fairly caught and at last brought on board, and carried to the testing-room, amid intense excitement, lest it should prove to have been damaged by its rough treatment; and his voice helped to swell the roar of enthusiastic cheering that greeted the announcement that the old cable was still alive!

But all this we must leave, and carry the reader back to old England faster than the Great Eastern could have rushed -- ay, faster than the message on the flashing cable itself could have sped, for mind is more subtle than matter, and thought is swifter than even the Atlantic Telegraph.



Chapter Eleven.

Home!

"At last!" exclaimed Robin, bursting into his old home and seizing his mother in his arms.

Robin had just returned home after the laying of the 1866 Atlantic Cable, as briefly narrated in the last chapter.

It may be said with some truth that the old home became, during the next few days, a private lunatic asylum, for its inmates went mildly mad with joy.

Chief among the lunatics was uncle Rik, the retired sea-captain. That madman's case, however, was not temporary derangement, like the others'. It was confirmed insanity, somewhat intensified just then by the nephew's return.

"So, young man," he said, one evening at supper, when the family traveller was dilating to open-eyed-and-mouthed listeners, "you actually believe that these cables are goin' to work?"

"Of course I do, uncle. They are working now, and have been working for many years."

"Well, now, the gullibility o' some people is stupendous!" returned Rik. "Don't you know, Robin, that everything a'most works for a time, and then, sooner or later -- usually sooner -- the ridiculous thing bursts up?"

"But, uncle, you beg the question in classing submarine cables among ridiculous things. Besides, have not dozens of cables been working satisfactorily for many years, without showing signs of bursting up as yet?"

"Pooh! bah! boh!" replied uncle Rik, by which he meant to say that though convinced against his will he was of the same opinion still.

At that moment cousin Sam Shipton entered with an eager, excited look.

"It's all settled," he said, taking Robin by the hand.

"What is settled?" asked Mrs Wright, somewhat anxiously.

"Mother, don't be angry," said Robin, laying his hand on his mother's shoulder, and speaking tenderly, "I meant to have told you the moment I came in to-day, but uncle Rik with his argumentative spirit drove it and everything else except cables out of my head -- "

"Well, but what is it?" interrupted Madge impatiently; "why do you keep us in suspense?"

"I have some prospect, mother, of being appointed to go with a telegraph-laying party to the East, but Sam is wrong when he says it is all settled. Whatever he may have to tell us, it is by no means settled until I have your and father's opinion."

"Well, you horribly good but ungrateful boy," returned Sam, "it is at least settled as far as I have do with it. I have made application at head-quarters, and they are willing to take you on my recommendation. Moreover, I am myself going."

"You're joking, Sam!" exclaimed Robin, with a flush of joy; "I thought you had neither intention nor desire to go far from home."

"You thought wrong, Robin. I always had desire, and now have intention -- and I go as second in command. So, Miss Mayland," he continued, turning to Madge, "I shan't be able to continue those electrical lectures which you were so fond of once, but have lately seemed to grow tired of."

Madge was at that tender age of budding womanhood when sensitive girls are apt to misunderstand a jest. She blushed, stammered something, then forced a laugh, and turned to speak to Robin; but Sam perceived that tears rose to her eyes, and he instantly sank in his own estimation to the condition of a loathsome reptile.

"Well, now, that is good news," cried Robin, applying himself to the viands on the table with renewed zest. "You cannot have the smallest objection or anxiety, mother, I should think, when you know I shall be under so able a guide."

"I have not yet thought it over, Robin."

"And you, father?"

"Go, my boy, and my blessing go with you," said Mr Wright, all but choking the blessing with a huge oyster.

"Are any labourers to go with us?" asked Robin.

"One or two picked ones."

"Then you must allow me to pick one, Sam. My friend Jim Slagg is at present cast adrift with a considerable part of the Great Eastern's crew. He will be delighted to go, I know, and is a first-rate, hard-working, willing, conscientious youth."

"He ought to be proud of having so warm a friend and advocate," said Sam, "but I have no power to choose the men."

"O yes, you have, Sam. If you could get me appointed, you can get him appointed; and you must, for, if you don't, I won't go."

"You are hard on me, Robin, but I'll try."

"But you have not yet told us where it is that they are going to send you," said Mrs Wright.

"Ah! that's not fixed," replied Sam; "they are laying down lines in Turkey; and Egypt is talked of, and telegraph to India itself is even hinted at. All I know is that we shall be sent to the East somewhere."

"Bah! boo! Why does nobody ask for my opinion on the matter?" said uncle Rik, as he gazed at the company over a goose drumstick, which was obviously not tender.

"Your opinion, brother," said Mr Wright, "is so valuable, that no doubt your nephew has been keeping it to the last as a sort of tit-bit -- eh, Robin?"

"Well, uncle; come, let us have it," said Robin.

"You don't deserve it," returned Rik, with a wrench at the drumstick, "but you shall have it all the same, free, gratis. Was this bird fed on gutta-percha shavings, sister Nan?"

"Perhaps -- or on violin strings, I'm not sure which," replied Mrs Wright blandly.

"Well," continued the captain, "you youngsters will go off, I see, right or wrong, and you'll get half-drowned in the sea, roasted in the East, smothered in the desert, eaten alive by cannibals, used-up by the plague, poisoned by serpents, and tee-totally ruined altogether. Then you'll come home with the skin of your teeth on -- nothing more."

"I sincerely hope it will be summer at the time," said Sam, laughing; "but we are grateful to you for prophesying that we shall return, even though in such light clothing."

"That's what'll happen," continued the captain, regarding the other drumstick with some hesitation; "you may take the word of an old salt for it. I've lived in the good old times, lads, and I know that all these new-fangled notions are goin' to burst up -- and that's what'll come of it."

Whether that was what came of it remains to be seen.



Chapter Twelve.

A Great Dynamo-Electric Sea-Fight.

A few weeks after the utterance of Captain Rik's famous prophecy, Robin, Sam, Stumps, and Slagg found themselves on board of a large submarine cable steam-ship, named the Triton, ploughing the billows of the Southern Ocean.

A few weeks later and they were drawing near to that great concourse of islands known as the Malay Archipelago, where nature is exceptionally beautiful, but man is rather vile. At all events, that region of the ocean lying to the south of China has been long infamous for the number and ferocity of its pirates, who, among the numerous islands, with their various channels, creeks, and rivers, have found a suitable field for their bloody and remorseless game.

"D'you know, I don't believe in pirates?" said Robin to Sam, as they stood at the bow of the cable-ship, conversing about these sea-robbers.

"They believe in you nevertheless, as you'd find out to your cost if we came across one just now."

The voice that replied was not Sam's, but that of the captain, who had come forward to get a clearer sweep of the horizon ahead with his glass.

"Do you think it likely, sir, that we may meet with any of the rascals?" asked Sam.

"Not at all unlikely," replied the captain, fixing his glass and putting it to his eye, "though I don't think it likely that we shall be attacked, as we are large and don't look like a richly freighted merchant-man. However, there is no saying. These scoundrels fear nothing, and when hard up will attack anything but a man-of-war, I half suspect that I am looking at one of them now."

This latter announcement, calmly uttered, threw all who heard it into quite a flutter of excitement.

The captain was a big, dark-skinned, bearded man, with a quiet, half-humorous, half-sarcastic expression of countenance.

"Do you really think it is a pirate?" asked Robin, eagerly.

"I really do," replied the captain, "and I fear we may have to run out of our course to avoid her. You see, I am a man of peace, and abhor bloodshed, therefore I won't fight if I can help it."

Saying this he gave orders to have the course of the steamer changed.

Just then there occurred one of those contretemps which don't often happen, but which, when they do, are often prolific of disaster; an important part of the machinery broke down, and the engine, for the moment, was rendered useless. It was most unfortunate, for the suspicious craft lay to windward, and a light breeze was blowing carried it steadily towards them, although all the sail the steamer possessed was crowded on her.

"Come aft here, Mr Shipton, and tell your chief to come with you. I want to hold a council of war," said the captain.

Summoning the first mate and chief engineer, as well as the electricians, the captain went to the after part of the quarter-deck, where, seated on the taffrail, he deliberated with the extemporised council measures for repelling an expected attack.

What these deliberations tended to, those not of the council could not tell, but from the energy of the members, and an occasional burst of laughter from the group, it was obvious, as Jim Slagg remarked, that "mischief o' some sort was in the wind."

Presently the council broke up, and the members went actively below, as men do who have a purpose to carry out promptly.

Meanwhile the pirate vessel came within range and fired a shot which missed them. The fire was not repeated. Evidently they meant to get within easy range before trying another shot.

In a few minutes the electricians came on deck with several large coils of copper wire, which they uncoiled and distributed mysteriously about the sides of the vessel. At the same time several lengths of leathern pump hose were laid along the deck, and fire-branches or nozzles attached to them.

"Run out our stern-guns now," said the captain, with a grim smile, "and give it 'em hot. It won't do to seem to give in too easy. Run up the Union Jack. Don't take aim. I want more noise and smoke than mischief -- d'ye understand?"

The officer to whom this was addressed, said, "Ay, ay, sir," in the usual tone of ready obedience, adding, however, in an undertoned growl, "but I don't understand, for all that!"

He obeyed the orders literally, being well disciplined, and the result was a sudden and most furious cannonade, for the pirate replied with vigour, using all the guns he could bring to bear; but no damage was done on either side for some time, until at last a ball from the enemy went crash through the smoke funnel of the Triton with a most sonorous bang!

"That'll do now," cried the captain, "cease firing and haul down the colours."

If the captain had said, "Cut away the rudder and heave the boilers overboard," he could scarcely have caused more surprise in his crew, who, by his orders, had assembled on deck, every man being armed with musket, cutlass, and revolver. His orders were strictly and promptly obeyed, however.

By this time the light breeze had fallen and a dead calm prevailed, so that the sails of the pirate flapped idly against her masts, and her crew were seen busily lowering her boats.

"We could have soon got out of her way if our engines had not broke down," growled the captain, as he went toward the front of the quarter-deck and looked down on the armed men in the waist. "My lads," he said, "the blackguards are Malay pirates. They are lowering their boats, and will be alongside in less than half an hour. I don't need to tell you what you'll have to expect if they take us. We must beat 'em off or die; for it's better to die sword in hand than to be tortured or strangled. Those of you, however, who prefer the latter modes of going under may show the white feather and enjoy yourselves in your own way. Now, lads, you know me. I expect obedience to orders to the letter. I hate fighting and bloodshed -- so don't kill unless you can't help it. Also, take care that you don't touch these copper wires on the sides with either finger or foot. If you do you'll repent it, for electricians don't like their gear handled."

Turning abruptly round, for the oars of the approaching boats could now be distinctly heard, the captain asked Sam if his batteries were well charged.

"Chock-full, sir," replied Sam with a broad grin; "there's not a bit of iron all round the ship that a man could lay hold of without receiving his due!"

"Good," said the captain, turning to the chief engineer; "are the hose attached and the boilers hot?"

"Bubblin' up fit to burst, sir. I've weighted the safety-valves to give it force?"

Without another word the captain stepped to the port gangway, and took off his hat to the advancing pirates. The pirate captain, not to be outdone in civility, took off his fez and bowed as the boat ranged alongside. The captain carefully held out one of the man-ropes to his enemy. He grasped it and seized the other.

An instantaneous yell of the most appalling nature issued from his mouth, and never before, since ship-building began, were a couple of man-ropes thrown off with greater violence! The pirate captain fell back into his boat, and the captain of the steamer stepped promptly back to avoid the storm of bullets that were let fly at his devoted head. At the starboard gangway the chief mate performed the same ceremony to another boat with a like result.

The pirates were amazed and enraged, but not cowed. With a wild cheer they made a simultaneous dash at the ship's sides all round. With a wilder yell they fell back into their boats, -- shocked beyond expression! A few of them, however, chanced to lay hold of ropes or parts of the vessel that were not electrified. These gained the bulwarks.

"Shove in some more acid," said the chief electrician in suppressed excitement to Sam Shipton, who stood beside the batteries below.

"Stir up the fires, lads," cried the chief engineer to his men at the boilers beneath, as he stood holding a fire-nozzle ready.

Intensified yells all round told that chemical action had not been applied in vain, while the pirates who had gained the bulwarks were met with streams of boiling water in their faces. Heroes may and do face shot and shell coolly without flinching, but no hero ever faced boiling water coolly. The pirates turned simultaneously and received the streams in rear. Light cotton is but a poor defence in such circumstances. They sloped over the sides like eels, and sought refuge in the sea. Blazing with discomfiture and amazement, but not yet dismayed, these ferocious creatures tried the assault a second time. Their fury became greater, so did the numbers that gained a footing on the bulwarks, but not one reached the deck! The battery and the boiler played a part that day which it had never before entered into the brain of the wildest scientist to conceive. The hissing of the hot shower and the vigour of the cold shock were only equalled by the unearthly yelling of the foe, whose miraculous bounds and plunges formed a scene that is altogether indescribable.

The crew of the steamer stood spell-bound, unable to fight even if there had been occasion for so doing. The dark-skinned captain became Indian-red in the face from suppressed laughter.

Suddenly a tremor ran through the steamer, as if she too were unable to restrain her feelings. During the fight -- if we may so call it -- the engineers had been toiling might and main in the buried depths of their engine-room; the broken parts of the engine had been repaired or refitted, and a throb of life had returned to the machinery. In its first revolution the screw touched the stern of a pirate-boat and turned it upside down. Another boat at the bow was run over. The crews of both swam away like ducks, with their long knives between their teeth. The other boats hauled off.

"Now, captain," cried Robin Wright, who, during the whole time, had stood as if transfixed, with a cutlass in one hand, a pistol in the other, and his mouth, not to mention his eyes, wide open; "Now, captain, we shall get away without shedding a drop of blood!"

"Yes," replied the captain, "but not without inflicting punishment. Port your helm -- hard a port!"

"Port it is, sir -- hard over," replied the man at the wheel, and away went the steamer with a grand circular sweep which speedily brought her, bow-on, close to the pirate vessel.

"Steady -- so!" said the captain, at the same time signalling "full steam" to the engine-room.

The space between the two vessels quickly decreased. The part of the pirate crew which had been left on board saw and understood. With a howl of consternation, every man sprang into the sea. Next moment their vessel was cut almost in two and sent fathoms down into the deep, whence it rose a limp and miserable remnant, flattened out upon the waves.

"Now," observed the captain, with a pleasant nod, "we'll leave them to get home the best way they can. A boat voyage in such fine weather in these latitudes will do them good."

Saying which, he resumed his course, and steamed away into the regions of the far East.



Chapter Thirteen.

Tells Of A Sudden And Unlooked-For Event.

How often it has been said, "Good for man that he does not know what lies before him." If he did we fear he would face his duty with very different feelings from those which usually animate him. Certain it is that if Robin Wright and Sam Shipton had known what was before them --  when they stood one breezy afternoon on the ship's deck, casting glances of admiration up at the mountain waves of the southern seas, or taking bird's-eye views of the valleys between them -- their eyes would not have glistened with such flashes of delight, for the fair prospects they dreamed of were not destined to be realised.

What these prospects were was made plain by their conversation.

"Won't it be a splendid opportunity, Sam, to become acquainted with all the outs and ins of telegraphy, this laying of lines from island to island in the China Seas?"

"It will, indeed, Robin, -- a sort of compound or alternating land-and-submarine line. At one time we shall be using palm-trees for posts and carrying wires through the habitations of parrots and monkeys, at another we shall be laying them down among the sharks and coral groves."

"By the way," said Robin, "is it true that monkeys may prove to be more troublesome to us in these regions than sparrows and crows are at home?"

"Of course it is, my boy. Have you never heard that on some of our Indian lines, baboons, vultures, and other heavy creatures have sometimes almost broken down the telegraphs by taking exercise and roosting on the wires?"

"Indeed, I hope it won't be so with us. At all events, sharks won't be much tempted, I should fancy, by submarine cables."

"There's no saying, Robin. They are not particular when hungry. By the way, I saw you talking with unusual earnestness this morning to Jim Slagg; what was the matter with him?"

"Poor fellow! you'd scarcely believe it, to look at him," replied Robin, "but the lad is actually home-sick."

"Home-sick! Why, how's that? If we were only a few days out from port, or even a week or two, I could understand it, but seeing that we are now drawing near to the China Seas, I should have thought -- "

"Oh, that's easily explained," interrupted Robin. "This is his mother's birthday, it seems, a day that has always been kept with much rejoicing, he tells me, by his family, and it has brought back home and home-life with unusual force to him. With all his rough off-handedness, Slagg is a tender-hearted, affectionate fellow. Somehow he has taken it into his head that this voyage will be disastrous, and that he will never see his mother again. I had great difficulty in showing him the unreasonableness of such a belief."

"No doubt you had. It is unreasonable beliefs that people usually hold with greatest tenacity," replied Sam, with a touch of sarcasm. "But tell me, have he and Stumps never once quarrelled since leaving England?"

"Never."

"I'm amazed -- they are so unlike in every way."

"You would not be surprised if you knew them as I do," returned Robin. "Ever since Slagg gave him that thrashing on board the Great Eastern in 1865, Stumps has been a changed man. It saved him from himself, and he has taken such a liking to Slagg that nothing will part them. It was that made me plead so hard for Stumps to be taken with us, because I felt sure Slagg would not go without him, and although we might easily have done without Stumps, we could not have got on so well without Slagg."

"I'm not so sure of that, my boy. Your opinion of him is too high, though I admit him to be a first-rate youth. Indeed, if it were not so, he should not be here. -- Was that a shark's fin alongside?"

"Yes, I think so. Cook has been throwing scraps overboard, I suppose. --  See, there goes an empty meat-tin."

As he spoke the article named rose into the air, and fell with a splash in the water. At the same time Jim Slagg was seen to clamber on the bulwarks and look over.

"Come here -- look alive, Stumps!" he shouted.

Stumps, whose proper name, it is but fair to state, was John Shanks, clambered clumsily to his friend's side just in time to see a shark open its horrid jaws and swallow the meat-tin.

"Well now, I never!" exclaimed Slagg. "He didn't even smell it to see if it was to his taste."

"P'r'aps he's swallowed so many before," suggested Stumps, "that he takes for granted it's all right."

"Well it's on'y flavour; and he has caught a Tartar this time," returned the other, "unless, maybe, tin acts like pie-crust does on human vitals."

The low deep voice of the captain was heard at this moment ordering a reef to be taken in the top-sails, and then it began to strike Robin and Sam that the breeze was freshening into something like a gale, and that there were some ominous-looking clouds rising on the windward horizon. Gazing at this cloud-bank for a few minutes, the captain turned and ordered the top-sails to be close-reefed, and most of the other sails either furled or reduced to their smallest size.

He was in good time, and the vessel was ready for the gale, when it rushed down on them hissing like a storm-fiend.

The good ship bent before the blast like a willow, but rose again, and, under the influence of able seamanship, went bravely on her course, spurning the billows from her swelling bows.

"What a thing it is to know that there is a good hand at the helm in times of danger!" remarked Sam as he and our hero stood under the shelter of the starboard bulwarks, holding on with both hands to the rigging, while the rushing waves tossed them on high or let them drop in the troughs of the seas; "I should feel safe with our captain in any circumstances."

"So should I," said Robin with enthusiasm, his eyes glistening with delight as he gazed on the angry ocean.

There was no thought of danger in the mind of any one at that moment. A good ship, ably commanded, well manned, and with plenty of sea-room, --  what more could be desired? Nevertheless, deadly peril was close at hand.

That marvellous little creature -- which, in the southern seas, builds its little cell, works its little day and dies, leaving to succeeding generations of its kind to build their little cells and die, each using its predecessor's mansion as a foundation for its own, until pile on pile forms a mass, and mass on mass makes a mountain -- the coral insect, had reared one of its submarine edifices just where the cable-ship Triton had to pass that day. For ages man had traversed that sea without passing exactly over that mountain, and even if he had, it would not have mattered, for the mountain had been always many fathoms below the surface. But now the decree had gone forth. The conjunction of events predestined had come about. The distance between the mountain summit and the ocean surface had been reduced to feet. The Triton rose on the top of a mighty billow as she reached the fated spot. The coral peak rose near the bottom of the water-hollow beyond, and down on it the doomed ship went with an awful crash!

Her speed was checked only an instant, for the top of the rock was knocked off by the force of the blow, and the ship passed swiftly on, but there could be no mistaking the significance of that shock. An involuntary shout of alarm from some, -- a gasp, halt of surprise, half of horror, from others, -- then a rush of active effort when the captain gave orders to man the pumps.

There was urgent need for haste. The mass of coral rock had stuck in the hole it had made, else had they gone down in a few minutes. As it was, the water rushed in furiously, so much so that the captain detailed a party of men to construct a raft, while the rest relieved each other at the pumps. No doubt he was partly urged to this course by the consideration that a vessel weighted with telegraph-cables and other heavy material connected therewith could not float long in a leaky condition.

"Keep close to me, Robin; we must sink or swim together."

It was Sam who spoke. He was very pale, but his firmly-compressed lips showed no sign of unmanly fear. Robin, on the contrary, taken by surprise, and too inexperienced to correctly estimate sudden danger, was flushed with the feeling that now was the time to do and dare whatever should be required of him! They went to the pumps together, where Stumps and Slagg were already at work with many others.

It is surprising how fast and hard men will toil when life depends on the result. There was a cat-like activity about the carpenter and his mates as they cut, sawed, lashed, and bolted together the various spars and planks which formed the raft. In a marvellously short space of time it was ready and launched over the side, and towed astern by the strongest cable on board, for the danger of parting from it in such weather was very great. Knowing this they had lashed some casks of pork and other provisions to it before launching.

Still they laboured with unflagging resolution at the pumps, for many of those on board were picked men, whose sense of honour urged them to strive to the uttermost to save the ship, for it was no ordinary merchant-man, freighted with an ordinary cargo, which could easily be replaced as well as insured, but a vessel freighted with those magic wires which couple continents and unite humanity, whose loss might delay, though it could not ultimately arrest, the benign and rapid intercourse of man with man in all parts of the globe.

"Keep your eye on Sam and me," whispered Robin to Jim Slagg, finding himself alongside that worthy during a spell of rest. "Let us keep together, whatever happens."

Robin did not quite believe that anything serious was going to happen. Some spirits find it as difficult to believe in impending disaster as others find it to believe in continued safety. It seemed so impossible to Robin, in his inexperience, that the strong and still buoyant vessel which had borne them so long and bravely should sink! Nevertheless, like the rest, he laboured with a will.

Slagg took the opportunity to give a similar caution to his friend Stumps.

"She's sinking, sir," said the carpenter, who had been sounding the well, to the captain, about an hour later.

"I know it; stand by to have the raft hauled alongside. Knock off now, lads, there's no use in pumping any more."

The men ceased, with a deep sigh, and by that act the death-warrant of the cable-ship was signed.

During the next quarter of an hour the crew were busy slipping down the cable that held the raft. A few ran below to fetch small articles that they valued, but by that time the vessel was so low in the water, that there was little time to spare, and the captain began to urge haste.

"Now then, lads, over the side with you," he said, chancing to look at Sam Shipton as he spoke!

That spirit of heroism which induces men to resolve to be the last to quit a sinking ship, came over Sam just then, and he shrank back. He and his chief were in charge of the telegraph apparatus. It would be disgraceful to quit until all on board had left. He laid his hand on the strong cable that held the raft and said, "I'll stay to the last, sir, and cast off the rope, if you'll allow me."

"We don't cast off ropes in such circumstances," replied the captain; "we cut 'em."

Sam was silenced, but not the less resolved to hold to his point, if possible. He still held back, while the captain, being busy with the others, some of whom were rather too eager to go, paid no further attention to him. Robin, Slagg, and Stumps, recognising Sam as their leader, fell behind him and kept close.

At last all were on the raft except the captain and the four friends.

"Now, then, come along," said the former, somewhat impatiently.

"After you, sir," said Sam, with a polite bow.

"Overboard, sir!" shouted the captain, in a voice that would brook no denial, and Sam at once stepped on the bulwark, for he was not naturally rebellious.

Just as he spoke the rope broke, and the raft fell astern.

"Jump! jump! it's your only chance," cried the captain, at the same moment springing into the sea.

Sam was on the point of following, when an exclamation from Slagg checked him. Looking quickly back, he saw that Robin was not there.

Our hero, while modestly standing behind his comrades, had suddenly remembered that the small bible given him by his mother was lying on the shelf at the side of his berth. He would have lost anything rather than that. There was yet time to fetch it, so, without a word, he turned and sprang below, supposing that he had ample time.

"Robin! Robin!" shouted Sam and Slagg together, at the top of their voices.

"Coming! coming!" reached them faintly from below, but Robin did not come. The hasty summons induced him to leap over a chest in returning. He struck his head violently against a beam, and fell back stunned.

With another wild shout his friends rushed down the companion-hatch to hasten his movements by force. They found him almost insensible. Lifting him quickly, they carried, him on deck, and bore him to the stern of the vessel.

"Robin! Robin!" cried Sam, in an agony of impatience -- for the raft was by that time far astern, besides which the shades of evening were beginning to descend -- "do try to rally. We must swim. We're almost too late. Can you do it?"

"Yes, yes, I can swim like a duck," cried Robin, rising and staggering towards the bulwarks.

"But I can't swim at all!" cried Stumps in a voice of horror.

Sam stopped as if suddenly paralysed. Then, laying hold of Robin, held him back. He felt, as he looked at the dark heaving sea and the now distant raft, that it was not possible for him and Slagg to save both their injured and their helpless comrade.

"Too late!" he said in a voice of despair, as he sat down and for a moment covered his face with his hands. Slagg looked at him with a bewildered rather than a despairing expression.

"So, we'll have to sink together since we can't swim together," he said at last, with a touch of reckless vexation, as he gazed at the naturally stupid and by that time imbecile face of his friend Stumps.

"Come, only cowards give way to despair," cried Sam, starting up. "We have one chance yet, God be praised, but let's work with a will, boys, for the time is short."



Chapter Fourteen.

The Raft.

Sam Shipton's one chance did not seem a bright one, but, with characteristic energy, he proceeded to avail himself of it at once.

When the raft was launched over the side, as described, the carpenters had embarked upon it with the rest of the ship's crew, dropping their tools on the deck beside the mass of unused material of ropes, spars, planks, etcetera, as they left. Four of the spars were pretty equal in length. Sam selected them hastily and laid them on the deck in the form of a square, or oblong frame. Then he seized an axe.

"Unravel some of the ropes, Robin," he cried. "You two select some planks as near ten feet long as possible. Quick -- ask no questions, but do what I tell you."

Sam Shipton was one of those who hold the opinion that every man born into the world, whether gentle or simple, should learn a trade. He had acted on his belief and taught himself that of a carpenter, so that he wielded the axe with skill, and gave his orders with the precision of one who knows what he is about. His comrades, although not trained to any special trade, were active handy fellows, with the exception, indeed, of John Shanks, whose fingers were usually described as "thumbs," and whose general movements were clumsy; but Stumps had a redeeming quality to set against defects -- he was willing.

With a few powerful well-directed blows, Sam cut four deep notches into the two longest of the selected spars, near their ends, at equal distances from each other. Into these he laid the ends of the two shorter spars, thus forming a frame-work.

"Twelve feet by ten, not a bad raft," he muttered, as if to himself, while he snatched a rope from the bundle of those disentangled by Robin. "Take a rope of same size, you two, and lash the opposite corners as you see me doing. Stumps will go on selecting the planks."

Sam jerked out his words with as much rapidity and force as he applied to the labour of his hands. There was something quite tremendous in his energy, and little wonder -- for, as he glanced now and then along the deck he saw that the ship was rapidly settling down to her final dive, and that the closing scene would be sudden.

Powerfully impressed by his example, the others worked in total silence and with all their might, for Sam's conduct, far more than the appearance of things, convinced them of their danger.

"The planks now, Stumps! Drive in as many of these clamps as you can find, Slagg -- so," (he set the example) -- "we've no time to bore holes for bolts. A plank now; that's it! Hand some nails -- no, the biggest nails and the big hammer. Mind your fingers!"

Down came the heavy hammer on a four-inch nail, which went half through the thick plank. Two more such blows and the iron head was buried in the wood. Six planks sufficed to cover the frame. They were laid lengthwise with nails just sufficient to hold them. A piece of thick rope passed four times round the entire fabric still further secured them in position.

"Tie a lot of these nails in a bit of sail-cloth, Slagg, and fix 'em to the raft -- to one of the spars, not the planks. Do the same with a saw, hammer, axe, and cask of biscuit, -- water, too; don't forget water. Make a belt of a bit of rope, Robin, and stick that small axe in it. Have it handy."

While he spoke Sam did not look up, but gave all his attention to the tightening, with a hand-spike, of the knot on the thick rope that bound the raft together; for we may as well inform those who don't know it, that the tying of a knot on a cable is not managed in the same way or with the same ease that a similar operation is performed on a piece of twine.

"But how shall we lift it over the side?" asked Stumps, becoming suddenly alive to a difficulty.

"Help me to haul on this rope and you shall see," said Sam.

He ran to the side, lifted a coil of rope off its belaying-pin, threw it on the deck, cut the rope clear, and hauled it to the raft, to one end of which he made it fast.

It was the strong rope, by means of which one of the mizzen yards was braced, and was rove through a block attached to the outward end of the yard.

"Hoist away now -- with a will!"

"Hold on," cried Slagg, stuffing a mass of sail-cloth violently, by means of a hand-spike, underneath the binding rope of the raft.

"There now -- yo ho! heave ho-o!"

Up went the end of the little ark of safety, and when one end was raised very little force was required to push it over.

"Hold on! hold on! hold o-o-on!" yelled Stumps, straining to prevent the raft from leaving the ship.

"No, no. -- Let go! let go! let go-o-o!" roared Sam.

Stumps did let go and almost fell from the combined effect of his efforts and despair, as the raft swung off, splashed into the sea far out of reach, and hung half suspended from the yard-arm.

"It's all up with us," gasped Stumps.

"Not yet, but it will be all up with us in two minutes," returned Sam, unable to repress a smile even at that moment.

"What d'ye mean?" said Stumps in amazement. "How can we ever git at it now?"

"Why, stoopid," said Slagg, "don't you see that we've only to go up the mast, out on the yard-arm, and slip down the rope."

While he was speaking, Robin, by Sam's orders, was performing the feat referred to.

"Look sharp!" he cried, turning to the others.

A heavy lurch of the ship caused their breasts to leap almost as fast as their bodies, for they were all more or less aware of the danger of the ship sinking before they could get clear of her. The darkness, too, was, as we have said, increasing by that time, though it was still light enough to enable them to see what they were about.

In a few minutes they all had gained the end of the yard-arm, slipped down the rope, and got upon the raft, but it was difficult to hold on, because at each heave of the ship, the fore-end of the raft was raised quite out of the sea, and then let fall with considerable violence. As soon as Sam reached it, he bade Robin cut adrift with his axe, so great was the heave; but at the moment the raft hung almost perpendicularly in the air, and Robin could do nothing but cling to the rope that bound it. Next instant it again fell flat on the sea.

"Now -- cut!" cried Sam.

The rope was severed with one blow; almost at the same instant the stern of the Triton flew up with a degree of violence that no wave could account for. It was her last fling. Instantly after she went down head foremost. The masts, by good fortune, leaned away from the raft at the time, else they would have been struck by the yards, or involved in the rigging. As it was they did not escape. The vast whirlpool caused by the sinking ship drew them in with irresistible power. For one moment the horrified youths saw a dark green vortex towards which they rushed. Another moment, and they beheld a green funnel whirling round them as they sank into midnight darkness, while an ocean of roaring water filled their ears.

Who shall attempt to describe, the feelings or sensations of that moment! The one absorbing idea of self-preservation was of course dominant, coupled with an intolerable feeling that the upper air could never be regained.

It was reached, however, by all of them. First by Sam Shipton, who shot waist-high above the sea with a loud gasp, and struck out wildly. Then, recovering presence of mind, he swam more gently, and looked eagerly round. He was immediately followed by Robin and Slagg. Last of all by Stumps, who came up legs foremost, and, on turning other end up, saluted them with a roar that would not have shamed a monster of the deep. But the roar was cut short by a gurgle, as, in his frantic struggles, he sank himself again.

Observing this, and seeing that the others were comparatively self-possessed, Sam made towards his drowning comrade. The poor fellow, catching sight of him as he came near, made a clutch at him, but Sam was well aware of the danger of being grasped by a drowning man. He swerved aside, and Stumps sank with a gurgle of despair. Twice again did he rise and sink. Once more he rose. With a rapid stroke Sam swam behind him and caught him under the armpits. Violently did the poor fellow strive to turn round and clasp his preserver, but Sam, treading water, held him easily at arm's-length with his head just above the surface. As long as he struggled nothing more could be done for him; Sam therefore put his mouth as near to his ear as possible and shouted: -- 

"Stop struggling! -- else I'll let you go!"

It was probably as much the tone of Sam's voice as the sense of these words that calmed Stumps. At all events he instantly lay, or rather hung, perfectly limp and still.

"Now," continued Sam, "you are quite safe if you do what I tell you. If you don't you're a dead man! D'you understand?"

"Yes," gasped Stumps.

"Let your hands and arms lie flat on the water! Don't try to raise your head farther than I let you! Keep your feet still! Let yourself hang helpless while I hold you and look round for the raft."

It was obvious that Stumps had regained self-command, for as each of these orders was shouted in his ear, in the tones of a sergeant-major, he obeyed with eager, almost ludicrous, promptitude.

"The raft is here, close at hand," said a voice close to Sam's ear.

It was Robin who had discovered him at that moment.

"Is Slagg safe?" asked Sam.

"Here he is, all right," said the worthy referred to, puffing and choking as he swam up.

"Keep off -- don't get in front of him," said Sam, in a warning voice. "He mayn't have recovered self-restraint enough yet to refrain from grasping you. Guide me to the raft, Robin, while I swim on my back, and see that you don't let it hit me on the head when I come close. You and Slagg help each other on, and then help me with Stumps."

Nothing could have calmed Stumps more than the cool, firm way in which these orders were given, so that he allowed himself to lie like a log while his deliverer drew him gently backwards until the back of his head rested on his bosom. Sam then struck out gently with his legs; Robin turned him with a push in the right direction, and thus, swimming on his back, he reached the raft. Slagg and Robin having already helped each other upon it, grasped his hair. At once he freed one hand and caught the rope that bound the raft. Stumps naturally slewed round, so that his mouth and nose went for a moment under water. Fancying that he was forsaken, he caught Sam round the neck, drew himself up, and gave a terrific yell.

"Ha! you may choke me now, if you can," muttered Sam, as he grasped the rope with both hands, "only, the longer you hold on to me the longer you will be of getting out of the water."

The terrified lad still retained sufficient sense to appreciate the force of the remark. Looking up as well as he could through his dishevelled hair, he held out one hand to Slagg, who grasped it firmly. Releasing Sam, with some hesitation he made a convulsive grasp at Robin with the other hand. Robin met him half-way. A loud "heave ho!" and a mighty pull brought him out of the sea, and sent him with a squash on the boards of the raft, where he lay gripping the ropes with his hands as with a vice.

Before his rescuers could turn to aid Sam, he stood panting beside them.

"Thank God," said Sam, "for this deliverance!"

"Amen!" was the earnest and prompt response from the others.

Yet it seemed but a temporary deliverance, for when these castaways looked around them, they saw nothing but a heaving ocean and a darkening sky, with the tiny raft as the only visible solid speck in all the watery waste. Compared, however, with the extremity of danger though which they had just passed, the little platform on which they stood seemed to them an ample refuge -- so greatly do circumstances alter our estimate of facts!

But they had not time to think much, as may be easily understood, for a great deal still remained to be done. Their little ark was by no means secure. We have said that only enough of nails had been driven into it to hold the planks to the frame-work, but not to withstand rough treatment. Indeed, during the plunge two of the planks had been torn off, but the binding rope held them to their places, as Sam had foreseen.

Very little daylight now remained, so that not a moment was to be lost.

"No sign of the big raft," said Sam, stooping to unfasten the hammer and packet of nails, after taking one quick, anxious glance round the horizon.

"But it may be not far-off after all," said Slagg, kneeling down to aid his comrade, while Stumps, by that time recovered, assisted Robin to tighten the ropes that held the pork-barrel. "With such poor light it 'ud be hard to make out a flat thing like that a-kickin' in the hollows of the seas."

"But you forget," returned Sam, "that it must be a-kickin' on the top o' the sea as well as in the hollows. Another nail -- thanks. However, I don't expect to see it again."

"Well, now, I expects to see it in the mornin' not far-off," said Slagg. "Is the water-cask fast, Robin?"

"All right -- and the pork too."

"And the sail. Just give it an extra shove under the ropes, Robin. We'd be badly off if we lost it."

"I don't see what good a sail can do us," said Stumps, who had now quite recovered.

"Not as a sail, Stumpy," replied Slagg, whose spirit soon recovered elasticity, "though even in that way it may help us, but as a blanket we shall appreciate it before long."

Slagg was right. After the planking had been secured and the rope refastened, those unfortunates found themselves in an unenviable position. The gale had indeed abated somewhat, though the heaving of the great waves was little less tremendous, but the night had settled down into a state of pitchy darkness, so that they could barely see each other's faces, while the seas continually washed over them, obliging them to hold on to the ropes for fear of being washed away.

In such circumstances sleep was out of the question, yet they stood sorely in need of rest.

"Now we'll see what's to be done wi' the sail," said Slagg, after they had been seated some time doing nothing. "Sleep I want, an' sleep I'll have, so lend a hand, boys."

He drew out the sail with some trouble, so well had it been stuffed in, and bade the others hold and prevent it from flapping while he fastened the corners down. He did not arrange it like a tent, but spread it as flat as possible, doubling the superfluous edges inward, so that it presented little or no obstruction to the free passage of wind or water over them.

This done, they all crept underneath, and found it to be a much snugger den than they had expected, for the two casks prevented their heads from being pressed down when a few tons of water rolled over them -- as occasionally happened.

Still they did not dare to sleep until each had fastened a rope round his waist and bound himself to the flooring. Having done so, each laid himself alongside of a turn of the binding-cable, and, embracing that affectionately with both arms, laid his head on the planks and shut his eyes.

Many and varied are the conditions under which healthy members of the human family seek and find repose, but we venture to think that few conditions have ever been found which were more unfavourable to sleep than that which has just been described.

Nevertheless, they were met promptly by slumber most profound, as they lay wet and weary on the little raft that disastrous night, on the dark and surging breast of the Southern Sea.



Chapter Fifteen.

Life On The Raft.

To awake "all at sea" -- in other words, ignorant of one's locality -- is a rather common experience, but to awaken both at and in the sea, in a similar state of oblivion, is not so common.

It was the fortune of Robin Wright to do so on the first morning after the day of the wreck.

At first, when he opened his eyes, he fancied, from the sound of water in his ears, that it must have come on to rain very heavily, but, being regardless of rain, he tried to fall asleep again. Then he felt as if there must be a leak in his berth somewhere, he was so wet; but, being sleepy, he shut his eyes, and tried to shut his senses against moisture. Not succeeding, he resolved to turn on his other side, but experienced a strange resistance to that effort. Waxing testy, he wrenched himself round, and in so doing kicked out somewhat impatiently. This, of course, woke him up to the real state of the case. It also awoke Slagg, who received the kick on his shins. He, delivering a cry of pain straight into Sam Shipton's ear, caused that youth to fling out his fist, which fell on Stumps's nose, and thus in rapid succession were the sleepers roused effectually to a full sense of their condition.

"It's cold," remarked Stumps, with chattering teeth.

"You should be thankful that you're alive to feel the cold, you ungrateful creetur," said Slagg.

"I am thankful, Jim," returned the other humbly, as he sought to undo the rope that held him fast; "but you know a feller can scarcely express thanks or -- or -- otherwise half asleep, an' his teeth goin' like a pair o' nut-crackers."

"The wind is evidently down," remarked Sam, who had already undone his lashings. "Here, Robin, help me to untie this corner of the sail. I had no idea that sleeping with one's side in a pool of water would make one so cold and stiff."

"If it had bin a pool, Mr Shipton," said Slagg, "it wouldn't have made you cold; 'cause why? you'd have made it warm. But it was the sea washin' out and in fresh that kep' the temperater low -- d'ee see?"

"What a cargo o' rheumatiz we've been a-layin' in this night for old age," said Stumps ruefully, as he rubbed his left shoulder.

Throwing off the sail, Sam stood up and looked round, while an exclamation of surprise and pleasure broke from him. The contrast between the night and morning was more than usually striking. Not only had darkness vanished and the wind gone down, but there was a dead calm which had changed the sea into a sheet of undulating glass, and the sun had just risen, flooding the sky with rosy light, and tipping the summit of each swell with gleaming gold. The gentle, noiseless heaving of the long swell, so far from breaking the rest of nature, rather deepened it by suggesting the soft breathings of slumber. There were a few gulls floating each on its own image, as if asleep, and one great albatross soared slowly in the bright sky, as if acting the part of sentinel over the resting sea.

"How glorious!" exclaimed Robin, as, with flashing eyes, he gazed round the scarce perceptible horizon.

"How hard to believe," said Sam, in a low voice, "that we may have been brought here to die."

"But surely you do not think our case so desperate?" said Robin.

"I hope it is not, but it may be so."

"God forbid," responded Robin earnestly.

As he spoke his arm pressed the little bible which he had rescued from the wreck. Thrusting his hand into his bosom he drew it out.

"Darling mother!" he said, "when she gave me this she told me to consult it daily, but especially in times of trouble or danger. I'll look into it now, Sam."

He opened the book, and, selecting the verse that first met his eye, read: "In all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them; in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; and he bare them and carried them all the days of old."

"That's a grand word for us, isn't it? -- from Isaiah," said Robin.

"Well, what do you make of it?" asked Sam, whose religious education had not been attended to as well as that of his friend.

"That our God is full of love, and pity, and sympathy, so that we have nothing to fear," said Robin.

"But surely you can't regard that as a message to us when you know that you turned to it by mere chance," said Sam.

"I do regard it as a special message to us," returned Robin with decision.

"And what if you had turned up an entirely unsuitable or inapplicable verse?" said Sam.

"Then I should have concluded that God had no special message for us just now, but left us to that general comfort and instruction contained throughout the whole word. When, however, special comfort is sought and found, it seems to me ungrateful to refuse it."

"But I don't refuse it, Robin," returned Sam; "I merely doubt whether it is sent to us or not."

"Why, Sam, all the bible was sent to us for comfort and instruction."

"True -- true. I have not thought much on that subject, Robin, but I'll try to believe at present that you are right, for we stand much in need of strong hope at all events. Here we are, none of us knows how far from the nearest land, with little food and less water, on a thing that the first stiff breeze may knock to pieces, without shelter and without compass!"

"Without shelter and compass, Mr Shipton!" said Jim Slagg, who had hitherto listened in silence to the conversation; "why, what d'ye call this?" (taking hold of the sail). "Ain't that shelter enough, and won't the sun guide us by day and the stars by night. It seems to me that you are too despondin', Mr Shipton."

"Don't 'mister' me any more, Slagg. It was all very well aboard ship where we had our relative positions, but now we are comrades in distress, and must be on an equal footing."

"Very good," replied Slagg, looking round in his comrades' faces, and raising his voice as if making a speech. "Bein' equal, as you say, I takes the liberty o' callin' a general meetin' o' this free and -- if I may be allowed the expression -- easy Republic. Moreover, I move myself into the chair and second the motion, which, nobody objectin', is carried unanimously. Gentlemen, the business of this here meetin' is to appoint a commander to this here ship, an' what could be more in accordance with the rule o' three -- not to mention the rules o' four and common sense -- than a Shipton takin' command. Who's goin' to make the first reslootion?"

Entering into the spirit of the thing, Robin moved that Samuel Shipton be appointed to command the ship and the party, with the title of captain.

"And without pay," suggested Slagg.

"And I move," said Stumps, who was just beginning to understand the joke, though a little puzzled by the fact that it was done in earnest, "I move that Robin Wright be first leftenant."

"Brayvo, Stumps!" cried Slagg, "your intellec' is growin'. It on'y remains to appoint you ship's monkey and maid-of-all-work -- specially dirty work -- and, then, with a hearty vote o' thanks to myself for my conduct in the chair, to vacate the same an' dissolve the meetin'."

These matters having been satisfactorily settled, the castaways proceeded to prepare breakfast, and while this was being done the recently appointed captain looked once more anxiously round in the hope of seeing the large raft with their late shipmates on it, but it was not to be seen. Neither raft, ship, nor any other sign of man wos visible on all the glittering sea.

Breakfast was not a tempting meal. The biscuits were, indeed, as good as ship's biscuits ever are, and when moistened with sea water formed a comparatively pleasant as well as strengthening food; but the barrel of pork was raw; they had no means of cooking it, and had not yet experienced those pangs of hunger which induce men to luxuriate in anything that will allay the craving. They therefore breakfasted chiefly on biscuit, merely making an attempt, with wry faces, to swallow a little pork.

Observing this, Sam said, in a half-jocular manner: -- 

"Now, my lads, it is quite clear to me that in taking command of this ship, my first duty is to point out the evils that will flow from unrestrained appetite for biscuit; -- also to insist on the cultivation of a love for raw pork. You have no notion how good it is when fairly believed in. Anyhow you'll have to try, for it won't do to eat up all the biscuit, and have to feed at last on pure pork."

"I calls it impure pork," said Slagg; "hows'-ever, capting, you've on'y to give the word and we obey. P'r'aps the best way'll be to put us on allowance."

This suggestion was at once acted on, and a considerable part of that bright day was spent by Sam and Robin in calculating how much pork should go to a biscuit, so that they should diminish in an equal ratio, and how much of both it would be safe to allow to each man per diem, seeing that they might be many days, perhaps even weeks, at sea. While the "officers" were thus engaged, Slagg and his friend Stumps busied themselves in making a mast and yard out of one of the planks -- split in two for the purpose -- and fitting part of their sail to the same.

Evening found them with the work done, a small sail hoisted on the rude mast, the remaining part of the canvas fitted more securely as a covering, and the apportioned meal before them. But the sail hung idly from its yard and flapped gently to and fro as the little ark rose and sank on the swell, for the calm still prevailed and the gorgeous sunset, with its golden clouds and bright blue sky, was so faithfully reflected in the sea, that they seemed to be floating in the centre of a crystal ball which had been dipped in the rainbow.

When night descended, the scene was, if possible, still more impressive, for although the bright colours had vanished, the castaways still floated in the centre of a dark crystal universe, whose unutterable depths were radiant with stars of varied size and hue.

Long they sat and gazed in solemn admiration at the scene, talking in subdued tones of past, present, and future, until their eyes refused to do their office and the heavy lids began to droop. Then, reluctantly, they crept beneath the sail-cloth covering and lay down to rest.

The planks were hard, no doubt, but our castaways were hardy; besides, a few folds of the superfluous portions of the large sail helped to soften the planks here and there.

"Now, boys," said Slagg, as he settled himself with a long-drawn sigh, "the on'y thing we wants to make us perfectly happy is a submarine telegraph cable 'tween this an' England, to let us say good-night to our friend, ashore, an' hope they won't be long in sending out to search for us."

It is sad to be obliged to record that, Slagg's companions being already asleep, this tremendous and original piece of pleasantry was literally cast upon the waters, where it probably made no impression whatever on the inhabitants of the slumbering sea.



Chapter Sixteen.

In Which Will Be Found More Surprises Than One.

Events of the most singular description are often prefaced by incidents of the most commonplace character. Who is so inexperienced in the vicissitudes of life as not to know this!

Early in the morning that succeeded their second night on the raft, Robin Wright awoke with a very commonplace, indeed a vulgar, snore; we might almost call it a snort. Such as it was, however, it proved to be a most important link in the chain of events which it is our province to narrate.

To explain: It must be understood that John Shanks, or Stumps, among other eccentricities, practised sprawling in his sleep, spreading himself abroad in inconceivable attitudes, shooting out an arm here, or a leg there, to the alarm or indignation of bedfellows, insomuch that, when known, bedfellows refused to remain with him.

Aware of Stumps's propensity, Slagg had so arranged that his friend should lie at the stern of the raft with two strands of the binding-cable between him and Robin, who lay next to him. During the first part of the night, Stumps, either overcome by weariness or subdued by his friends' discourses on the stellar world, behaved pretty well. Only once did he fling out and bestow an unmerited blow on the pork-barrel. But, about daybreak, he began to sprawl, gradually working his way to the extreme edge of the raft, where a piece of wood, nailed there on purpose, prevented him from rolling off altogether. It did not, however, prevent his tossing one of his long legs over the edge, which he accordingly did. The leg and foot were naked. He preferred to sleep so, even when bedless, having been brought up in shoe-and-stockingless society. With his foot dipping lightly in the wave, he prolonged his repose.

They were slipping quietly along at the time under the influence of a steady though gentle breeze, which had sprung up and filled their sail soon after they lay down to rest. An early shark, intent on picking up sea-worms, observed Stumps's foot, and licked his lips, no doubt. He sank immediately for much the same reason that little boys retire to take a race before a leap. Turning on his back, according to custom, he went at the foot like a submarine thunderbolt.

Now, it was at that precise moment that Robin Wright snored, as aforesaid. The snore awoke Stumps, who had another sprawl, and drew up his leg gently -- oh, how gently compared with what he would have done had he known what you know, reader! Nevertheless, the action was in time, else would he have had, for the rest of his life, a better title than heretofore to his nickname. As it was, the nose and lips of the slimy monster struck the youth's foot and slid up the side of his leg.

Hideous was the yell with which Stumps received the salute. Acrobatic was the tumble with which he rolled over his comrades, and dire was the alarm created in all their hearts as they bounced from under the respective corners of their covering, and stood up, aghast!

"You twopenny turnip," said Slagg, "why did you screech like -- "

He stopped. There was no need to finish the question, for the fin of the disappointed shark, describing angry zig-zags in the water close by, furnished a sufficient answer.

"He has only grazed me," said Stumps, feeling his leg anxiously.

"Only grazed you! rather say crazed you," returned Sam, "for a cry like that could only come from a madman. What were you doing? -- washing your feet in the sea?"

"No, not exactly," replied Stumps, somewhat abashed, "but one of my legs got over the end of the raft somehow, and was trailing in the water."

"Hallo! I say, look there, Sam!" said Robin, with sudden animation, pointing to the horizon straight ahead of them; "is that the big raft or a ship?"

"Neither, Robin," replied Sam, after a prolonged and earnest gaze; "it must be an island. What do you think, Slagg?"

The incident of the shark was almost totally forgotten in the excitement caused by this new discovery. For some time Slagg and all the others gazed intently without uttering a word. Then Slagg looked round with a deep sigh.

"Yes, it's a island," he said; "no doubt about that."

"What a blessing!" exclaimed Robin, with heartfelt emotion.

"Well, that depends," said Sam, with a shake of the head. "Islands in the China seas are not always places of refuge -- at least for honest people."

"By no means," added Slagg; "I've heard say that the pirates there are about the wust set o' cut-throats goin' -- though I don't myself believe there's much difference atween one set and another."

The light wind which had carried the raft slowly over the sea, while they were asleep, now freshened into a stiff breeze, and tested the qualities of their craft, severely; but, with a little strengthening -- an extra turn of a rope or an additional nail -- here and there, it held pretty well together. At breakfast, which was served according to regulation, they discussed their situation.

"You see," said Sam, "this may turn out to be a small barren island, in which case we shall have to leave it and trust to falling in with some vessel; or it may be inhabited by savages or pirates, in which case we shall have to leave it from prudential motives, if they will allow us to do so. In any case, we won't begin by being extravagant with the provisions to-day."

As they drew near to the island, the probability of its being inhabited became greater, because, although solitary, and, according to Sam's amateur calculations, far remote from other lands, it presented a bold and fertile aspect. It was not, indeed, large in circumference, but it rose to a considerable height, and was covered with rich vegetation, above which waved numerous groups of the cocoa-nut palm. A band of light yellow sand fringed the shore, on which the waves roiled in a still lighter fringe of foam, while two or three indentations seemed to indicate the existence of creeks or openings into the interior.

With eager gaze the castaways watched this island as they slowly approached it -- the minuter beauties of rock and dell and leafy copse brightening into view as the sun mounted the clear blue sky.

"What I have thought or dreamed of sometimes, when dear mother used to speak of heaven," murmured Robin, as if communing with himself.

"Well, I have not thought much of heaven," said Sam, "but I shouldn't wonder if it's something like the paradise, from which Adam and Eve were driven."

"There's no sign o' natives as yet," said Slagg, who, regardless of these remarks, had been gazing at the island with eyes shaded by his hand.

"Yes there is; yonder is one sitting on the rocks," said Stumps; "don't you see him move?"

"That's not a native," returned Slagg, "it's too long in the back for a human being. It's a big monkey -- a gorilla, maybe. Did you ever hear tell of gorillas being in them regions?"

"I rather think not," said Sam; "and to my mind it looks more like a rock than anything else."

A rock it proved to be, to the discomfiture of Slagg and Stumps; but the rock was not without interest, for it was soon seen that a rope was attached to it, and that the rope, stretching across the entrance to a creek, was lost in the foliage on the side opposite to the rock.

"Why, I do believe," said Sam, suddenly, in an impressive whisper, "that there is a vessel of some sort at the other end of that rope, behind the point, partly hid by the trees. Don't you see the top of her masts?"

After long and earnest gazing, and much whispered conversation -- though there was no occasion for caution at such a distance from the land -- they came to the conclusion that a vessel lay concealed just within the mouth of the creek towards which the wind was driving them, and that, as they apparently had not been discovered by those who owned the vessel, their wisest course would be to land, if possible without attracting attention, somewhat farther along the coast.

"But how is that to be done," asked Robin, "as we have neither oar nor rudder?"

"Nothing easier," returned Slagg, seizing the axe and wrenching up the plank that had prevented Stumps from finding a watery grave, "I've on'y got to cut a handle at one end, an' we've got an oar at once."

In a few minutes the handy youth converted the piece of plank into a rude oar, with which he steered the raft, so that it gradually drew to the southward of the creek where the strange vessel lay, and finally took the land in another inlet not far distant.

It was evident, from the silence around, that no one was stirring in the vessel, and that their approach had not been perceived. Congratulating themselves on this piece of good fortune, they lowered their sail, drew the raft under the bushes, which in some parts of the inlet came close down to the sea, and then hurried stealthily through a palm-grove towards the vessel. They reached the margin of the grove in a few minutes, and there discovered that the stranger was apparently a Chinese craft, but whether a trading-vessel, or smuggler, or pirate, they had no means of knowing.

As they lay flat on their faces in the rank grass, peeping through the luxuriant undergrowth, they could see that two men paced the deck with musket on shoulder as if on guard, but no other human beings were visible.

"Shall we go forward and trust them as honest traders?" asked Sam in a whisper.

"I think not," replied Slagg; "if all's true that one hears, there is not much honesty afloat in them seas. My advice is to stay where we are and see what turns up."

"What think you, Robin?"

Robin was of opinion that they should trust the strangers and go forward. Stumps agreed with him, but Sam thought with Slagg. Their indecision, however, was cut short by a most startling occurrence.

While they were yet whispering together, the sound of voices was heard in the distance. Our castaways at once sank flatter into the grass, and became mute.

In a few minutes the voices drew gradually nearer, until they were quite close to the alarmed watchers. Suddenly, from among the bushes on the other side of an open space just in front of them, there issued a band of men, walking in single file. Their appearance might have aroused grave anxiety in the most unsuspecting breast, for, besides possessing faces in which the effects of dissipation and evil passions were plainly stamped, they were armed -- as the saying is -- to the teeth, with short swords, cavalry pistols, and carbines. They were dressed in varied Eastern costume, and appeared to be of Malay origin, though some bore closer resemblance to the Chinese.

The man who marched in advance -- evidently the leader of the band -- was unusually tall and powerful, with a remarkably stern, but not altogether forbidding, countenance.

"Pirates!" whispered Slagg.

"Looks like them, but may be smugglers," replied Sam in the same cautious tone.

Even Robin's unsuspecting and inexperienced nature would not permit him to believe that they were honest traders. Had any doubts on the subject lingered in their minds, these would have been effectually cleared away by the scenes which immediately followed.

While the pirates were still at some distance from the shore, sudden shouts and yells came from the vessel, which had, up to that time, been lying so peacefully at anchor, and it was at once clear that a furious hand-to-hand fight was taking place upon her deck.

"It must be the poor slaves who have risen," whispered Sam.

The pirates had drawn their swords and pistols at the first sound of the fight, and rushed to the rescue. They well knew that, while they had been on shore, the unfortunate captives chained in the vessel's hold had succeeded in freeing themselves, and were endeavouring to overcome the few men left to guard them.

Slaves captured at various times by the scoundrels who infest those seas, are sometimes made to work at the oars -- which are much used during calm weather -- until they die, or become so worn out as to be useless, when they are mercilessly thrown overboard. That the slaves referred to on this occasion, animated probably by despair, had effected their release, and plucked up heart to assault the armed guard, was a matter of some surprise to the pirates: not so, however, to our adventurers, when they saw, foremost among the mutineers, a man clad in the garb of a European sailor.

"That's the boy as has put 'em up to it," said Jim Slagg, in a suppressed but eager voice, "they'd never have had the pluck to do it of themselves."

"We'd better go an' help 'em," said Stumps, whose usually stupid face was lighted up with excitement.

"Right, lad," exclaimed Slagg, starting up; but Sam laid his hand firmly on his arm.

"Too late," he said; "don't you see that the guard have prevailed. Besides, the pirate crew are in their boats -- almost at the vessel. See, they swarm up the side."

"Poor, poor sailor!" said Robin Wright, in a voice of the deepest pity.

"You may well say that; no doubt he is killed by this time," said Slagg; "but no -- he is fightin' still!"

This was indeed true. Some of the slaves, rendered desperate no doubt, were still maintaining the hopeless fight with handspikes and such arms as they had succeeded in wresting from the guard at the first onset, and the stalwart figure of the European sailor was seen swaying aloft a clubbed musket and felling a pirate at every blow. Animated by his example, the other slaves fought with resolute bravery, but when the rest of the pirate crew joined the guard and surrounded them, they were instantly overpowered. Then those who had not been already slain were led hastily to the side, a sword was drawn across their throats, or thrust through them, and the bodies were tossed into the sea. Among those led thus to the side was the brave sailor. Although his features could not be distinguished at such a distance by those in ambush, it could be clearly seen that he came boldly forward, resolved, no doubt, to meet his fate like a man.

"Oh, God, spare him!" burst in a voice of agony from Robin, who sprang up as if with the intention of rushing to the rescue, regardless of consequences, but a second time Sam Shipton's restraining hand was ready.

"What could we do, with the sea between us and the ship? Even if we were on the deck could we four deliver him from a hundred?"

Robin sank down again with a groan, but his fascinated eyes still gazed at the pirate vessel. To his great surprise, the sailor at that moment uttered a long and ringing cheer! The act seemed to overawe even the bloodstained pirates, for they hesitated an instant. Then one of them pointed his sword at the sailor's back, but at the same moment the leader of the band was seen to strike up the sword and give some hurried directions. A rope was instantly brought, with which the arms and legs of the seaman were secured, and he was carried below.

"Our prayer has been answered!" exclaimed Robin with renewed excitement; "they are going to spare him."

Sam shook his head. "I fear not, Robin; at least, if I may judge from what I have read of these villains, they have only spared him for a time for the purpose of torturing him."

Robin shuddered. "Well, I don't know," he said, "whatever they may do, God has answered our prayer, for they have spared him; and if God could deliver him thus at the last moment, surely He can deliver him altogether. But was it not remarkable that he should give such a cheer when -- as he must have thought -- at the point of death, for it sounded more like a cheer of triumph than defiance?"

"It was strange indeed. The effect of strong excitement, I fancy."

While they were conversing, the pirates were busily engaged in getting up the anchor and hoisting the sails of their craft. At the same time the long oars or sweeps were manned by such of the slaves as remained alive, and the vessel slowly glided out of the creek, and put to sea. Fortunately the fight had engrossed the attention of those on board so much that they had failed to observe the little raft, which, although partially concealed by bushes, might not otherwise have escaped detection.

Our voyagers were still congratulating themselves on their good fortune in this respect, when the pirate-ship was observed to change her course, turn completely round and return towards the land!

"They've seen us!" ejaculated Robin in consternation.

"Our doom is fixed," said Sam in a tone of bitter despair.

Slagg and his friend were so much overwhelmed that they could not speak.

On came the vessel -- under oars -- straight for the creek where the raft lay. There could be no doubt now that they had been seen.

While they gazed in blank dismay, utterly unable to decide on any course of action, an event occurred which totally altered the aspect of affairs. Suddenly, as if by magic, the pirate-ship was converted into a great black-and-white cloud, from out of which there shot an indescribable mass of broken spars and wreckage which fell in all directions in a heavy shower into the sea. Two seconds later and there came a roar as if a crash of the loudest thunder had rent the sky. The powder-magazine had been fired, and the pirate-ship had been blown literally to atoms!

When the last of the terrible shower had fallen, nothing whatever of the vessel was to be seen save the floating morsels of the wreck. It was, we might say, a tremendous instance of almost absolute annihilation.

Recovering from the shock of horror and surprise, Sam Shipton ran swiftly down to the spot where the raft lay, followed by his companions.

"There may be some left alive!" he cried. "Quick -- shove her off. Yonder's a pole, Robin, fetch it."

Another minute and they were afloat. Pushing with the pole, sculling with the rude oar, and paddling with a plank torn off, they made for the scene of the explosion.

"I see something moving," said Stumps, who, having no implement to work with, stood up in front and directed their course.

Soon they were in the midst of the debris. It was an awful sight, for there, mingled with riven spars and planks and cabin furniture, and entangled in ravelled cordage, lay the torn lifeless remains of the pirates. Sharks were already swimming about in anticipation of a feast.

"Did you not see symptoms of life somewhere?" asked Sam, as he stood beside Stumps, and looked earnestly round.

"Yes, I did, but I don't now -- O yes! there it is again. Give way, Slagg, give way. There!"

The raft was soon alongside of the moving object. It was the body of the gallant sailor who had fought so well that day. His limbs were still fast bound, excepting one arm, with which now and then he struck out feebly, as if trying to swim. Lying on his back his mouth and nose were above water.

"Gently, gently, boys," said Robin, as they lifted the head out of the water and slowly drew the shoulders up; "now, a good heave and -- that's it."

The body slid heavily on the raft, and the motion seemed to rouse the seaman's spirit, for he uttered a faint cheer, while they knelt round him, and tried in various ways to restore him to consciousness.

"Hurrah for old England!" he cried presently, in an imbecile manner, making an abortive effort to lift his loose arm; "never say die --  s'long's there's -- a shok in th' lotter."

"Well done, old saltwater!" cried Slagg, unable to restrain a laugh; "you'll live to fight yet, or I'm mistaken."

There was indeed some prospect that the poor fellow would recover, for, after a short time, he was able to gaze at his rescuers with an intensity of surprise that betokened the return not only of consciousness but of reason.

"Well, well," he said, after gazing around for some time in silence as he lay with his head supported on the sail, "I s'pose it's all right, and I'll wake up all square in the mornin', but it's out o' sight the most comical dream I've had since I was a babby. I only hope it'll take a pleasanter turn if it's agoin' to continue."

With this philosophical reflection the sailor shut his eyes, and disposed himself to sleep until the period of real waking should arrive.

Thinking this the best thing he could do in the circumstances, his rescuers turned to examine whether any of the others had survived the explosion, but, finding that all were dead or had sunk, they returned to the land.

Here, after securing the raft, they made a sort of litter, with the sail spread on the oar and a plank, on which they carried the sailor to the sheltered spot whence they had witnessed the fight. As the poor man had by that time fallen into a genuine slumber -- which appeared to be dreamless -- he was left under the care of Stumps and Slagg, while Sam and Robin went off to ascertain whether or not the island was inhabited.

"We will go straight up to the highest point at once, so as to get a bird's-eye view of it," said Sam. "I can't help thinking that it must be inhabited, for these scoundrels would not care to land, I should fancy, unless there was some one to rob."

"It may be so, Sam. But if they had come to rob, don't you think they would not have returned to their ship without captives or booty?"

"There is something in that, Robin. Come; we shall see."



Chapter Seventeen.

Strange Discoveries On Pirate Island.

On reaching the first rising-ground that lay before them, Robin and his friend received a great disappointment, for, instead of a richly wooded country, which the coast scenery where they landed had led them to expect, they found an exceedingly barren region, as far, at least, as the next ridge in advance.

"No use to go further," said Sam, despondingly; "nothing but barren rocks and a few scrubby bushes here. Evidently there are no inhabitants, for it would be almost impossible to live on such a place."

"But it may be better further inland," said Robin. "I can't think that the pirates would come here for nothing. At all events let us go to the next ridge."

Without replying, Sam followed Robin, but the next ridge revealed nothing more hopeful. Indeed the prospect thence was, if possible, more depressing, for it was seen that the island was small, that its sides were so steep all round, as far as the eye could reach, that there was apparently no landing-place except at the spot where they had been driven on shore. The elevated interior seemed as barren as the circumference, and no neighbouring island was to be seen in all the wide field of vision. The only living creatures visible were innumerable sea-birds which circled round the cliffs, and which, on espying the intruders, came clamouring overhead, as if to order them angrily away.

"Having come thus far we may as well go to the top and have a look all round," said Robin, "and see -- here is something like a track worn on the rock." Sam's drooping spirits revived at once. He examined the track carefully and pronounced it a "human" track. "The sea-gulls could not make it, Robin. Goats, sheep, and cows cannot live without grass, therefore it was not made by them. A track is not usually worn on hard rock by the passage of pirates only once or twice over them. There is mystery here, Robin. Come on!"

It will be observed that Robin's spirit was more hopeful than that of his friend, nevertheless Sam being physically more energetic, was, when not depressed, prone to take the lead. He walked smartly forward therefore, followed humbly by his friend, and they soon reached what proved to be the summit of the island.

Here supreme astonishment was the chief ingredient in their feelings, for they stood on the edge of a slope, at the foot of which, as in a basin, lay what seemed to be a small cultivated garden in the midst of a miniature valley covered with trees and shrubs, through which a tiny rivulet ran. This verdant little gem was so hemmed in by hills that it could not be seen from the sea or any low part of the island. But what surprised the discoverers most was the sight of an old woman, bent nearly double, who was busily at work in the garden. Not far from her was an old man, who, from his motions while at work, appeared to be blind. Their costume being nondescript, besides ragged, did not betoken their nationality.

Sam and Robin glanced at each other in silence, then turned to have another gaze at the scene.

"We've found," said Sam, slowly and impressively, "a robber's nest!"

"D'you think so, Sam?"

"Think so! I'm sure of it. Just think. There is nothing on such an island as this to attract any one at all -- much less robbers or pirates --  except the fact that it is unattractive, and, apparently, far removed from the haunts of honest men. Depend upon it, Robin, that the pirates whom we saw have made this their head-quarters and place of deposit for their booty -- their bank as it were, for it's too small for their home; besides, if it were such, we should see a colony of women and children. No -- this is the great Pirate Bank of the Southern Seas, and yonder we behold the secretary and cashier!"

"And what," said Robin with a laugh, "if there should be a few clerks in the bank? We might perhaps find them troublesome fellows to deal with."

"We might, Robin. Would it not be wise to return and let Slagg and Stumps know what we have discovered, and take counsel together before we act."

"Agreed," said Robin. "Isn't it strange though," he added, as they turned to retrace their steps, "that there are no buildings of any kind -- only a little garden."

"It is somewhat puzzling, I confess, but we shall -- "

He stopped abruptly, and stood rooted to the ground, for there, on a rock in front of him, with her light, graceful figure, and flowing golden hair, pictured against the blue sky, stood a little girl, apparently about six or seven years of age -- an angel as it seemed to the amazed youths!

She had caught sight of the strangers at the very moment they had observed her, and stood gazing at them with a half eager, half terrified look in her large lustrous eyes.

With a sudden and irresistible impulse Robin extended his arms towards her. She made a little run towards him, then stopped, and the look of fear again came over her beautiful face. Robin was afraid to advance lest he should frighten her. So, with an earnest look and smile, he said, "Come here, little one."

She answered the invitation by bounding towards our hero and clasping him round the neck, causing him to sit down rather abruptly on a rock which lay conveniently behind.

"Oh! I'm so glad you've come at last!" said the child, in English so good that there could be no question as to her nationality. "I was quite sure mamma would send to fetch me away from this tiresome place, but you've been so long of coming -- so very very long."

The thought of this, and perhaps the joy of being "sent for" at last, caused her to sob and bury her face in Robin's sympathetic bosom.

"Cheer up, little one, and don't cry," said Robin, passing his hand over her sunny hair, "your Father, at all events, has sent for you, if not your mother."

"I have no father," said the child, looking up quickly.

"Yes you have, little one; God is your father."

"Did He send you to fetch me?" she asked in surprise.

"I have not the smallest doubt," answered Robin, "that He sent us to take care of you, and take you to your mother if that be possible. But tell me, little one, what is your name?"

"Letta."

"And your surname?"

"My what!" exclaimed Letta, opening her large eyes to their widest, causing both Sam and Robin to laugh.

"Your other name, dear," said Sam.

"I have no other name. Mamma always called me Letta -- nothing else."

"And what was mamma's name?" asked Robin.

"It was mamma, of course," replied Letta, with a look of wonder that so silly a question should be asked.

Sam and Robin exchanged looks, and the former shook his head. "You'll not get much information out of her, I fear. Ask her about the pirates," he whispered.

"Letta," said Robin, settling the child more comfortably on his knee -- an attention which she received with a sigh of deep contentment, -- "are the people here kind to you?"

"Yes, very kind. Old Meerta is as kind to me almost as mamma used to be, but I don't love her so much -- not nearly so much, -- and blind Bungo is a dear old man."

"That's nice. And the others -- are they kind to you?"

"What others? Oh, I suppose you mean the men who come and stay for a time, and then go off again. O no! They are not kind. They are bad men -- very naughty; they often fight, and I think call each other bad names, but I don't understand their language very well. They never hurt me, but they are very rough, and I don't like them at all. They all went away this morning. I was so glad, for they won't be back again for a good long while, and Meerta and Bungo won't get any more hard knocks, and whippings, till they come back."

"Ha! they won't come back in a hurry -- not these ones at least," said Sam in a voice that frightened Letta, inducing her to cling closer to Robin.

"Don't be afraid, little one," said the latter, "he's only angry with the bad men that went away this morning. Are there any of them still remaining here?"

"What, in the caves?"

"Ay, in the caves -- or anywhere?"

"No they're all away. Nobody left but me and Meerta and blind Bungo."

"Is it a long time since you came here?"

"O yes, very very long!" replied the child, with a sad weary look; "so long that -- that you can't think."

"Come, dear; tell us all about it," said Robin in a coaxing tone, -- "all about mamma and how you came here."

"Very well," said Letta, quite pleased with the request. Clearing her little throat with the emphasis of one who has a long story to tell, she began with the statement that "mamma was a darling."

From this, as a starting-point, she gave an amazing and rambling account of the joys and toys of infancy, which period of life seemed to have been spent in a most beautiful garden full of delicious fruits and sunshine, where the presiding and ever present angel was mamma. Then she told of a dark night, and a sudden awaking in the midst of flames and smoke and piercing cries, when fierce men seized her and carried her away, put her into a ship, where she was dreadfully sick for a long long time, until they landed on a rocky island, and suddenly she found herself "there," -- pointing as she spoke to the little garden below them. While she was yet describing her feelings on arrival, a voice shouting Letta was heard, and she instantly struggled from Robin's knee.

"O let me go!" she cried. "It's Meerta calling me, and I never let her call twice."

"Why? Would she be angry?"

"No, but she would be sorry. Do let me go!"

"But won't you let us go too?" asked Sam.

"O yes, if you want to come. This is the road," she added, as she took Robin by the hand; "and you must be very careful how you go, else you'll fall and hurt yourselves."

Great was the amazement, and not slight the alarm of Meerta, when she beheld her little charge thus piloting two strangers down the hill. She spoke hurriedly to her blind companion, and at first seemed disposed to hide herself, but the man evidently dissuaded her from such a course, and when Letta ran forward, seized her hard old hands and said that God had sent people to take her back to mamma, she dismissed her fears and took to laughing immoderately.

It soon became evident to our adventurers that the woman was in her dotage, while the old man was so frail that only a few of the sands of life remained to run. They both understood a little English, but spoke in such a remarkably broken manner, that there was little prospect of much additional information being obtained from them.

"You hungry -- hungry?" asked the old woman, with a sudden gleam of hospitality. "Come -- come -- me gif you for heat."

She took Robin by the hand and led him towards a cavern, the mouth of which had not been visible higher up the mountain. Sam followed, led by Letta.

The interior of the cavern was lofty and the floor level. Besides this, it was sumptuously furnished in a fashion singularly out of keeping with the spot and its surroundings. Pictures hung on the walls, Persian rugs lay on the floors. Ottomans, covered with silk and velvet, were strewn about here and there, among easy-chairs of various kinds, some formed of wicker-work -- in the fantastic shapes peculiar to the East -- others of wood and cane, having the ungainly and unreasonable shapes esteemed by Western taste. Silver lamps and drinking-cups and plates of the finest porcelain were also scattered about, for there was no order in the cavern, either as to its arrangement or the character of its decoration. In the centre stood several large tables of polished wood, on which were the remains of what must have been a substantial feast -- the dishes being as varied as the furniture -- from the rice and egg messes of Eastern origin, to the preserved sardines of the West.

"Ha! ha!" laughed the weird old creature who ushered the astonished youths into this strange banqueting hall, "the rubberts -- rubbers -- you calls dem?"

"Robbers, she means; that's the naughty men," explained Letta, who seemed to enjoy the old woman's blunders in the English tongue.

"Yis, dats so -- roberts an' pyrits -- ha! ha! dems feed here dis mornin'. You feed dis afternoons. Me keeps house for dem. Dey tinks me alone wid Bungo an' Letta, ho! ho! but me's got cumpiny dis day. Sit down an' grub wat yous can. Doo you good. Doo Letta and Bungo good. Doos all good. Fire away! Ha! ha-a! Keep you's nose out o' dat pie, Bungo, you brute. Vous git sik eff you heat more."

Regardless of this admonition, the poor old man broke off a huge mass of pie-crust, which he began to mouth with his toothless gums, a quiet smile indicating at once his indifference to Meerta and consequences, while he mumbled something about its not being every day he got so good a chance.

"Das true," remarked the old woman, with another hilarious laugh. "Dey go hoff awful quick dis day."

While Sam and Robin sat down to enjoy a good dinner, or rather breakfast, of which they stood much in need, Letta explained in a disjointed rambling fashion, that after a feed of this kind the naughty men usually had a fight, after which they took a long sleep, and then had the dishes cleaned up and the silver things locked away before taking their departure from the cave for "a long, long time," by which, no doubt, she indicated the period spent on a pilfering expedition. But on this particular occasion, she added, while the naughty men were seated at the feast, one of their number from their ship came hastily in and said something, she could not tell what, which caused them at once to leap up and rush out of the cave, and they had not come back since.

"And they're not likely to come back, little one," said Robin through a mouthful of rice.

"Ha! ha-a!" laughed Sam through a mouthful of pie-crust.

"Ho! ho!" cried the old woman, with a look of surprise, "yous bery brav boy, I dessay, but if dem roberts doos kum back, you soon laugh on wrong side ob de mout', for dey screw yous limbses off, an' ho! skrunch yous teeth hout, an' roast you 'live, so you better heat w'at yous can an' go hof -- fast as you couldn't."

"I say, Robin," said Sam, unable to restrain a smile at the expression of Letta's face, as she listened to this catalogue of horrors, "that speech might have taken away our appetites did we not know that the 'roberts' are all dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed the old woman with a start and a gleam of serious intelligence, such as had not before appeared on her wrinkled visage; "are de roberts all dead?"

"All," replied Sam, who thereupon gave the old pair a full account of what had been witnessed on the shore.

Strange to say, the old man and woman were much depressed by the news, although, from what they afterwards related, they had been very cruelly treated by the pirates, by whom they had been enslaved for many years. Nay, old Meerta even dropped a tear or two quietly to their memory, for, as she remarked, by way of explanation or excuse, "dey wasn't all so bad as each oder."

However, she soon recovered her composure, and while Sam Shipton returned to the shore to fetch their comrades to the cave, she told Robin, among other things, that the pirates had brought Letta to the island two years before, along with a large quantity of booty, but that she did not know where she came from, or to whom she belonged.

Sam Shipton resolved to give his comrades the full benefit of the surprise in store, therefore, on returning to them, he merely said that he had left Robin in a rather curious place in the interior, where they had discovered both food and drink in abundance, and that he had come to conduct them to it.

By that time the seaman whom they had rescued had recovered considerably, and was able to walk with assistance, though still rather confused in his mind and disposed to be silent. At first he expressed a desire to be left to sleep where he was, but on being told that the place they were going to was not far-off and that he would be able to rest longer and much more comfortably there than where he was, he braced himself up and accompanied them, leaning on Sam and Jim Slagg as he staggered along.

Need it be said that both Slagg and Stumps shouted with surprise when they came suddenly in sight of the garden; that they lost the power of utterance on beholding Robin holding familiar converse with an old hag, a blind man, and a small angel; and that they all but fell down on entering the pirate's cave?

No, it need not be said; let us pass, therefore, to the next scene in this amazing drama.

Of course Robin had prepared the inhabitants of the garden for the arrival of his friends. He had also learned that the pirates, in the hurry of departure, had not only left everything lying about, but had left the key of their treasure-cave in the lock. Old Meerta offered to show him the contents, but Robin determined to await the arrival of his friends before examining the place.

When Slagg and Stumps had breakfasted, and the sailor had been laid on a comfortable couch, where he immediately fell fast asleep, Robin pulled the key of the treasure-cave out of his pocket and asked his comrades to follow him. Wondering at the request, they did so.

The cave referred to lay at the inner extremity of the banqueting cavern, and was guarded by a massive door of wood. Opening this, Robin allowed the old woman to enter first and lead the way. She did so with one of her wild "ho! ho's!" being obviously much excited at the opportunity of showing to the visitors the contents of a cavern which she had never before been permitted to enter, save in the company of the pirates. Entering the small doorway, through which only a subdued light penetrated, she went to a ledge or natural shelf of rock and took down a silver lamp of beautiful workmanship, which had probably belonged to a church or temple. Lighting it, she ushered them through a natural archway into an inner cavern, round the walls of which were heaped in piles merchandise and wealth of all kinds in great profusion and variety. There were bales of broadcloth and other fabrics from the looms of Tuscany; tweeds from the factories of Scotland; silks, satins and velvets in great rolls, mingled with lace, linen, and more delicate fabrics. Close beside these piles, but not mixed with them, were boxes of cutlery and other hardware, and, further on, chests of drawers containing spices from the East, chests of tea and coffee, barrels of sugar, and groceries of all kinds.

These things were not thrown together in confusion, but arranged in systematic order, as if under the management of an expert store-keeper, and a desk with business-books on it seemed to indicate that a careful record was kept of the whole.

Among the miscellaneous merchandise stood several large and massive chests of ancient material and antique form. Taking a bunch of small keys from a nail on the wall, the old woman proceeded to open these and exhibit their contents with much of the interest and simple delight exhibited by a child in displaying her treasures to new companions.

Handing the silver lamp to Robin, who with his comrades looked on in silent surprise, she opened the first chest. It was loaded to the lid with jewellery of all kinds, which sparkled in the light with dazzling brilliancy, for even to the inexperienced eyes of the observers, many of the gems were obviously of the finest quality, and almost priceless in value. There was no order in the arrangement of these -- bracelets, ear-rings, watches, etcetera, of European manufacture lying side by side with the costly golden wreaths and tiaras of India, and the more massive and gorgeous brooches, nose-rings, neck-rings, and anklets peculiar to semi-barbaric lands.

The next chest was filled with gold, silver, and bronze drinking-cups and goblets, lamps, vases, and urns, that had been gathered from the ships of many countries. Then there were chests which contained little barrels full of gold and silver coin of every realm, from the huge golden doubloon of Spain to the little silver groschen of Germany. Besides all this varied wealth, there were piles of arms of all nations -- richly chased scimitars of Eastern manufacture, the clumsy cutlasses of England, long silver-handled pistols of Oriental form, bluff little "bull-dog" revolvers, cavalry sabres, breech-loading rifles, flint-lock muskets, shields, spears, bows and arrows -- in short, a miscellaneous armoury much too extensive to be described.

It was interesting to observe the monkey-like countenance of old Meerta as she watched the effect produced on her visitors, her little black eyes sparkling in the lamp-light more brightly than the finest gems there; and not less interesting was it to note the half-amused, more than half-amazed, and partially imbecile gaze of the still silent visitors. Little Letta enjoyed their looks quite as much as Meerta.

"Haven't we got lots of pretty things here?" she said, looking up into Robin's face.

"Yes, little one, -- wonderful!"

Robin revived sufficiently to make this reply and to glance at Sam, Slagg, and Stumps, who returned the glance. Then he relapsed.

Snatching the lamp from his hand, old Meerta now led the party to a remote corner of the cave, where a number of large casks were ranged at one end, and covered with a sheet of leather.

"Ha! ha!" laughed their wild guide, in a sort of screech, "here be de grandest jools, de finest dimunds of all, what buys all de rest!"

She lifted a corner of the skin, removed the loose head of a cask, and holding the lamp close over the opening, bade them look in. They did so, and the effect was powerful as well as instantaneous, for there, only a few inches below the flaring light, lay an open barrel of gunpowder!

The senses of Sam Shipton returned like a flash of lightning -- interest, surprise, admiration vanished like smoke, as he uttered a shout, and, with one hand seizing the wrist of the withered arm that held the lamp, with the other he hastily drew the leathern cover over the exposed powder and held it down.

"You old curmudgeon!" he cried; "here, Robin, take the lamp from her, and away with it into the outer cave."

Our hero promptly obeyed, while the other two, under an instinct of self-preservation, had already fled in the same direction, followed by a shrill and half-fiendish laugh from the old woman.

"Well, I never had such a narrow escape," said Sam, as he issued from the cave, still holding Meerta firmly, though not roughly, by the wrist.

"Why, there's enough powder there, I do believe," said Jim Slagg, "to split the whole island in two."

"There, it's all safe now," said Sam, as he locked the heavy door and thrust the key in his pocket; "and I will take care of your treasures for you in future, old lady."

"Wass you frighted?" asked the old woman with a low laugh, in which even Letta joined.

"Frighted, you reckless old thing," replied Sam, seizing a tankard of water and draining it, "of course I was; if a spark had gone down into that cask, you would have been considerably frighted too."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Stumps; "she wouldn't have had time to get a fright."

"O no!" said Meerta; "I's niver frighted. Many time me stan' by dat keg, t'inkin', t'inkin', t'inkin' if me stuff de light in it, and blow de pyrits vid all dere tings to 'warsl smash; but no -- me tinks dat some of dem wasn't all so bad as each oder."

This thought seemed to have the effect of quieting the roused spirit of the poor old woman, for thereafter a softened expression overspread her wrinkled face as she went silently about clearing away the debris of the recent feast.



Chapter Eighteen.

The Pirate's Island -- Continued.

Next morning Sam Shipton awoke from a sound and dreamless slumber. Raising himself on the soft ottoman, or Eastern couch, on which he had spent the night, he looked round in a state of sleepy wonder, unable at first to remember where he was. Gradually he recalled the circumstances and events of the preceding day.

The forms of his companions lay on couches similar to his own in attitudes of repose, and the seaman still slept profoundly in the position in which he had been laid down when brought in.

Through the mouth of the cavern Sam could see the little garden, glowing like an emerald in the beams of the rising sun, and amongst the bushes he observed the old couple stooping quietly over their labour of gathering weeds. The warm air, the bright sunshine, and the soft cries of distant sea-birds, induced Sam to slip into such of his garments as he had put off, and go out quietly without rousing his companions.

In a few minutes he stood on the summit of the islet and saw the wide ocean surrounding him, like a vast sparkling plain, its myriad wavelets reflecting now the dazzling sun, now the azure vault, the commingling yellow and blue of which resulted in a lovely transparent green, save where a few puffs of wind swept over the great expanse and streaked it with lines of darkest blue.

"Truly," murmured Sam, as he gazed in admiration at the glorious expanse of sea and sky, "Robin is right when he says that we are not half sufficiently impressed with the goodness of the Almighty in placing us in the midst of such a splendid world, with capacity to appreciate and enjoy it to the full. I begin to fear that I am a more ungrateful fellow than I've been used to think."

For some time he continued to gaze in silence as if that thought were working.

From his elevated position he could now see that the islet was not quite so barren as at first he had been led to suppose. Several little valleys and cup-like hollows lay nestling among the otherwise barren hills, like lovely gems in a rough setting. Those, he now perceived, must have been invisible from the sea, and the rugged, almost perpendicular, cliffs in their neighbourhood had apparently prevented men from landing and discovering their existence. One of the valleys, in particular, was not only larger than the others, but exceptionally rich in vegetation, besides having a miniature lake, like a diamond, in its bosom.

Descending the hill and returning to the cave, Sam found his comrades still asleep. Letta was assisting old Meerta in the preparation of a substantial breakfast that would not have done discredit to a first-class hotel.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" said Letta, running up, to him and giving him both hands to shake, and a ready little mouth to kiss, "for I didn't like to awaken your friends, and the sailor one looks so still that I fear he may be dying. I saw one of the naughty men die here, and he looked just like that."

Somewhat alarmed by this, Sam went at once to the sailor and looked earnestly at him.

"No fear, Letta," he said, "the poor fellow is not dying; he is only in a very profound sleep, having been much exhausted and nearly killed yesterday. Hallo, Robin! awake at last?"

Robin, who had been roused by the voices, rubbed his eyes, yawned vociferously, and looked vacantly round.

"Well, now, that's most extraordinary; it isn't a dream after all!"

"It's an uncommon pleasant dream, if it is one," remarked Jim Slagg, with a grave stare at Robin, as he sat up on his couch. "I never in all my born days dreamt such a sweet smell of coffee and fried sausages. Why, the old 'ooman's a-bringin' of 'em in, I do declare. Pinch me, Stumps, to see if I'm awake!"

As Stumps was still asleep, Slagg himself resorted to the method referred to, and roused his comrade. In a few minutes they were all seated at breakfast with the exception of the sailor, whom it was thought best to leave to his repose until nature should whisper in his ear.

"Well now," said Slagg, pausing to rest for a few seconds, "if we had a submarine cable 'tween this and England, and we was to give 'em an account of all we've seen an' bin doin', they'd never believe it."

"Cer'nly not. They'd say it wos all a passel o' lies," remarked Stumps; "but I say, Mr Sam -- "

"Come now, Stumps, don't 'Mister' me any more."

"Well, I won't do it any more, though 'tain't easy to change one's 'abits. But how is it, sir, that that there electricity works? That's what I wants to know. Does the words run along the cable, -- or 'ow?"

"Of course they do, Stumpy," interrupted Slagg, "they run along the cable like a lot o' little tightrope dancers, an' when they come to the end o't they jumps off an' ranges 'temselves in a row. Sometimes, in coorse, they spells wrong, like bad schoolboys, and then they've to be walloped an' set right."

"Hold your noise, Slagg, an' let your betters speak," returned Stumps.

"Well, if they don't exactly do that," said Sam Shipton, "there are people who think they can do things even more difficult. I remember once, when I was clerk at a country railroad station and had to work the telegraph, an old woman came into the ticket office in a state of wild despair. She was about the size and shape of Meerta there, but with about an inch and a half more nose, and two or three ounces less brain.

"'What's wrong, madam?' I asked, feeling quite sorry for the poor old thing.

"'Oh! sir,' said she, clasping her hands, 'I've bin an' left my passel, -- a brown paper one it was, -- on the seat at the last station, an' there was a babby's muffler in it -- the sweetest thing as ever was -- an' f-fi' pun t-ten, on'y one sh-shillin' was b-bad -- boo-hoo!'

"She broke down entirely at this point, so, said I, 'Madam, make your mind quite easy, sit down, and I'll telegraph at once,' so I telegraphed, and got a reply back immediately that the parcel had been found all right, and would be sent on as soon as possible. I told this to the old lady, who seemed quite pleased, and went on to the platform to wait.

"I was pretty busy for the next quarter of an hour, for it was market day at the next town, but I noticed through the window that the old lady was standing on the platform, gazing steadily up at the sky.

"'Broxley -- third class,' said a big farmer at that moment, with a head like one of his own turnips.

"I gave him his ticket, and for five minutes more I was kept pretty busy, when up came the train; in got the struggling crowd; whew! went the whistle, and away went the whole affair, leaving no one on the platform but the porter, and the old woman still staring up at the sky.

"'What's the matter, madam?' I asked.

"'Matter!' she exclaimed, 'a pretty telegraph yours is to be sure! wuss than the old carrier by a long way. Here 'ave I bin standin' for full 'alf-an-hour with my neck nigh broke, and there's no sign of it yet.'

"'No sign of what, madam?'

"'Of my brown paper passel, to be sure. Didn't you tell me, young man, that they said they'd send it by telegraph as soon as possible?'

"'No, madam,' I replied, 'I told you they had telegraphed to say they would send it on as soon as possible -- meaning, of course, by rail, for we have not yet discovered the method of sending parcels by telegraph --  though, no doubt, we shall in course of time. If you'll give me your address I'll send the parcel to you.'

"'Thank you, young man. Do,' she said, giving me an old envelope with her name on it. 'Be sure you do. I don't mind the money much, but I couldn't a-bear to lose that muffler. It was such a sweet thing, turned up with yaller, and a present too, which it isn't many of 'em comes my way.'

"So you see, Stumps, some people have queer notions about the powers of the telegraph."

"But did the old lady get the parcel all right?" asked Stumps, who was a sympathetic soul.

"Of course she did, and came over to the station next day to thank me, and offer me the bad shilling by way of reward. Of course I declined it with many expressions of gratitude."

While they were thus adding intellectual sauce to the material feast of breakfast, the rescued sailor awoke from his prolonged sleep, and stretched himself.

He was a huge, thick-set man, with a benign expression of countenance, but that phase of his character was somewhat concealed at the time by two black eyes, a swollen nose, a cut lip, and a torn cheek. Poor fellow, he had suffered severely at the hands of the pirates, and suddenly checked the stretch in which he was indulging with a sharp groan, or growl, as he sat up and pressed his hand to his side.

"Why, what's the matter with me, an' where am I?" he exclaimed, gazing round the cave, while a look of wonder gradually displaced the expression of pain.

"You're all right -- rescued from the pirates at all events," answered Sam Shipton, rising from table and sitting down beside the seaman's couch.

"Thank God for that!" said the man earnestly, though with a troubled look; "but how did I escape -- where are the rascals? -- what -- "

"There, now, don't excite yourself, my man; you're not quite yourself in body. Come, let me feel your pulse. Ah, slightly feverish -- no wonder --  I'll tell you all about it soon, but at present you must be content merely to know that you are safe in the hands of friends, that you are in the pirates' cave, and that the pirates and their vessel are now at the bottom of the sea."

"That's hardly c'rect, Mr Shipton," murmured Slagg; "I would have said they was blow'd to hatoms."

The seaman turned and looked at the speaker with what would have been a twinkle if his swelled visage would have permitted, but the effort produced another spasm of pain.

"I must examine you, friend," said Sam; "you have been severely handled. Help me to strip him, Robin."

The poor man at once submitted.

"You're a doctor, sir, I suppose?" he asked.

"No," said Sam, "only an amateur; nevertheless I know what I'm about. You see, I think that every man in the world, whatever his station or profession, should be at least slightly acquainted with every subject under the sun, in connection with which he may be called on to act. In other words, he should know at least a little about surgery, and physic, and law, and carpentering, blacksmithing, building, cooking, riding, swimming, and -- hallo! why, two of your ribs are broken, my man!"

"Sorry to hear it, sir, but not surprised, for I feels as if two or three o' my spines was broken also, and five or six o' my lungs bu'sted. You won't be able to mend 'em, I fear."

"Oh, yes, I shall," said Sam cheerily.

"Ah! that's well. I'd thowt that p'r'aps you wouldn't have the tools 'andy in these parts for splicin' of 'em."

"Fortunately no tools are required," returned Sam. "I'll soon put you right, but you'll have to lie still for some time. Here, Robin, go into the store-cave and fetch me a few yards of that white cotton, you remember, near the door. And, I say, mind you keep well clear of the powder."

When the cotton was brought, Sam tore it up into long strips, which he wound somewhat tightly round the sailor's huge chest.

"You see," he observed, as he applied the bandages, "broken ribs are not necessarily displaced, but the action of breathing separates the ends of them continually, so that they can't get a chance of re-uniting. All we have to do, therefore, is to prevent your taking a full breath, and this is accomplished by tying you up tight -- so. Now, you can't breathe fully even if you would, and I'd recommend you not to try. By the way -- what's your name?"

"Johnson, sir, -- John Johnson."

"Well, Johnson, I'll give you something to eat and drink now, after which you'll have another sleep. To-morrow we'll have a chat on things in general."

"I say," asked Robin that night, as he and Sam stood star-gazing together beside a small fire which had been kindled outside the cavern-mouth for cooking purposes, "is it true that you have studied all the subjects you mentioned to Johnson this morning?"

"Quite true. I have not indeed studied them long or profoundly, but I have acquired sufficient knowledge of each to enable me to take intelligent action, as I did this morning, instead of standing helplessly by, or, what might be worse, making a blind attempt to do something on the chance that it might be the right thing, as once happened to myself when a bungling ignoramus gave me a glass of brandy to cure what he called mulligrumps, but what in truth turned out to be inflammation."

"But what think you of the saying that 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing,' Sam."

"I think that, like most of the world's maxims, it is only partially, or relatively, true. If Little Knowledge claims the position and attempts to act the part of Great Knowledge, it becomes dangerous indeed; but if Little Knowledge walks modestly, and only takes action when none but Ignorance stands by, it is, in my opinion, neither dangerous nor liable to be destructive."

While they were speaking, little Letta came out of the cavern and ran towards them.

"It is like a dream of the Arabian Nights to meet such a little angel here," murmured Robin; "what a dreadful blow the loss of her must have been to her poor mother!"

"O! come to Johnson, please," she said, taking Sam by the hand with a very trustful look and manner.

"Why; he's not worse, is he?"

"O no! he has just awakened, and says he is very much better, and so peckish. What does he mean by that?"

"Peckish, my dear, is hungry," explained Robin, as they went into the cave together.

They found that Johnson was not only peckish but curious, and thirsting for information as well as meat and drink. As his pulse was pronounced by Dr Shipton to be all right, he was gratified with a hearty supper, a long pull at the tankard of sparkling water, and a good deal of information and small-talk about the pirates, the wreck of the Triton, and the science of electricity.

"But you have not told us yet," said Sam, "how it was that you came to fail into the hands of the pirates."

"I can soon tell 'ee that," said the seaman, turning slowly on his couch.

"Lie still, now, you must not move," said Sam, remonstratively.

"But that not movin', doctor, is wuss than downright pain, by a long way. Hows'ever, I s'pose I must obey orders -- anyhow you've got the whip hand o' me just now. Well, as I was sayin', the yarn ain't a long 'un. I sailed from the port o' Lun'on in a tea-clipper, of which I was the cook; got out to Hong-Kong all right, shipped a cargo, and off again for old England. We hadn't got far when a most horrible gale blew us far out of our course. When it fell calm, soon arter, we was boarded by a pirate. Our captain fought like a hero, but it warn't of no use. They was too many for us; most of my shipmates was killed, and I was knocked flat on the deck from behind with a hand-spike. On recoverin', I found myself in the ship's hold, bound hand and futt, among a lot of unfortunits like myself, most of 'em bein' Chinese and Malays. The reptiles untied my hands and set me to an oar. They thrashed us all unmercifully to make us work hard, and killed the weak ones to be rid of 'em. At last we came to an anchor, as I knew by the rattlin' o' the cables, though, bein' below, I couldn't see where we was. Then I heard the boats got out, an' all the crew went ashore, as I guessed, except the guard left to watch us.

"That night I dreamed a deal about bein' free, an' about former voyages -- specially one when I was wrecked in the Atlantic, an' our good ship, the Seahorse, went down in latitude -- "

"The Seahorse!" echoed Robin, with an earnest look at the sailor; "was she an emigrant ship?"

"Ay, that's just what she was."

"Was she lost in the year 1850?" continued Robin, with increasing excitement.

"Jus' so, my lad."

"And you were cook?"

"You've hit the nail fair on the head," replied the sailor, with a look of surprise.

"Well, now, that is most remarkable," said Robin, "for I was born on board of that very ship."

"You don't mean it," said Johnson, looking eagerly at our hero. "Was you really the babby as was born to that poor miserable sea-sick gentleman, Mr Wright -- you'll excuse my sayin' so -- in the middle of a thunder-clap an' a flash o' lightnin' as would have split our main-mast an' sent us to the bottom, along wi' the ship, if it hadn't bin for the noo lightnin' conductor that Mr Harris, the inventor, indooced our skipper to put up!"

"Yes, I am that very baby," said Robin, "and although, of course, I remember nothing about the thunder and lightning, or anything else. My father and mother have often told me all about it, and the wonderful deliverance which God mercifully sent when all hope had been given up. And many a time did they speak of you, Johnson, as a right good fellow and a splendid cook."

"Much obleedged to 'em," said Johnson, "an' are they both alive?"

"They were both alive and well when I left England."

"Come now, this is pleasant, to meet an old shipmate in such pecooliar circumstances," said the sailor, extending his hand, which Robin shook warmly; "quite as good as a play, ain't it?"

"Ay," observed Jim Slagg, who with the others had witnessed this meeting with deep interest, "an' the babby has kep' the lighten' goin' ever since, though he's dropped the thunder, for he's an electrician no less -- a manufacturer of lightnin' an' a director of it too."

The sailor wass good deal puzzled by this remark, but when its purport was explained to him, he gave vent to a vigorous chuckle, notwithstanding Sam's stern order to "lie still."

"Didn't I say so?" he exclaimed. "Didn't I say distinctly, that night, to the stooard -- Thomson was his name -- 'Stooard,' said I, 'that there babby what has just bin born will make his mark some'ow an' somew'eres.'"

"Well, but I have not made my mark yet," said Robin, laughing, "so you're not a true prophet, at least time has not yet proved your title."

"Not yet proved it!" cried Johnson with vehemence, "why, how much proof do you want? Here you are, not much more than a babby yet -- any'ow hardly a man -- and, besides havin' bin born in thunder, lightnin', wind, an' rain, you've laid the Atlantic Cable, you've took up lightnin' as a profession -- or a plaything, -- you've helped to save the life of John Johnson, an' you've got comfortably located in a pirate's island! If you on'y go on as you've begun, you'll make your mark so deep that it'll never be rubbed out to the end of time. A prophet, indeed! Why, I'm shuperior to Mahomet, an' beat Nebuchadnezzar all to sticks."

"But you haven't finished your story, Johnson," said Jim Slagg.

"That's true -- where was I? Ah, dreamin' in the hold of the pirate-ship. Well, I woke up with a start all of a suddent, bent on doin' suthin', I scarce knew what, but I wriggled away at the rope that bound me till I got my hands free; then I freed my legs; then I loosed some o' the boldest fellows among the slaves, and got handspikes and bits o' wood to arm 'em with. They was clever enough to understand signs, an' I couldn't speak to 'em, not knowin' their lingo, but I signed to 'em to keep quiet as mice. Then I crep' to the powder-magazine, which the reckless reptiles fastened very carelessly, and got a bit paper and made a slow match by rubbin' some wet powder on it, and laid it all handy, for I was determined to escape and put an end to their doin's all at once. My plan was to attack and overpower the guard, free and arm all the slaves, blow up the ship, escape on shore, an' have a pitched battle with the pirate crew. Unfortunately there was a white-livered traitor among us -- a sort o' half-an'-half slave -- very likely he was a spy. Anyhow, when he saw what I was about, he slipped over the side and swam quietly ashore. Why he didn't alarm the guards I don't know -- p'r'aps he thought we might be too many for 'em, and that if we conquered he stood but a small chance. Anyhow he escaped the sharks, and warned the crew in good time, for we was in the very middle of the scrimmage when they suddintly turned up, as you saw, an' got the better of us. Hows'ever I managed to bolt below and fire the slow match, before they saw what I was after. Then I turned and fought my way on deck again, so that they didn't find out. And when they was about to throw me overboard, the thought of the surprise in store for 'em indooced me to give vent to a hearty cheer. It warn't a right state o' mind, I confess, and I was properly punished, for, instead o' killin' me off quick an' comfortable, they tied me hand and futt, took me below, an' laid me not two yards from the slowly burnin' match. I felt raither unhappy, I assure you; an' the reptiles never noticed the match because o' the smoke o' the scrimmage. I do believe it was being so near it as saved me, for when the crash came, I was lifted bodily wi' the planks on which I lay, and, comin' down from the sky, as it appeared to me, I went clean into the sea without damage, except the breakin' o' one o' the ropes, which, fortunately, set my right arm free."

"Come now, Johnson, you must go to sleep after that," said Sam. "You're exciting yourself too much; remember that I am your doctor, and obedience is the first law of nature -- when one is out of health."

"Very good, sir," returned the seaman; "but before I turn over Mr Wright must read me a few verses out o' that bible his mother gave him."

"Why, how do you know that my mother gave me a bible?" asked Robin in great surprise.

"Didn't I know your mother?" replied the sailor with a flush of enthusiasm; "an' don't I know that she would sooner have let you go to sea without her blessing than without the Word of God? She was the first human bein' as ever spoke to me about my miserable soul, and the love of God in sendin' His Son to save it. Many a one has asked me about my health, and warned me to fly from drink, and offered to help me on in life, but she was the first that ever asked after my soul, or tried to impress on me that Eternity and its affairs were of more importance than Time. I didn't say much at the time, but the seed that your mother planted nigh twenty years ago has bin watered, thank God an' kep' alive ever since."

There was a tone of seriousness and gratitude in this off-hand seaman's manner, while speaking of his mother, which touched Robin deeply. Without a moment's hesitation he pulled out his bible and read a chapter in the Gospel of John.

"Now you'll pray," said the sailor, to Robin's surprise and embarrassment, for he had never prayed in public before, though accustomed from a child to make known his wants to God night and morning.

But our hero was morally as well as physically courageous -- as every hero should be! He knelt at once by the sailor's couch, while the others followed his example, and, in a few simple sentences, asked for pardon, blessing, help, and guidance in the name of Jesus Christ.

Thus peculiarly was bible-reading and family worship established on the pirates' island in the year eighteen hundred and sixty-eight.



Chapter Nineteen.

An Exploration And An Accident.

For the first few days of their stay on what they styled Pirate Island, our castaways were too much taken up with the wondrous and varied contents of the robbers' cave, and the information Meerta and Letta had to give, to pay much regard to the island itself, or the prospect they had of quitting it. But when their interest and curiosity began to abate, and the excitement to decrease, they naturally bethought them of the nature and resources of their now home.

Of course they did not for a moment regard it in the light of home. It was merely a resting-place, -- a refuge, where, after their escape from the sea, they should spend a few weeks, perhaps months, until a passing vessel should take them off. They did not know, at that time, that the islet was far removed from the usual track of ships, and that, like the Pitcairn Islanders, they might be doomed to spend many years, perchance a lifetime, on it. Indeed, a considerable time elapsed before they would admit to themselves that there was a possibility of such a fate, although they knew, both from Meerta and Letta, that no ship of any kind, save that of the pirates, had been seen for the last eighteen months, and the few sails that did chance to appear, were merely seen for a few hours like sea-gulls on the horizon, from which they arose and into which they vanished.

Having then, as we have said, bethought them of examining the resources and nature of the island, they one morning organised an expedition. By that time the sailor, although by no means fit for it, insisted that he was sufficiently restored to accompany them. Letta, who was active and strong like a small gazelle, besides being acquainted with the whole region, agreed to act as guide. Stumps, having sprained his ankle slightly, remained at the cave, for the purpose, as he said, of helping Meerta with the garden, but Jim Slagg gave him credit for laziness.

"You see," said Sam Shipton, as Letta led them down the rugged mountain-side, "we may as well make ourselves comfortable while we remain here, and I'm inclined to think that a hut, however rough, down in one of these charming valleys, will be more agreeable than the gloomy cavern on the mountain-top."

"Not so sure o' that, doctor," said Johnson; "the cave is at all events dry, and a good stronghold in case of a visit from pirates."

"But pirates what have bin blow'd to atoms," said Slagg, "ain't likely to turn up again, are they?"

"That's so, lad; but some of their friends might pay us a visit, you know."

"I think not," rejoined Sam; "there is honour among thieves here, no doubt, as elsewhere. I daresay it is well-known among the fraternity that the island belongs to a certain set, and the rest will therefore let it alone. What think you, Robin?"

"I'm inclined to agree with you, Sam, but perhaps Letta is the best authority on that point. Did you ever see any other set of pirates land here, little one, except your -- your own set?"

"Only once," answered the child, "another set came, but they only stayed one day. They looked at everything, looked at me an' Meerta an' laughed very much. An' they ate and drank a good deal, and fought a little; but they took nothing away, and never came back."

"I thought so," rejoined Sam; "now, all we've got to do is to hoist a flag on the highest peak of the mountain, and when a vessel comes to take us off, load her with as much of the booty as she can carry -- and then, hurrah for old England!"

"Hooray!" echoed Jim Slagg, "them's exactly my sentiments."

"But the booty is not ours to take," objected Robin.

"Whose is it, then?" asked Sam; "the rightful owners we don't know, and the wrongful owners are defunct."

"I tell 'ee what it is, mates," said Johnson, "the whole o' the booty is mine, 'cause why? it was me as blowed up the owners, so I'm entitled to it by conquest, an' you needn't go to fightin' over it. If you behave yourselves, I'll divide it equally among us, share an' share alike."

"It seems to me, Johnson," said Robin, "that in strict justice the booty belongs to Letta, Meerta, and blind Bungo, as the natural heirs o' the pirates."

"But they're not the heirs, they are part of the booty," said the seaman, "and, as sitch, falls to be divided among us."

"If that's so," said Slagg, "then I claim Letta for my share, and you, Johnson, can have your pick of Meerta and blind Bungo."

"Nay, Letta is mine, because I was the first to discover her," said Robin. "Whom will you go with, Letta?"

"With you, of course," replied the child quite earnestly. "Haven't you promised to take me back to mamma?"

"Indeed I have, little one, and if I ever get the chance, assuredly I will," said Robin, with equal earnestness.

"I say, doctor," said Johnson to Sam, sitting down on a mossy bank, "I'll stop here and wait for you. That rib ain't all square yet."

"Wilful man," said Sam, "didn't I advise you not to come? There, lie down and take it easy. We'll bring you some fruit on our return."

By this time the party had reached the valley in which the lakelet lay, and beautiful indeed was the scene which presented itself as they passed under the grateful shade of the palm-trees. Everywhere, rich tropical vegetation met their gaze, through the openings in which the sunshine poured like streams of fire. On the little lake numerous flocks of ducks and other fowl were seen swimming in sportive mood, while an occasional splash told of fish of some sort below the surface.

Leaving the sailor in a position whence he could observe them for a long distance, the rest of the party pushed on. During their rambles they found the valley to be much richer in vegetation, and more beautiful, than the distant view from the mountain-top had led them to expect. Small though the valley was, it contained, among other trees, the cocoa-nut palm, the bread-fruit, banana, and sandal-wood. There were also pine-apples, wild rice, and custard-apples, some of which latter delicious fruit, being ripe, was gathered and carried back to Johnson, whom they found sound asleep and much refreshed on their return.

The expedition proved that, barren though the island appeared from the sea, it contained quite enough of the good things of this life to render it a desirable abode for man.

On the coast, too, where the raft had been cast ashore, were discovered a variety of shell-fish, some of which, especially the oysters, were found to be excellent food. And some of the sea-fowl turned out to be very good eating, though a little fishy, while their eggs were as good as those of the domestic fowl.

"It seems to me," said Robin to Letta one day when they were out on a ramble together, "that this is quite a little paradise."

"I don't know what paradise is like," said the child.

"Well, no more do I," returned Robin, with a laugh, "but of course everybody understands that it is the place where everything is perfect, and where happiness is complete."

"It cannot be like paradise without mamma," said Letta, shaking her pretty head sadly. "I would not go to heaven unless mamma was there."

Robin was silent for some time, as he thought of his own mother and the talks he used to have with her on this same subject.

"Letta," he said at length, earnestly, "Jesus will be in heaven. It was His Spirit who taught you to love mamma -- as you do, so you are sure to meet her there with Him."

"Nobody taught me to love mamma," returned the child quietly; "I couldn't help it."

"True, little one, but it was God who made you to -- 'couldn't help it.'"

Letta was puzzled by this reply. She raised her bright eyes inquiringly into Robin's honest face, and said, "But you've promised to take me to her, you know."

"Yes, dear little one, but you must not misunderstand me," replied the youth somewhat sadly. "I promise that, God helping me, I will do the best I can to find out where your mother is; but you must remember that I have very little to go on. I don't even know your mother's name, or the place where you were taken from. By the way, an idea has just occurred to me. Have you any clothes at the cave?"

"Of course I have," answered Letta, with a merry laugh.

"Yes; but I mean the clothes that you had on when you first came here."

"I don't know; Meerta knows. Why?"

"Because your name may be marked on them. Come, let us go back at once and see. Besides, we are wasting time, for you know I was sent out to shoot some ducks for dinner."

Rising as he spoke, Robin shouldered the shotgun which had been supplied from the robbers' armoury, and, descending with his little companion towards the lake, soon began to stalk the birds as carefully as if he had been trained to the work by a Red Indian. Stooping low, he glided swiftly through the bushes, until he came within a hundred yards of the margin of the lakelet, where a group of some thirty or forty fat ducks were feeding. Letta had fallen behind, and sat down to watch.

The distance being too great for a shot, and the bushes beyond the spot which he had reached being too thin to conceal him, Robin lay flat down, and began to advance through the long grass after the fashion of a snake, pushing his gun before him. It was a slow and tedious process, but Robin's spirit was patient and persevering. He screwed himself, as it were, to within sixty yards of the flock, and then fired both barrels almost simultaneously. Seven dead birds remained behind when the affrighted flock took wing.

"It is not very scientific shooting," said Robin, apologetically, to his fair companion, as she assisted him to tie their legs together; "but our object just now is food, not sport."

On the way back to the cavern they had to pass over a narrow ledge, on one side of which a precipice descended towards the valley, while the other side rose upwards like a wall. It was not necessarily a dangerous place. They had passed it often before in safety, none of the party being troubled with giddiness; but at this time Robin had unfortunately hung his bundle of ducks on the side which had to brush past the rocky wall. As he passed, the bunch struck a projection and threw him off his balance. In the effort to recover himself he dislodged a piece of rock under his left foot, and, without even a cry, went headlong over the precipice!

Poor Letta stood rooted to the spot, too horrified to scream. She saw her friend, on whom all her hopes were built, go crashing through the foliage immediately below the precipice edge, and disappear. It was the first terrible shock she had ever received. With a convulsive shudder she ran by a dangerously steep route towards the foot of the precipice.

But Robin had not yet met his doom, although he had descended full sixty feet. His fall was broken by several leafy trees, through which he went like an avalanche; and a thick solid bush receiving him at the foot, checked his descent entirely, and slid him quietly off its boughs on to the grass, where he lay, stunned, indeed, but otherwise uninjured.

Poor Letta of course was horrified, on reaching the spot, to find that Robin could not speak, and was to all appearance dead. In an agony of terror she shrieked, and shook him and called him by name -- to awaken him, as she afterwards said; but Robin's sleep was too deep at that moment to be dispelled by such measures. Letta therefore sprang up and ran as fast as she could to the cavern to tell the terrible news and fetch assistance.

Robin, however, was not left entirely alone in his extremity. It so chanced that a remarkably small monkey was seated among the boughs of a neighbouring tree, eating a morsel of fruit, when Letta's first scream sounded through the grove. Cocking up one ear, it arrested its little hand on the way to its lesser mouth, and listened. Its little black face was corrugated with the wrinkles of care -- it might be of fun, we cannot tell. The only large features of the creature were its eyes, and these seemed to blaze, while the brows rose high, as if in surprise.

On hearing the second scream the small monkey laid hold of a bough with its tail, swung itself off, and caught another with its feet, sprang twenty feet, more or less, to the ground, which it reached on its hands, tumbled a somersault inadvertently, and went skipping over the ground at a great rate in the direction of the cries.

When it reached the spot, however, Letta had fled, but Robin still lay motionless on his back. It was evident that the small monkey looked on the prostrate youth with alarm and suspicion, yet with an intense curiosity that no sense of danger could restrain. It walked slowly and inquiringly round him several times, each time drawing closer, while its crouched back and trailing tail betokened abject humility. Then it ventured to put out a small black hand and touch him, drawing it back again as if it had got an electric shock. Then it ventured to touch him again, with less alarm. After that it went close up, and gazed in his face.

Familiarity, says the proverb, breeds contempt. The truth of proverbs can be verified by monkeys as well as men. Seeing that nothing came of its advances, that small monkey finally leaped on Robin's chest, sat down thereon, and stared into his open mouth. Still the youth moved not, whereupon the monkey advanced a little and laid its paw upon his nose! Either the touch was more effective than Letta's shaking, or time was bringing Robin round, for he felt his nose tickled, and gave way to a tremendous sneeze. It blew the monkey clean off its legs, and sent it shrieking into a neighbouring tree. As Robin still lay quiet, the monkey soon recovered, and returned to its former position, where, regardless of consequences, it again laid hold of the nose.

This time consciousness returned. Robin opened his eyes with a stare of dreamy astonishment. The monkey replied with a stare of indignant surprise. Robin's eyebrows rose still higher. So did those of the monkey as it leaped back a foot, and formed its mouth into a little O of remonstrance. Robin's mouth expanded; he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and the monkey was again on the eve of flight, when voices were heard approaching, and, next instant, Letta came running forward, followed at some distance by Sam and the others.

"Oh! my dear, sweet, exquisite darling!" exclaimed Letta.

It did much for the poor youth's recovery, the hearing himself addressed in such endearing terms, but he experienced a relapse when the monkey, responding to the endearments, ran with obvious joy into the child's bosom, and submitted to a warm embrace.

"Oh, you darling!" repeated Letta; "where have you been? why did you go away? I thought you were dead. Naughty thing!"

Recollecting Robin with a shock of self-reproach, she dropped the monkey and ran to him.

"It is an old friend, I see," he said with a languid smile, as she came up.

"Yes, yes; an old pet. I had lost him for a long time. But you're not killed? Oh! I'm so glad."

"Killed!" repeated Sam, who was down on his knees carefully examining the patient; "I should think not. He's not even bruised -- only stunned a little. Where did you fall from, Robin -- the tree top?"

"No; from the edge of the precipice."

"What! from the ledge sixty or seventy feet up there? Impossible! You would certainly have been killed if you had fallen from that."

"So I certainly should," returned Robin, "if God had not in his mercy grown trees and shrubs there, expressly, among other purposes, to save me."

In this reply Robin's mind was running on previous conversations which he had had with his friend on predestination.

The idea of shrubs and trees having been expressly grown on an island of the Southern Seas to save an English boy, seemed doubtful to Sam. He did not, however, express his doubts at the time, but reserved the subject for a future "theological discussion."

Meanwhile, Slagg, Stumps, and Johnson, having spread some palm branches on a couple of stout poles, laid our hero thereon, and bore him in safety to the pirates' cave, where, for several days, he lay on one of the luxurious couches, tenderly nursed by Letta and the old woman, who, although she still pathetically maintained that the "roberts an pyrits wasn't all so bad as each oder," was quite willing to admit that her present visitors were preferable, and that, upon the whole, she was rather fond of them.



Chapter Twenty.

Various Subjects Treated Of, And A Great Fight Detailed.

It was the habit of Robin and his friends at this time, the weather being extremely fine and cool, to sit at the mouth of their cavern of an evening, chatting about the events of the day, or the prospects of the future, or the experiences of the past, while old Meerta busied herself preparing supper over a fire kindled on the ground.

No subject was avoided on these occasions, because the friends were harmoniously minded, in addition to which the sweet influences of mingled star-light and fire-light, soft air, and lovely prospect of land and sea -- to say nothing of the prospect of supper -- all tended to induce a peaceful and forbearing spirit.

"Well, now," said Robin, continuing a subject which often engaged their intellectual powers, "it seems to me simple enough."

"Simple!" exclaimed Johnson, with a half-sarcastic laugh, "w'y, now, you an' the doctor 'ave tried to worrit that electricity into my brain for many months, off an' on, and I do believe as I'm more muddled about it to-night than I was at the beginnin'."

"P'r'aps it's because you hain't got no brains to work upon," suggested Slagg.

"P'r'aps it is," humbly admitted the seaman. "But look here, now, doctor," he added, turning to Sam with his brow knotted up into an agony of mental endeavour, and the forefinger of one hand thrust into the palm of the other, -- "look here. You tells me that electricity ain't a substance at all."

"Yes, that's so," assented Sam with a nod.

"Wery good. Now, then, if it ain't a substance at all, it's nothin'. An' if it's nothin', how can you go an' talk of it as somethin' an' give it a name, an' tell me it works the telegraph, an' does all manner of wonderful things?"

"But it does not follow that a thing must be nothing because it isn't a substance. Don't you see, man, that an idea is something, yet it is not a substance. Thought, which is so potent a factor in this world, is not a substance, yet it cannot be called nothing. It is a condition -- it is the result of brain-atoms in action. Electricity is sometimes described as an 'invisible imponderable fluid,' but that is not quite correct, because a fluid is a substance. It is a better definition to say that electricity is a manifestation of energy -- a result of substance in action."

"There, I'm muddled again!" said Johnson, with a look of hopeless incapacity.

"Small blame to you, Johnson," murmured Slagg who had done his best to understand, while Stumps sat gazing at the speakers with an expression of blank complacency.

"Look here, Johnson," said Sam, "you've often seen men shaking a carpet, haven't you?"

"In coorse I have."

"Well, have you not observed the waves of the carpet that roll along it when shaken!"

"Yes, I have."

"What are these waves?"

"Well, sir, I should say they was the carpet," replied Johnson.

"No, the waves are not the carpet. When the waves reach the end of the carpet they disappear. If the waves were the carpet, the carpet would disappear. The same waves in a whip, soft and undulating though they be, result in a loud crack, as you know."

"Muddled again," said Johnson.

"Ditto," said Slagg.

"Why, I'm not muddled a bit!" suddenly exclaimed Stumps, with a half-contemptuous laugh.

"Of coorse you're not," retorted Slagg. "Brainless things never git into that state. You never heard of a turnip bein' muddled, did you?"

Stumps became vacant, and Sam went on.

"Well, you see, the waves are not substance. They are a condition -- a result of atoms in motion. Now, when the atoms of a substance are disturbed by friction, or by chemical action, they get into a state of violent commotion, and try wildly to fly from, or to, each other. This effort to fly about is energy. When the atoms get into a very intense state of commotion they have a tendency to induce explosion, unless a way of escape is found -- escape for the energy, not for the atoms. Now, when you cause chemical disturbance in an electric battery, the energy thus evolved is called electricity, and we provide a conductor of escape for it in the shape of a copper or other metal wire, which we may carry to any distance we please, and the energy runs along it, as the wave runs along the carpet, as long as you keep up the commotion in the battery among the excited atoms of copper and zinc."

"Mud -- no, not quite. I have got a glimmer o' su'thin'," said Johnson.

"Ditto," said Slagg.

"Supper," said old Meerta.

"Ha! that's the battery for me," cried Stumps, jumping up.

"Not a bad one either," said Robin, as they entered the cave; "alternate plates of beef and greens, steeped in some such acid as lemonade, cause a wonderful commotion in the atoms of the human body."

"True, Robin, and the energy thereby evolved," said Sam, "sometimes bursts forth in brilliant sparks of wit -- to say nothing of flashes of absurdity."

"An' thunderin' stoopidity," added Slagg.

Further converse on the subject was checked at that time by what Sam termed the charging of the human batteries. The evening meal went on in silence and very pleasantly for some time, but before its close it was interrupted in an alarming manner by the sudden entrance of Letta with wild excitement in her eyes.

"Oh!" she cried, pointing back to the entrance of the cave, "a ship! --  pirate-ship coming!"

A bombshell could scarcely have produced greater effect. Each individual leaped up and darted out, flushing deep red or turning pale, according to temperament. They were not long in verifying the statement. A ledge of rocks concealed the entrance to the cavern from the sea. Over its edge could be seen the harbour in which they had found the vessel whose total destruction has been described; and there, sure enough, they beheld a similar vessel, though considerably smaller, in the act of furling her sails and dropping anchor. There could be no doubt as to her character, for although too distant to admit of her crew being distinguished by star-light, her rig and general appearance betrayed her.

"Not a moment to be lost, Robin," said Sam Shipton hurriedly, as he led the way back to the tavern, where old Meerta and blind Bungo, aided by Letta, had already cleared away all evidence of the late feast, leaving only three tin cups and three pewter plates on the table, with viands appropriate thereto.

"Ha! you're a knowing old lady," exclaimed Sam, "you understand how to help us, I see."

"Me tink so!" replied Meerta, with an intelligent nod. "On'y us t'ree here. All de pyrits gone away. Dem sinners on'y come here for a feed --  p'r'aps for leetil poodre. Soon go away."

"Just so," said Sam, "meanwhile we will hide, and return after they are gone, or, better still, if you, Letta, and Bungo will come and hide with us, I'll engage to lay a train of powder from the barrels inside to somewhere outside, and blow the reptiles and the whole mountain into the sea! There's powder enough to do it."

"You tink me one divl?" demanded the old woman indignantly. "No, some o' dem pyrits not so bad as each oder. You let 'em alone; me let you alone."

This gentle intimation that Meerta had their lives in her hand, induced Sam to ask modestly what she would have him do.

"Go," she replied promptly, "take rifles, swords, an' poodre. Hide till pyrits go 'way. If de finds you -- fight. Better fight dan be skin alive!"

"Unquestionably," said Sam, with a mingled laugh and shudder, in which his companions joined -- as regards the shudder at least, if not the laugh.

Acting promptly on the suggestion, Sam armed himself and his comrades each with a good breech-loading rifle, as much ammunition as he could conveniently carry, and an English sword. Then, descending the mountain on the side opposite to the harbour they disappeared in the dark and tangled underwood of the palm-grove. Letta went a short distance with them.

"They won't kill Meerta or blind Bungo," she said, on the way down. "They're too useful, though they often treat them badly. Meerta sent me away to hide here the last time the strange bad men came. She thinks I go hide to-night, but I won't; so, good-night."

"But surely you don't mean to put yourself in the power of the pirates?" said Robin.

"No, never fear," returned the child with a laugh. "I know how to see them without they see me."

Before further remonstrance could be made, the active child had bounded up the pathway and disappeared.

Not long after Sam and his comrades had taken their departure, the pirates came up to the cavern in a body -- about forty of them -- well armed and ready to fight if need be. They were as rascally a set of cut-throats as one could desire to see -- or, rather, not to see -- of various nationality, with ugly countenances and powerful frames, which were clothed in more or less fantastic Eastern garb. Their language, like themselves, was mixed, and, we need scarcely add, unrefined. The little that was interchanged between them and Meerta we must, however, translate.

"What! alive still!" cried the ruffian, who appeared to be the leader of the band, flinging himself down on a couch with the air of a man who knew the place well, while his men made themselves at home.

Meerta merely smiled to the salutation; that in to say, she grinned.

"Where are they?" demanded the pirate-chief, referring of course to those who, the reader is aware, were blown up.

"Gone away," answered Meerta.

"Far away?" asked the pirate.

"Yes, very far away."

"Goin' to be long away?"

"Ho! yes, very long."

"Where's the little girl they took from Sarawak?"

"Gone away."

"Where away?"

"Don't know."

"Now, look here, you old hag," said the pirate, drawing a pistol from his belt and levelling it, "tell the truth about that girl, else I'll scatter your brains on the floor. Where has she gone to?"

"Don't know," repeated Meerta, with a look of calm indifference, as she took up a tankard and wiped it out with a cloth.

The man steadied the pistol and pressed the trigger.

"You better wait till she has given us our grub," quietly suggested one of the men.

The leader replaced the weapon in the shawl which formed his girdle, and said, "Get it ready quick -- the best you have, and bring us some wine to begin with."

Soon after that our friends, while conversing in low tones in the grove, heard the unmistakeable sounds of revelry issue from the cave.

"What think you, boys," said Sam suddenly, "shall we go round to the harbour, surprise and kill the guard, seize the pirate-ship, up anchor and leave these villains to enjoy themselves as best they may?"

"What! and leave Letta, not to mention Meerta and Bungo, behind us? Never!"

"I forgot them for the moment," said Sam. "No, we can't do that."

As he spoke the noise of revelry became louder and degenerated into sounds of angry disputation. Then several shots were heard, followed by the clashing of steel and loud yells.

"Surely that was a female voice," said Robin, rising and rushing up the steep path that led to the cavern, closely followed by his comrades.

They had not gone a hundred yards when they were arrested by hearing a rustling in the bushes and the sound of hasty footsteps. Next instant Letta was seen running towards them, with glaring eyes and streaming hair. She sprang into Robin's arms with a convulsive sob, and hid her white face on his breast.

"Speak, Letta, dear child! Are you hurt?"

"No, O no; but Meerta, darling Meerta, she is dead! They have shot her and Bungo."

She burst again into convulsive sobbing.

"Dead! But are you sure -- quite sure?" said Sam.

"Quite. I saw their brains scattered on the wall. -- Oh, Meerta! -- "

She ended in a low wail, as though her heart were broken.

"Now, boys," said Johnson, who had hitherto maintained silence, "we must go to work an' try to cut out the pirate-ship. It's a good chance, and it's our only one."

"Yes, there's nothing to prevent us trying it now," said Robin, sadly, "and the sooner the better."

"Lucky that we made up the parcels last night, warn't it?" said Jim Slagg as they made hasty arrangements for carrying out their plan.

Jim referred to parcels of rare and costly jewels which each of them had selected from the pirate store, put into separate bags and hid away in the woods, to be ready in case of any sudden occasion arising -- such as had now actually arisen -- to quit the island. Going to the place where these bags were concealed, they slung them over their shoulders and set off at a steady run, or trot, for the harbour, each taking his turn in carrying Letta, for the poor child was not fit to walk, much less to run.

Stealthy though their movements were, however, they did not altogether escape detection. Two bright eyes had been watching Letta during all her wanderings that night, and two nimble feet had followed her when she ran affrighted from the pirates' stronghold. The party was overtaken before half the distance to the harbour had been gained, and at length, with a cry of satisfaction.

Letta's favourite -- the small monkey -- sprang upon her shoulder. In this position, refusing to move, he was carried to the coast.

As had been anticipated, the pirate vessel was found lying in the pool where the former ship had anchored. Being considerably smaller, however, it had been drawn close to the rocks, so that a landing had been effected by means of a broad plank or gangway instead of a boat. Fortunately for our friends, this plank had not been removed after the pirates had left, probably because they deemed themselves in a place of absolute security. As far as they could see, only one sentinel paced the deck.

"I shouldn't wonder if the guard is a very small one," whispered Sam to Robin, as they crept to the edge of the shrubs which lined the harbour, and surveyed their intended prize. "No doubt they expected to meet only with friends here -- or with nobody at all, as it has turned out, -- and have left just enough to guard their poor slaves."

"We shall soon find out," returned Sam. "Now, boys," he said, on rejoining the others in the bush, "see that your revolvers are charged and handy, but don't use them if you can avoid it."

"A cut over the head with cold steel will be sufficiently effective, for we have no desire to kill. Nevertheless, don't be particular. We can't afford to measure our blows with such scoundrels; only if we fire we shall alarm those in the cave, and have less time to get under weigh."

"What is to be done with Letta while we attack?" asked Robin.

"I'll wait here till you come for me," said Letta, with a sad little smile on her tear-bedewed face; "I'm quite used to see fighting."

"Good, keep close, and don't move from this spot till we come for you, my little heroine," said Sam. "Now, boys, follow me in single file --  tread like mice -- don't hurry. There's nothing like keeping cool."

"Not much use o' saying that to a feller that's red-hot," growled Slagg, as he stood with a flushed face, a revolver in one hand and a cutlass in the other.

Sam, armed similarly, glided to the extreme verge of the bushes, between which and the water there was a space of about thirty yards. With a quiet cat-like run he crossed this space, rushed up the plank gangway, and leaped upon the deck, with his comrades close at his heels. The sentinel was taken completely by surprise, but drew his sword nevertheless, and sprang at Sam with a shout.

The latter, although not a professional warrior, had been taught single-stick at school, and was an expert swordsman. He parried the pirate's furious thrust, and gave him what is technically termed cut Number 1, which clove his turban to the skull and stretched him on the deck. It was a fortunate cut, for the shout had brought up seven pirates, five from below and two from the fore-part of the vessel, where they had been asleep between two guns. With these his comrades were now engaged in mortal combat -- three of them having simultaneously attacked Johnson, while two had assailed Jim Slagg.

When Sam turned round the stout sailor had cut down one of his foes, but the other two would probably have proved too much for him if Sam had not instantly engaged one of them. He was a powerful, active man, so that for nearly a minute they cut and thrust at each other without advantage to either, until Sam tried a feint thrust, which he followed up with a tremendous slash at the head. It took effect, and set him free to aid Slagg, who was at the moment in deadly peril, for poor Slagg was no swordsman, and had hitherto foiled his two antagonists by sheer activity and the fury of his assaults. He was quite collected, however, for, even in the extremity of his danger, he had refrained from using his revolver lest he should thereby give the alarm to the pirates on land. With one stroke Sam disposed of one of the scoundrels, and Slagg succeeded in cutting down the other.

Meanwhile our hero, Robin, and Stumps had attacked the two pirates who chanced to be nearest to them. The former thought of Letta and her wretched fate if this assault should fail. The thought filled his little body, with such a gush of what seemed to him like electric fire, that he leaped on his opponent with the fury of a wild cat, and bore him backward, so that he stumbled over the combings of a hatchway and was thrown flat on the deck -- hors de combat.

But Stumps was not so fortunate. Slow in all his movements, and not too courageous in spirit, he gave way before the villain who assailed him. It was not indeed much to his discredit, for the man was much larger, as well as more active and fierce, than himself. A cut from the pirate's sword quickly laid him low, and his antagonist instantly turned on Robin. He was so near at the moment that neither of them could effectively use his weapon. Robin therefore dashed the hilt of his sword into the man's face and grappled with him. It was a most unequal struggle, for the pirate was, as we have said, a huge fellow, while Robin was small and slight. But there were several things in our hero's favour. He was exceedingly tough and wonderfully strong for his size, besides being active as a kitten and brave as a lion. The way that Robin Wright wriggled in that big man's embrace, hammered his nose and eyes with the iron hilt of his cutlass, stuck his knees into the pit of his stomach, and assaulted his shins with the toes of boots, besides twisting his left hand into his hair like a vice, was wonderful to behold.

It was all Letta's doing! The more hopeless the struggle felt, the more hapless did Letta's fate appear to Robin, and the more furious did the spirit within rise above its disadvantages. In the whirl of the fight the pirate's head chanced for one moment to be in proximity to a large iron block. Robin observed it, threw all his soul and body into one supreme effort, and launched his foe and himself against the block. Both heads met it at the same moment, and the combatants rolled from each other's grasp. The pirate was rendered insensible, but Robin, probably because of being lighter, was only a little stunned.

Recovering in a moment, he sprang up, glanced round, observed that the pirates were almost, if not quite, overpowered, and leaped over the bulwarks. A few moments later and he had Letta in his arms. Just then a pistol shot rang in the night air. The last of the pirates who was overpowered chanced to use his fire-arm, though without success. It was fortunate the fight was over, for, now that the alarm had been given, they knew that their chance of escaping was greatly lessened.

"Cut the cable, Slagg. Out with a boat-hook, Johnson, ready to shove off. I'll fetch Letta," cried Sam, springing to the side.

He was almost run down, as he spoke, by Robin with the child in his arms.

"Ha! Robin -- well done, my boy. Here, Letta, you understand the language, tell the slaves below to out oars and pull for their lives. It's their only chance."

The poor creatures, who were bound to the thwarts below deck, had been listening with dull surprise to the fighting on deck -- not that fighting was by any means unusual in that vessel, but they must have known that they were in harbour, and that the main body of the pirates were on shore. Still greater was their surprise when they received the above order in the sweet gentle tones of a child's voice.

Whether they deemed her an angel or not we cannot tell, but their belief in her right to command was evinced by their shoving the oars out with alacrity.

A few seconds sufficed to cut the cable, and the gangway fell into the sea with a loud splash as the vessel moved slowly from the land, while Johnson, Robin, and Slagg thrust with might and main at the boat-hooks. The oars could not be dipped or used until the vessel had been separated a few yards from the land, and it was during the delay caused by this operation that their greatest danger lay, for already the pirates were heard calling to each other among the cliffs.

"Pull, pull now for life, boys," shouted Sam as he seized the helm.

"Pull, pull now for life, boys," echoed the faithful translator in her silvery tones.

The oars dipped and gurgled through the water. There was no question as to the energy of the poor captives, but the vessel was heavy and sluggish at starting. She had barely got a couple of hundred yards from the shore, when the pirates from the cavern came running tumultuously out of the woods. Perceiving at once that their vessel had been captured, they rushed into the water and swam off, each man with his sword between his teeth.

They were resolute villains, and swam vigorously and fast. Sam knew that if such a swarm should gain the side of the vessel, no amount of personal valour could prevent recapture. He therefore encouraged the slaves to redoubled effort. These responded to the silvery echo, but so short had been the distance gained that the issue seemed doubtful.

"Give 'em a few shots, boys," cried Sam, drawing his own revolver and firing back over the stern. The others followed his example and discharged all their revolvers, but without apparent effect, for the pirates still came on.

One of the sails had fortunately been left unfurled. At this moment a light puff of air from the land bulged it out, and sensibly increased their speed.

"Hurrah!" shouted Johnson, "lend a hand, boys, to haul taut."

The sail was trimmed, and in a few minutes the vessel glided quickly away from her pursuers.

A loud British cheer announced the fact alike to pirates and slaves, so that the latter were heartened to greater exertion, while the former were discouraged. In a few minutes they gave up the chase with a yell of rage, and turned to swim for the shore.

About a hundred yards from the mouth of the harbour there lay a small islet -- a mere rock. Here Sam resolved to leave the pirate guard, none of whom had been quite killed -- indeed two of them had tried unsuccessfully to rise during the fight.

"You see," said Sam, as he steered for the rock, "we don't want to have either the doctoring or the killing of such scoundrels. They will be much better with their friends, who will be sure to swim off for them --  perhaps use our raft for the purpose, which they will likely find, sooner or later."

They soon ranged up alongside of the island, and in a few minutes the bodies of the pirates were landed and laid there side by side. While they were being laid down, the man who had fought with Robin made a sudden and furious grasp at Johnson's throat with one hand, and at his knife with the other, but the seaman was too quick for him. He felled him with a blow of his fist. The others, although still alive, were unable to show fight.

Then, hoisting the mainsail, and directing their course to the northward, our adventurers slipped quietly over the sea, and soon left Pirate Island far out of sight behind them.



Chapter Twenty One.

Departure From Pirate Island And Hopeful News At Sarawak.

The vessel of which Robin and his friends had thus become possessed, was one of those numerous native pirate-ships which did, and we believe still do, infest some parts of the Malay Archipelago -- ships which can assume the form and do the work of simple trading-vessels when convenience requires, or can hoist the black flag when circumstances favour. It was not laden with anything valuable at the time of its capture. The slaves who wrought at the oars when wind failed, were wretched creatures who had been captured among the various islands, and many of them were in the last stage of exhaustion, having been worked almost to death by their inhuman captors, though a good many were still robust and fresh.

These latter it was resolved to keep still in fetters, as it was just possible that some of them, if freed, might take a fancy to seize the ship and become pirates on their own account. They were treated as well as circumstances would admit of, however, and given to understand that they should be landed and set free as soon as possible. Meanwhile, no more work would be required of them than was absolutely necessary. Those of them who were ill were freed at once from toil, carefully nursed by Letta and doctored by Sam.

At first Robin and his comrades sailed away without any definite purpose in view, but after things had been got into order, a council was held and plans were discussed. It was then that Letta mentioned what the pirates in the cavern had said about her having been taken from Sarawak.

"Sarawak!" exclaimed Robin, "why, that's the place that has been owned and governed for many years by an Englishman named Brooke -- Sir James Brooke, if I remember rightly, and they call him Rajah Brooke. Perhaps your mother lives there, Letta."

"Where is Sarawak?" asked Stumps, whose injuries in the recent fight were not so severe as had at first been supposed.

"It's in the island of Borneo," replied Sam; "you're right, Robin -- "

"No, he's Robin Wright," interrupted Slagg.

"Be quiet, Jim. I think it is highly probable that your parents are there, Letta, and as we have no particular reason for going anywhere else, and can't hope to make for England in a tub like this, we will just lay her head for Sarawak."

This was accordingly done, their new course being nor'-east and by east.

It would extend our tale to undue proportions were we to give in detail all the adventures they experienced, dangers they encountered, and hairbreadth escapes they made, between that point on the wide southern ocean and the Malay Archipelago. The reader must be content to skip over the voyage, and to know that they ultimately arrived at the port of Sarawak, where they were kindly treated by a deputy, the Rajah himself being absent at the time.

During the voyage, the subject of finding Letta's parents became one of engrossing and increasing interest, -- so much so, indeed, that even electricity and telegraph-cables sank into secondary importance. They planned, over and over again, the way in which they would set about making inquiries, and the various methods which they would adopt in pursuit of their end. They even took to guessing who Letta's parents would turn out to be, and Sam went so far as to invent and relate romantic stories, in which the father and mother of Letta played a conspicuous part. He called them Colonel and Mrs Montmorenci for convenience, which Slagg reduced to Colonel and Mrs Monty, "for short."

In all this Letta took great delight, chiefly because it held the conversation on that source of undying interest, "mamma," and partly because she entered into the fun and enjoyed the romance of the thing, while, poor child, her hopeful spirit never for a moment doubted that in some form or other the romance would become a reality through Robin, on whom she had bestowed her highest affections -- next, of course, to mamma.

On landing at Sarawak, Sam Shipton went direct to the Government offices to report the capture of the pirate vessel and to make inquiries as to Letta's parents, leaving Robin and the others to watch the vessel.

"Isn't it strange," said John Johnson to Robin, as they leaned over the side and looked down into the clear water, "that a Englishman should become a Rajah, and get possession o' this here country?"

"I can give you only a slight reply to that question," replied Robin, "but Sam will enlighten you more than I can; he seems to be acquainted with the Rajah's strange career. All I know is, that he is said to govern the country well."

"Coorious," said Johnson; "I shouldn't like to settle down in sitch a nest o' pirates. Hows'ever, every man to his taste, as Jack said when the shark swallowed his sou'-wester. D'ee think it's likely, sir, that we'll find out who the parents o' poor Miss Letta is?"

Robin shook his head. "I'm not very hopeful. We have so little information to go upon -- just one word, -- Sarawak! Nevertheless, I don't despair, and I'll certainly not be beat without trying hard. But here comes Sam; he looks pleased. I think -- I hope, he has good news for us."

"I've got something, but not much," replied Sam to the eager inquiries with which he was assailed. "The gentleman whom I saw knew nothing about a little girl having been kidnapped from this region within the last two or three years, but an old clerk or secretary, who heard us talking about it, came up scratching his nose with the feather of his quill, and humbly said that he had heard something about a girl disappearing at a fire somewhere, though he couldn't recollect the name of the place, as he was ill at the time, besides being new to the country, but he thought there was a Malay, a drunken old fellow, living some five miles inland, who used to talk about something of the sort, and who had, he fancied, been in the service of the people whose house had been burned. But, altogether, he was very hazy on the subject."

"Then we must go and ferret out this old man instantly," said Robin, buttoning up his coat, as if about to commence the journey at once.

"Too late to-night, Robin," said Sam; "restrain your impatience, my boy. You forget that it sometimes gets dark in these latitudes, and that there are no street lamps on the country roads."

"True, true, Sam. And what said they about our capture?"

"That we must leave it in their hands at present; that they did not know exactly what the Rajah might have to say about it, but that he would be there himself in a few weeks, and decide the matter."

"'Pon my word, that's cool," said Slagg, who came up at the moment; "an' suppose we wants to continue our voyage to England, or Indy, or Chiny?"

"If we do we must continue it by swimming," returned Sam; "but it matters little, for there is a steamer expected to touch here in a few days on her way to India, so we can take passage in her, having plenty of funds -- thanks to the pirates!"

"It's all very well for you to boast of bein' rich," growled Stumps, "but I won't be able to afford it."

"Oh! yes you will," returned Robin with a laugh. "The Jews will advance you enough on your jewellery to pay your passage."

"Sarves you right for bein' so greedy," said Slagg.

The greed which Slagg referred to had been displayed by Stumps at the time the parcels of coin and precious stones were made up in the cavern for sudden emergency, as before mentioned. On that occasion each man had made up his own parcel, selecting such gems, trinkets, and coin from the pirate horde as suited his fancy. Unfortunately, the sight of so much wealth had roused in the heart of Stumps feelings of avarice, which heretofore had lain dormant, and he stuffed many glittering and superb pieces of jewellery into his bag in a secretive manner, as if half ashamed of his new sensations, and half afraid that his right to them might be disputed.

Afterwards, on the voyage to Borneo, when the bags were emptied and their costly contents examined, it was discovered that many of Stumps's most glittering gems were mere paste -- almost worthless -- although some of them, of course, were valuable. Stumps was much laughed at, and in a private confabulation of his comrades, it was agreed that they would punish him by contrasting their own riches with his glittering trash, but that at last they would give him a share which would make all the bags equal. This deceptive treatment, however, wrought more severely on Stumps than they had expected, and roused not only jealous but revengeful feelings in his breast.

Next morning, Sam and Robin set off with Letta to search for the old Malay, leaving their comrades in charge of the vessel.

There is something inexpressibly delightful to the feelings in passing through the glades and thickets of tropical forests and plantations after a long sea voyage. The nostrils seem to have been specially prepared, by long abstinence from sweet smells, to appreciate the scents and odours of aromatic plants and flowers. The soft shade of foliage, the refreshing green, and the gay colours everywhere, fill the eye with pleasure, not less exquisite than that which fills the ears from the warblings and chatterings of birds, the gentle tones of domestic animals, and the tinkling of rills. The mere solidity of the land, under foot, forms an element of pleasure after the tossings of the restless sea, and all the sweet influences put together tend to rouse in the heart a shout of joy and deep gratitude for a world so beautiful, and for powers so sensitively capable of enjoying it.

Especially powerful were the surrounding influences on our three friends as they proceeded, mile after mile, into the country, and little wonder, for eyes, and nostrils, and ears, which had of late drunk only of the blue heavens and salt sea and the music of the wind, naturally gloated over a land which produces sandal-wood, cinnamon, turmeric, ginger, benzoin, camphor, nutmeg, and a host of other gums and spices; a land whose shades are created by cocoa-nut palms, ebony, banana, bread-fruit, gutta-percha, upas, sesamum, and a vast variety of other trees and shrubs, the branches of which are laden with fruits, and flowers, and paroquets, and monkeys.

Little Letta's heart was full to overflowing, so much so that she could scarcely speak while walking along holding Robin's hand. But there was more than mere emotion in her bosom -- memory was strangely busy in her brain, puzzling her with dreamy recognitions both as to sights and sounds.

"It's so like home!" she murmured once, looking eagerly round.

"Is it?" said Robin with intense interest. "Look hard at it, little one; do you recognise any object that used to be in your old home?"

The child shook her head sadly. "No, not exactly -- everything is so like, and -- and yet not like, somehow."

They came just then upon a clearing among sugar-cane, in the midst of which stood a half-ruined hut, quite open in front and thatched with broad leaves. On a bench near the entrance was seated an old grey-haired Malay man with a bottle beside him. Nearer to the visitors a young girl was digging in the ground.

"That's the old Malay, for certain," said Sam; "see, the old rascal has gone pretty deep already into the bottle. Ask the girl, Letta, what his name is."

Sam did not at first observe that the child was trembling very much and gazing eagerly at the old man. He had to repeat the question twice before she understood him, and then she asked the girl, without taking her eyes off the old man.

"Who is he?" responded the girl in the Malay tongue, "why, that's old Georgie -- drunken Georgie."

She had scarcely uttered the words when Letta uttered a wild cry, ran to the old man, leaped into his arms, and hugged him violently.

The man was not only surprised but agitated. He loosened the child's hold so as to be able to look at her face.

"Oh, Georgie, Georgie!" she cried almost hysterically, "don't you know me -- don't you know Letta?"

Georgie replied by uttering a great shout of mingled astonishment and joy, as he clasped the child in his arms. Then, setting her down and holding her at arm's-length, he cried in remarkably broken English -- 

"Know you! W'at? Vous hold nuss -- hold Georgie -- not know Miss Letty. Ho! Miss Letty! my hold 'art's a-busted a'most! But you's come back. T'ank do Lor'! Look 'ere, Miss Letty." (He started up, put the child down, and, with sudden energy seized the bottle of ruin by the neck.) "Look ere, yous oftin say to me afore you hoed away, 'Geo'gie, do, do give up d'inkin',' -- you 'members?"

"No, I don't remember," said Letta, smiling through her tears.

"Ho! yes, but you said it -- bery often, an' me was used to say, 'Yes, Miss Letty' -- de hold hippercrit! -- but I didn't gib 'im up. I d'ink away wuss dan ebber. But now -- but now -- but now," (he danced round, each time whirling the bottle above his head), "me d'ink no more -- nebber --  nebber -- nebber more."

With a mighty swing the old man sent the rum-bottle, like a rocket, up among the branches of an ebony-tree, where it was shattered to atoms, and threw an eaves-dropping monkey almost into fits by raining rum and broken glass upon its inquisitive head.

When the excitement of the meeting had somewhat subsided, Letta suddenly said, "But where is mamma? Oh! take me to mamma, Georgie."

The old man's joy instantly vanished, and Letta stood pale and trembling before him, pressing her little hands to her breast, and not daring, apparently, to ask another question.

"Not dead?" she said at length in a low whisper.

"No -- no -- Miss Letty," replied the man hastily, "Ho! no, not dead, but goed away; nigh broked her heart when she losted you; git berry sick; t'ought she was go for die, but she no die. She jis turn de corner and come round, an' when she git bedder she hoed away."

"Where did she go to?" asked Robin, anxiously.

"To Bumby," said old George.

"To where?"

"Bumby."

"I suppose you mean Bombay?" said Sam.

"Yes, yes -- an' me say Bumby."

"Is she alive and well?" asked Robin.

"Don' know," replied old George, shaking his head; "she no write to hold Geo'gie. Nigh two years since she goed away."

When the excitement of this meeting began to subside, Sam Shipton took the old Malay aside, and, after prolonged conversation, learned from him the story, of which the following is the substance.

Mrs Langley was the widow of a gentleman who had died in the service of Rajah Brooke. Several years before -- he could not say exactly how many --  the widow had retired with her only child, Letta, to a little bungalow on a somewhat out-of-the-way part of the coast which Mr Langley used to be fond of going to, and called his "shooting-box." This had been attacked one night by Labuan pirates, who, after taking all that was valuable, set fire to the house. Mrs Langley had escaped by a back door into the woods with her old man-servant, George. She had rushed at the first alarm to Letta's bed, but the child was not there. Letta had been awake, had heard the advance of the pirate crew, and had gone into a front room to see who was coming. Supposing that old George must have taken charge of the child, and hearing him calling to her to come away quickly, the widow ran out at the back door as the pirates entered by the front. Too late she found that George had not the child, and she would have returned to the house, regardless of consequences, if George had not forcibly restrained her. When George returned at daybreak, he found the house a smouldering ruin, the pirates gone, and Letta nowhere to be found.

The shock threw Mrs Langley into a violent fever. She even lost her reason for a time, and when at last she was restored to some degree of health, she went away to Bombay without saying to any one what were her intentions. She could never entirely forgive old George for having prevented her returning to the house to share the fate of her child, and left Sarawak without bidding him farewell, though, as old George himself pathetically remarked, "Me couldn't 'elp it, you knows. De scoundrils kill missis if she goed back, an' dat doos no good to Miss Letty."

This was all the information that could be obtained about Mrs Langley, and on the strength of it Sam and Robin resolved to proceed to Bombay by the first opportunity. But their patience was severely tried, for many months elapsed ere they obtained berths in a vessel bound direct to Bombay.

Of course Jim Slagg determined to go with them, and so did Stumps, though a slight feeling of coldness had begun to manifest itself in that worthy's manner ever since the episode of the division of jewels. John Johnson, however, made up his mind to take service with the Rajah, and help to exterminate the nests of pirates with which those seas were infested.

"Depend upon it, sir," said Johnson to Robin at parting, "that you'll turn out somethin' or other afore long. As I said to our stooard on the night that you was born, 'Stooard,' says I, 'take my word for it, that there babby what has just been launched ain't agoin' under hatches without makin' his mark somehow an' somewheres,' an' you've begun to make it, sir, a'ready, an' you'll go on to make it, as sure as my name's John Johnson."

"I'm gratified by your good opinion," replied Robin, with a laugh. "All I can say is, that whatever mark I make, I hope may be a good one."

Poor Robin had little ambition at that time to make any kind of mark for himself on the world. His one desire -- which had grown into a sort of passion -- was to find Letta's mother. Nearly all his thoughts were concentrated on that point, and so great was his personal influence on his comrades, that Sam and Slagg had become almost as enthusiastic about it as himself, though Stumps remained comparatively indifferent.



Chapter Twenty Two.

Bombay -- Where Stumps Comes To Grief.

Once again we must beg the patient reader to skip with us over time and space, until we find ourselves in the great city of Bombay.

It is a great day for Bombay. Natives and Europeans alike are unusually excited. Something of an unwonted nature is evidently astir. Down at the sea the cause of the excitement is explained, for the Great Eastern steam-ship has just arrived, laden with the telegraph cable which is to connect England with her possessions in the East. The streets and quays are crowded with the men of many nations and various creeds, to say nothing of varied costume. Turbans and chimney-pots salaam to each other, and fezzes nod to straw hats and wide-awakes. Every one is more than usually sympathetic, for all have their minds, eyes, and hopes, more or less, centred on the "big ship," with her unique and precious cargo.

But it is with neither the Great Eastern nor the people -- not even with the cable -- that we have to do just now. Removing our eyes from such, we fix them and our attention on a very small steamer which lies alongside one of the wharves, and shows evidence of having been severely handled by winds and waves.

At the time we direct attention to her, a few passengers were landing from this vessel, and among them were our friends, Sam Shipton, Robin Wright, Jim Slagg, John Shanks, alias Stumps, and Letta Langley. Most of the passengers had luggage of some sort, but our friends possessed only a small bag each, slung over their shoulders. A letter from the authorities of Sarawak certified that they were honest men.

"Now, Robin," said Sam, as they pushed through the crowds, "there seems to me something auspicious in our arriving about the same time with the Great Eastern, and I hope something may come of it, but our first business is to make inquiries for Mrs Langley. We will therefore go and find the hotel to which we have been recommended, and make that our head-quarters while we are engaged in our search."

"Can I lend you a hand, Mr Shipton?" asked Slagg, who had become, as it were, irresistibly more respectful to Robin and Sam since coming among civilised people.

"No, Slagg; our mission is too delicate to admit of numbers. If we require your services we'll let you know."

"Ah! I see -- too many cooks apt to spoil the broth. Well, my mission will be to loaf about and see Bombay. You and I will pull together, Stumps."

"No," said Stumps, to the surprise of his companions, "I've got a private mission of my own -- at least for this evening."

"Well, please yourself, Stumpy," said Slagg with a good-humoured laugh, "you never was the best o' company, so I won't break my heart."

At the hotel to which they had been recommended two rooms were engaged, -- a small single room for Letta, and one with two beds and a sofa for themselves.

Having breakfasted and commended Letta to the landlady's care, Sam and Robin sallied forth together, while Slagg and Stumps went their separate ways, having appointed to meet again in the evening for supper.

We will follow the fortunes of Mr John Shanks. That rather vacant and somewhat degenerate youth, having his precious bag slung from his shoulders, and his left arm round it for further security, sauntered forth, and began to view the town. His viewing it consisted chiefly in looking long and steadily at the shop windows of the principal streets. There was a slight touch of cunning, however, in his expression, for he had rid himself, cleverly as he imagined, of his comrades, and meant to dispose of some of the contents of his bag to the best advantage, without letting them know the result.

In the prosecution of his deep-laid plans, Stumps attracted the attention of a gentleman with exceedingly black eyes and hair, a hook nose, and rather seedy garments. This gentleman followed Stumps with great care for a considerable time, watched him attentively, seemed to make up his mind about him, and finally ran violently against him.

"Oh! I do beg your pardon, sir. I am so sorry," he said in a slightly foreign accent, with an expression of earnest distress on his not over-clean countenance, "so very, very, sorry; it was a piece of orange peel. I almost fell; but for your kind assistance I should have been down and, perhaps, broke my legs. Thank you, sir; I do hope I have not hurt you against the wall. Allow me to dust your sleeve."

"Oh! you've done me no damage, old gen'l'man," said Stumps, rather flattered by the man's attention and urbanity. "I'm all right; I ain't so easy hurt. You needn't take on so."

"But I cannot help take on so," returned the seedy man, with an irresistibly bland smile, "it is so good of you to make light of it, yet I might almost say you saved my life, for a fall to an elderly man is always very dangerous. Will you not allow me to give my benefactor a drink? See, here is a shop."

Stumps chanced to be very hot and thirsty at the time; indeed he had been meditating some such indulgence, and fell into the trap at once. Accepting the offer with a "well, I don't mind if I do," he entered the drinking saloon and sat down, while his new friend called for brandy and water.

"You have come from a long voyage, I see," said the seedy man, pulling out a small case and offering Stumps a cigar.

"How d'ee know that?" asked Stumps bluntly.

"Because I see it in your bronzed face, and, excuse me, somewhat threadbare garments."

"Oh! as to that, old man, I've got tin enough to buy a noo rig out, but I'm in no hurry."

He glanced unintentionally at his bag as he spoke, and the seedy man glanced at it too -- intentionally. Of course Stumps's glance let the cat out of the bag!

"Come," said the stranger, when the brandy was put before them, "drink --  drink to -- to the girls we left behind us."

"I left no girl behind me," said Stumps.

"Well then," cried the seedy man, with irresistible good humour, "let us drink success to absent friends and confusion to our foes."

This seemed to meet the youth's views, for, without a word of comment, he drained his glass nearly to the bottom.

"Ha! that's good. Nothin' like brandy and water on a hot day."

"Except brandy and water on a cold day, my dear," returned the Jew -- for such he was; "there is not much to choose between them. Had you not better take off your bag? it incommodes you in so narrow a seat. Let me help -- No?"

"You let alone my hag," growled Stumps angrily, with a sudden clutch at it.

"Waiter! bring a light. My cigar is out," said the Jew, affecting not to observe Stumps's tone or manner. "It is strange," he went on, "how, sometimes, you find a bad cigar -- a very bad cigar -- in the midst of good ones. Yours is going well, I think."

"Well enough," answered Stumps, taking another pull at the brandy and water.

The seedy man now launched out into a pleasant light discourse about Bombay and its ways, which highly interested his poor victim. He made no further allusion to the bag, Stumps's behaviour having betrayed all he required to know, namely, that its contents were valuable.

Soon the brandy began to take effect on Stumps, and, as he was unaccustomed to such potent drink besides being unused to self-restraint, he would speedily have made himself a fit subject for the care of the police, which would not have suited his new friend at all. When, therefore, Stumps put out his hand to grasp his tumbler for another draught, his anxious friend inadvertently knocked it over, and then begged his pardon profusely. Before Stumps could decide whether to call for another glass at the risk of having to pay for it himself, the Jew pointed to a tall, sallow-faced man who sat in a corner smoking and reading a newspaper.

"Do you see him!" he asked, in a low mysterious whisper.

"Yes; who is he? what about him?" asked the youth in a similar whisper.

"He's an opium-smoker."

"Is he?" said Stumps with a vacant stare. "What's that?"

Upon this text the seedy man delivered a discourse on the pleasures of opium-smoking, which quite roused the interest and curiosity of his hearer.

"But is it so very nice to smoke opium?" he asked, after listening for some time.

"Nice, my dear? I should think it is -- very nice, but very wrong -- oh! very wrong. Perhaps we ought not even to speak about it."

"Nonsense!" said the now half-tipsy lad with an air of determination. "I should like to try it. Come, you know where I could have a pipe. Let's go."

"Not for worlds," said the man with a look of remonstrance.

"Oh, yes you will," returned Stumps, rising.

"Well, you are a wilful man, and if you will I suppose you must," said the Jew.

He rose with apparent reluctance, paid the reckoning, and led his miserable victim into one of the numerous dens of iniquity which exist in the lowest parts of that city. There he furnished the lad with a pipe of opium, and, while he was in the state of semi-stupor resulting therefrom, removed his bag of treasure, which he found, to his delight, contained a far richer prize than he had anticipated, despite the quantity of trash with which it was partly filled.

Having secured this, he waited until Stumps had partially recovered, and then led him into one of the most crowded thoroughfares.

"Now, my boy," he said affectionately, "I think you are much better. You can walk alone."

"I should think I could," he replied, indignantly shaking off the man's grasp. "Wh-what d'ee take me for?"

He drew his hand across his eyes, as if to clear away the cloud that still oppressed him, and stared sternly before him, then he stared, less sternly, on either side, then he wheeled round and stared anxiously behind him. Then clapping his left hand quickly to his side, he became conscious that his bag was gone, and that his late friend had taken an abrupt departure without bidding him farewell.



Chapter Twenty Three.

Stumps In Despair -- And Bombay In Raptures.

When Mr John Shanks realised the full extent of his loss, his first impulse was to seize hold of the nearest passer-by and strangle him; his next, to dash down a narrow street close beside him in pursuit of some one; his next, to howl "stop thief!" and "murder!" and his next, to stare into a shop window in blank dismay, and meditate.

Of these various impulses, he gave way only to the last. His meditations, however, were confused and unsatisfactory. Turning from them abruptly, he hurried along the street at a furious walk, muttering, "I'll go an' tell Slagg." Then, pausing abruptly, "No, I won't, I'll go an' inform the pleece."

Under this new impulse he hurried forward again, jostling people as he went, and receiving a good deal of rough-handling in return. Presently he came to a dead halt, and with knitted brows and set teeth, hissed, "I'll go and drown myself."

Full of this intention he broke into a run, but, not being acquainted with the place, found it necessary to ask his way to the port. This somewhat sobered him, but did not quite change his mind, so that when he eventually reached the neighbourhood of the shipping, he was still going at a quick excited walk. He was stopped by a big and obviously eccentric sea-captain, or mate, who asked him if he happened to know of any active stout young fellow who wanted to ship in a tight little craft about to sail for old England.

"No, I don't," said Stumps, angrily.

"Come now, think again," said the skipper, in no degree abashed, and putting on a nautical grin, which was meant for a winning smile. "I'm rather short-handed; give good wages; have an amiable temper, a good craft, and a splendid cook. You're just the active spirited fellow that I want. You'll ship now, eh?"

"No, I won't," said Stumps, sulkily, endeavouring to push past.

"Well, well, no offence. Keep an easy mind, and if you should chance to change it, just come and see me, Captain Bounce, of the Swordfish. There she lies, in all her beauty, quite a picture. Good-day."

The eccentric skipper passed on, but Stumps did not move. He stood there with his eyes riveted on the pavement, and his lips tightly compressed. Evidently the drowning plan had been abandoned for something else -- something that caused him to frown, then to smile, then to grow slightly pale, and then to laugh somewhat theatrically. While in this mood he was suddenly pushed to one side by some one who said -- 

"The track's made for walkin' on, not standin', young -- Hallo!"

It was Slagg who had thus roughly encountered his mate.

"Why, Stumps, what's the matter with yon?"

"Nothing."

"Where 'ave you bin to?"

"Nowhere."

"Who's bin a-frightenin' of you!"

"Nobody."

"Nothin', nowhere, an' nobody," repeated his friend; "that's what I calls a coorious combination for a man who's as white as a sheet one moment, and as red as a turkey-cock the next."

"Well, Slagg," said Stumps, recovering himself a little, "the fact is, I've been taken in and robbed."

Hereupon he related all the circumstances of his late adventure to his astonished and disgusted comrade, who asserted roundly that he was a big booby, quite unfit to take care of himself.

"Hows'ever, we must do the best we can for you," he continued, "so come along to the police-office."

Information of the robbery was given, and inquiries instituted without delay, but without avail. Indeed the chief officer held out little hope of ultimate success; nevertheless, Slagg endeavoured to buoy up his friend with assurances that they must surely get hold of the thief in the long-run.

"And if we don't," he said to Robin and Sam, during a private conversation on the subject that same night, "we must just give him each a portion of what we have, for the poor stoopid has shared our trials, and ought to share our luck."

While Stumps was being thus fleeced in the lower part of the city, Robin and Sam had gone to make inquiries about Mrs Langley, and at the Government House they discovered a clerk who had formerly been at Sarawak, and had heard of the fire, the abduction of the little girl, and of Mrs Langley having afterwards gone to Bombay; but he also told them, to their great regret, that she had left for England six months before their arrival, and he did not know her address, or even the part of England to which she had gone.

"But," continued the clerk, who was a very friendly fellow, "I'll make inquiries, and let you know the result, if you leave me your address. Meanwhile you can amuse yourself by paying a visit to that wonderful ship, the Great Eastern, which has come to lay a submarine telegraph cable between this and Aden. Of course you have heard of her arrival --  perhaps seen her."

"O yes," replied Robin. "We intend to visit her at once. She is an old acquaintance of mine, as I was in her when she laid the Atlantic cable in 1865. Does Captain Anderson still command her?"

"No," answered the clerk, who seemed much interested in what Robin said. "She is now commanded by Captain Halpin."

That evening Robin tried to console poor Letta in her disappointment at not finding her mother, and Sam sought to comfort Stumps for the loss of his treasure. Neither comforter was very successful. Letta wept in spite of Robin, and Stumps absolutely refused to be comforted!

Next day, however, the tears were dried, and Letta became cheery again in the prospect of a visit to the Great Eastern.

But Stumps was no better. Indeed he seemed worse, and flatly refused to accompany them on their trip, although all the world of Bombay was expected to go.

"Stumps, Stumps, Down in the dumps! Down in the dumps so low -- O!"

Sang Jim Slagg as he waved his hand in farewell on quitting the hotel. "Good-bye, my boy, and get your spirits up before we return, if you can."

"I'll try," replied Stumps with a grim smile.

The event which stirred the city of Bombay to its centre at this time was indeed a memorable one. The connecting of India with England direct by a deep-sea cable was a matter of the greatest importance, because the land telegraph which existed at the time was wretchedly worked, passing, as it did, through several countries, which involved translation and re-translation, besides subjecting messages to needless delay on the part of unbusiness-like peoples. In addition to the brighter prospects which the proposed cable was opening up, the presence of the largest ship that had ever yet been constructed was a point of overwhelming attraction, and so great were the crowds that went on board to see the marine wonder, that it was found somewhat difficult to carry on the necessary work of coaling and making preparations for the voyage.

"Robin," said Sam, an they walked along with Letta between them, "I've just discovered that the agent of the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company is an old friend of mine. He has been busy erecting a cable landing-house on the shores of Back Bay, so we'll go there first and get him to accompany us to the big ship."

"Good," said Robin, "if it is not too far for Letta to walk."

The landing-house, which they soon reached, stood near to the "green" where the Bombay and Baroda Railway tumbled out its stream of cotton until the region became a very sea of bales. It was a little edifice with a thatched roof and venetian blinds, commanding a fine view of the whole of Back Bay, with Malabar Point to the right and the governor's house imbedded in trees. Long lines of surf marked the position of ugly rocks which were visible at low water, but among these there was a pathway of soft sand marked off by stakes, along which the shore-end of the cable was to lie.

For the reception of the extreme end of the cable there was provided, in the cable-house, a testing table of solid masonry, with a wooden top on which the testing instruments were to stand; the great delicacy of these instruments rendering a fixed table indispensable.

When our friends reached the cable-house, native labourers, in picturesque Oriental costume, were busy thatching its roof or painting it blue, while some were screwing its parts together; for the house, with a view to future telegraphic requirements, was built so as to come to pieces for shipment to still more distant quarters of the globe.

Sam's friend could not go with him, he said, but he would introduce him to a young acquaintance among the working engineers who was going on with a party in half an hour or so. Accordingly, in a short time they were gliding over the bay, and ere long stood on the deck of the big ship.

"Oh, Letta!" said Robin, with a glitter of enthusiasm in his eyes, as he gazed round on the well-remembered deck, "it feels like meeting an old friend after a long separation."

"How nice!" said Letta.

This "how nice" of the child was, so to speak, a point of great attraction to our hero. She always accompanied it with a smile so full of sympathy, interest, and urbanity, that it became doubly significant on her lips. Letta was precocious. She had grown so rapidly in sympathetic capacity and intelligence, since becoming acquainted with her new friends, that Robin had gradually come to speak to her about his thoughts and feelings very much as he used to speak to cousin Madge when he was a boy.

"Yes," he continued, "I had forgotten how big she was, and she seems to me actually to have grown bigger. There never was a ship like her in the world. Such huge proportions, such a vast sweep of graceful lines. The chief difference that I observe is the coat of white paint they have given her. She seems to have been whitewashed from stem to stern. It was for the heat, I fancy."

"Yes, sir, it wor," said a bluff cable-man who chanced to overhear the remark, "an' if you wor in the tanks, you'd 'ave blessed Capt'n Halpin for wot he done. W'y, sir, that coat o' whitewash made a difference o' no less than eight degrees in the cable-tanks the moment it was putt on. Before that we was nigh stooed alive. Arter that we've on'y bin baked."

"Indeed?" said Robin, but before he could say more the bluff cable-man had returned to his bakery.

"Just look here," he continued, turning again to Letta; "the great ships around us seem like little ones, by contrast, and the little ones like boats, -- don't they?"

"Yes, and the boats like toys," said Letta, "and the people in them like dolls."

"True, little one, and yonder comes a toy steamer," said Sam, who had been contemplating the paying-out gear in silent admiration, "with some rather curious dolls on it."

"Oh!" exclaimed Letta, with great surprise, "look, Robin, look at the horses -- just as if we were on shore!"

Among the many surprising things on board of the big ship, few were more striking for incongruity than the pair of grey carriage-horses, to which Letta referred, taking their morning exercise composedly up and down one side of the deck, with a groom at their heads.

The steamer referred to by Sam was one which contained a large party of Hindu and Parsee ladies and children who had come off to see the ship. These streamed into her in a bright procession, and were soon scattered about, making the decks and saloons like Eastern flower-beds with their many-coloured costumes -- of red, pink, white, and yellow silks and embroideries, and bracelets, brooches, nose-rings, anklets, and other gold and silver ornaments.

The interest taken by the natives in the Great Eastern was naturally great, and was unexpectedly illustrated in the following manner. Captain Halpin, anticipating difficulties in the matter of coaling and otherwise carrying on the work of the expedition, had resolved to specify particular days for sight-seers, and to admit them by ticket, on which a small fee was charged -- the sum thus raised to be distributed among the crew at the end of the voyage. In order to meet the convenience of the "upper ten" of English at Bombay, the charge at first was two rupees (about 4 shillings), and it was advertised that the ship would afterwards be thrown open at lower rates, but to the surprise of all, from an early hour on the two-rupee day the ship was beset by Parsees, Hindus, and Mohammedans, so that eventually, on all sides -- on the decks, the bridge, the paddle-boxes, down in the saloon, outside the cable-tanks, mixed up with the machinery, clustering round the huge red buoys, and at the door of the testing-room -- the snowy robes, and strange head-dresses, bright costumes, brighter eyes, brown faces, and turbans far outnumbered the stiff and sombre Europeans. These people evidently regarded the Great Eastern as one of the wonders of the world. "The largest vessel ever seen in Bombay," said an enthusiastic Parsee, "used to be the Bates Family, of Liverpool, and now there she lies alongside of us looking like a mere jolly-boat."

While Sam and his friends were thus standing absorbed by the contemplation of the curious sights and sounds around them, one of the engineer staff, who had served on board during the laying of the 1866 Atlantic cable, chanced to pass, and, recognising Robin as an old friend, grasped and shook his hand warmly. Robin was not slow to return the greeting.

"Frank Hedley," he exclaimed, "why, I thought you had gone to California!"

"Robin Wright," replied the young engineer, "I thought you were dead!"

"Not yet," returned Robin; "I'm thankful to report myself alive and well."

"But you ought to be dead," persisted Frank, "for you've been mourned as such for nigh a couple of years. At least the vessel in which you sailed has never been heard of, and the last time I saw your family, not four months since, they had all gone into mourning for you."

"Poor mother!" murmured Robin, his eyes filling with tears, "but, please God, we shall meet again before long."

"Come -- come down with me to the engine-room and have a talk about it," said Frank, "and let your friends come too."

Just as he spoke, one of the little brown-faced Mohammedan boys fixed his glittering eyes on an opening in the bulwarks of the ship, through which the water could be seen glancing brightly. That innate spirit of curiosity peculiar to small boys all the world over, induced him to creep partly through the opening and glance down at the sparkling fluid. That imperfect notion of balance, not infrequent in small boys, caused him to tip over and cleave the water with his head. His Mohammedan relatives greeted the incident with shrieks of alarm. Robin, who had seen him tip over, being a good swimmer, and prompt to act, went through the same hole like a fish-torpedo, and caught the brown boy by the hair, as he rose to the surface with staring eyes, outspread fingers, and a bursting cry.

Rope-ends, life-buoys, and other things were flung over the side; oars were plunged; boats darted forward; fifty efforts at rescue were made in as many seconds, for there was wealth of aid at hand, and in a wonderfully brief space of time the brown boy was restored to his grateful friends, while Robin, enveloped in a suit of dry clothes much too large for him, was seated with his friend the engineer down among the great cranks, and wheels, and levers, of the regions below.

"It's well the sharks weren't on the outlook," said Frank Hedley, as he brought forward a small bench for Letta, Sam, and Jim Slagg. "You won't mind the oily smell, my dear," he said to Letta.

"O no. I rather like it," replied the accommodating child.

"It's said to be fattening," remarked Slagg, "even when taken through the nose."

"Come now, let me hear all about my dear mother and the rest of them, Frank," said Robin.

Frank began at once, and, for a considerable time, conversed about the sayings and doings of the Wright family, and of the world at large, and about the loss of the cable-ship; but gradually and slowly, yet surely, the minds and converse of the little party came round to the all-absorbing topic, like the needle to the pole.

"So, you're actually going to begin to coal to-morrow?" said Sam.

"Yes, and we hope to be ready in a few days to lay the shore-end of the cable," answered the young engineer.

"But have they not got land-lines of telegraph which work well enough?" asked Robin.

"Land-lines!" exclaimed Frank, with a look of contempt. "Yes, they have, and no doubt the lines are all right enough, but the people through whose countries they pass are all wrong. Why, the Government lines are so frequently out of order just now, that their daily condition is reported on as if they were noble invalids. Just listen to this," (he caught up a very much soiled and oiled newspaper) -- "'Telegraph Line Reports, Kurrachee, 2nd February, 6 p.m. --  Cable communication perfect to Fao; Turkish line is interrupted beyond Semawali; Persian line interrupted beyond Shiraz.' And it is constantly like that -- the telegraphic disease, though intermittent, is chronic. One can never be sure when the line may be unfit for duty. Sometimes from storms, sometimes from the assassination of the operators in wild districts, through which the land wires pass, and sometimes from the destruction of lines out of pure mischief, the telegraph is often beaten by the mail."

"There seems, indeed, much need for a cable direct," said Sam, "which will make us independent of Turks, Persians, Arabs, and all the rest of them. By the way, how long is your cable?"

"The cable now in our tanks is 2375 nautical miles long, but our companion ships, the Hibernia, Chiltern, and Hawk, carry among them 1225 miles more, making a total of 3600 nautical miles, which is equal, as you know, to 4050 statute miles. This is to suffice for the communication between Bombay and Aden, and for the connecting of the Malta and Alexandria lines. They are now laying a cable between England, Gibraltar, and Malta, so that when all is completed there will be one line of direct submarine telegraph unbroken, except at Suez."

"Magnificent!" exclaimed Robin, "why, it won't be long before we shall be able to send a message to India and get a reply in the same day."

"In the same day!" cried Sam, slapping his thigh; "mark my words, as uncle Rik used to say, you'll be able to do that, my boy, within the same hour before long."

"Come, Sam, don't indulge in prophecy. It does not become you," said Robin. "By the way, Frank, what about uncle Rik? You have scarcely mentioned him."

"Oh! he's the same hearty old self-opinionated fellow as ever. Poor fellow, he was terribly cut up about your supposed death. I really believe that he finds it hard even to smile now, much less to laugh. As for Madge, she won't believe that you are lost -- at least she won't admit it, though it is easy to see that anxiety has told upon her."

"I wonder how my poor old mother has took it," said Slagg, pathetically. "But she's tough, an' can't be got to believe things easy. She'll hold out till I turn up, I dessay, and when I present myself she'll say, 'I know'd it!'"

"But to return to the cable," said Sam, with an apologetic smile. "Is there any great difference between it and the old ones?"

"Not very much. We have found, however, that a little marine wretch called the teredo attacks hemp so greedily that we've had to invent a new compound wherewith to coat it, namely, ground flint or silica, pitch, and tar, which gives the teredo the toothache, I suppose, for it turns him off effectually. We have also got an intermediate piece of cable to affix between the heavy shore-end and the light deep-sea portion. There are, of course, several improvements in the details of construction, but essentially it is the same as the cables you have already seen, with its seven copper wires covered with gutta-percha, and other insulating and protecting substances."

"It's what I calls a tremendious undertakin'," said Slagg.

"It is indeed," assented Frank, heartily, for like all the rest of the crew, from the captain downwards, he was quite enthusiastic about the ship and her work. "Why, when you come to think of it, it's unbelievable. I sometimes half expect to waken up and find it is all a dream. Just fancy. We left England with a freight of 21,000 tons. The day is not long past when I thought a ship of 1000 tons a big one; what a mite that is to our Leviathan, as she used to be called. We had 5512 tons of cable, 3824 tons of fuel, 6499 tons of coal and electric apparatus and appliances when we started; the whole concern, ship included, being valued at somewhere about two millions sterling. It may increase your idea of the size and needs of our little household when I tell you that the average quantity of coal burned on the voyage out has been 200 tons a day."

"It's a positive romance in facts and figures," said Sam.

"A great reality, you should have said," remarked Robin.

And so, romancing on this reality of facts and figures in many a matter-of-fact statement and figurative rejoinder, they sat there among the great cranks, and valves, and pistons, and levers, until the declining day warned them that it was time to go ashore.



Chapter Twenty Four.

Shows The Dreadful Depravity Of Man, And The Amazing Effects Of Electrical Treatment On Man And Beast.

Meanwhile Stumps went back to the hotel to brood over his misfortunes, and hatch out the plan which his rather unfertile brain had devised.

Seated on a chair, with his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and his nails between his teeth, he stared at a corner of the room, nibbled and meditated. There was nothing peculiar about the corner of the room at which he stared, save that there stood in it a portmanteau which Sam had bought the day before, and in which were locked his and Robin's bags of treasure.

"If I could only manage to get away by rail to -- to -- anywhere, I'd do it," he muttered.

Almost simultaneously he leaped from his chair, reddened, and went to look-out at the window, for some one had tapped at the door.

"Come in," he said with some hesitation.

"Gen'l'man wants you, sir," said a waiter, ushering in the identical captain who had stopped Stumps on the street that day.

"Excuse me, young man," he said, taking a chair without invitation, "I saw you enter this hotel, and followed you."

"Well, and what business had you to follow me?" demanded Stumps, feeling uneasy.

"Oh, none -- none at all, on'y I find I must sail this afternoon, an' I've took a fancy to you, an' hope you've made up your mind to ship with me."

Stumps hesitated a moment.

"Well, yes, I have," he said, with sudden resolution. "When must I be on board?"

"At four, sharp," said the captain, rising. "I like promptitude. All right. Don't fail me."

"I won't," said Stumps, with emphasis.

When the captain was gone, Stumps went nervously to the door and peeped out. Nothing was visible, save the tail of a waiter's retiring coat. Cautiously shutting and bolting the door, he took up a strong walking-cane, and, after some difficulty, forced the lock of the portmanteau therewith. Abstracting from it the two bags containing the treasures of his mates Robin and Sam, he wrapped them in a handkerchief, and put them into a canvas bag, which he had purchased for the reception of his own wardrobe. Taking this under his arm he went quietly out of the hotel into the street and disappeared.

He was closely followed by a waiter who had taken the liberty of peeping through the key-hole when he committed the robbery, and who never lost sight of him till he had seen him embark in a vessel in the harbour, named the Fairy Queen, and heard him give his name as James Gibson. Then he returned to the hotel, giving vent to his sentiments in the following soliloquy -- "Of course it is no business of yours, John Ribbon, whether men choose to open their comrades' portmantys with keys or walkin'-sticks, but it is well for you to note the facts that came under your observation, and to reveal them to them as they concern -- for a consideration."

But the waiter did not at that time obtain an opportunity to reveal his facts to those whom they concerned, for Sam, Robin, Slagg, and Letta did not return to the hotel, but sent a pencil note to Stumps instead, to the effect that they had received an invitation from a telegraph official to pay him a visit at his residence up country; that, as he was to carry them off in his boat to the other side of the bay, they would not have an opportunity of calling to bid him, Stumps, a temporary farewell; that he was to make himself as happy as he could in Bombay during their absence, keep on the rooms at the hotel, and settle the bills, and that all expenses would be paid by them on their return.

As the youth by whom this message was sent knew nothing about the senders or whither they had gone, and as Stumps did not again make his appearance, the landlord seized the few things that had been left by the supposed runaways.

The invitation that had thus suddenly been given and accepted, was received from a gentleman named Redpath, an official in the Indian telegraph service. They had been introduced to him on board of the Great Eastern by Sam's friend, Frank Hedley, and he became so interested in their adventurous career that he begged them to visit his bungalow in a rather out-of-the-way part of the country, even if only for a few days.

"It won't take us long to get there," he said, "for the railway passes within thirty miles of it, and I'll drive you over as pretty a piece of country as you could wish to see. I have a boat alongside, and must be off at once. Do come."

"But there are so many of us," objected Sam Shipton.

"Pooh! I could take a dozen more of you," returned the hospitable electrician; "and my wife rejoices -- absolutely rejoices -- when I bring home unexpected company."

"What a pattern she must be," said Slagg; "but excuse me, sir, since you are so good as to invite us all, may I make so bold as to ax if you've got a servants'-'all?"

"Well, I've not got exactly that," replied Redpath, with an amused look; "but I've got something of the same sort for my servants. Why do you ask?"

"Because, sir, I never did sail under false colours, and I ain't agoin' to begin now. I don't set up for a gentleman, and though circumstances has throwed me along wi' two of 'em, so that we've bin hail-feller-well-met for a time, I ain't agoin' to condescend to consort wi' them always. If you've got a servants'-'all, I'll come and thank 'ee; if not, I'll go an' keep company wi' Stumps till Mr Shipton comes back."

"Very well, my good fellow, then you shall come, and we'll find you a berth in the servants'-hall," said Redpath, laughing.

"But what about Stumps?" said Robin; "he will wonder what has come over us. Could we not return to the hotel first?"

"Impossible," said the electrician; "I have not time to wait. My leave has expired. Besides, you can write him a note."

So the note was written, as we have shown, and the party set out on their inland journey.

Before starting, however, Frank Hedley, the engineer, took Sam and Robin aside.

"Now, think over what I have mentioned," he said, "and make up your minds. You see, I have some influence at head-quarters, and am quite sure I can get you both a berth on board to replace the men who have left us. I think I can even manage to find a corner for Slagg, if he is not particular."

"We shall only be too happy to go if you can manage it," replied Robin; "but Stumps, what about him? We can't leave Stumps behind, you know."

"Well. I'll try to get Stumps smuggled aboard as a stoker or something, if possible, but to say truth, I don't feel quite so sure about that matter," replied Frank.

"But shall we have time for this trip if you should prove successful?" asked Sam.

"Plenty of time," returned his friend; "coaling is a slow as well as a dirty process, and to ship thousands of tons is not a trifle. I daresay we shall be more than a week here before the shore-end is fixed and all ready to start."

"Well then, Frank," said Sam; "adieu, till we meet as shipmates."

The railway soon conveyed our adventurers a considerable distance into the interior of the country.

At the station where Redpath and his guests got out, a vehicle was procured sufficiently large to hold them all, and the road over which they rapidly passed bore out the character which the electrician had given to it. Every species of beautiful scenery presented itself -- from the low scrubby plain, with clumps of tropical plants here and there, to undulating uplands and hills.

"You must have some difficulties in your telegraph operations here," said Robin to Redpath, "with which we have not to contend in Europe."

"A few," replied his friend, "especially in the wilder parts of the East. Would you believe it," he added, addressing himself to Letta, "that wild animals frequently give us great trouble? Whenever a wild pig, a tiger, or a buffalo, takes it into his head to scratch himself, he uses one of our telegraph-posts if he finds it handy. Elephants sometimes butt them down with their thick heads, by way of pastime, I suppose, for they are not usually fond of posts and wire as food. Then bandicoots and porcupines burrow under them and bring them to the ground, while kites and crows sit on the wires and weigh them down. Monkeys, as usual, are most mischievous, for they lay hold of the wires with tails and paws, swinging from one to another, and thus form living conductors, which tend to mix and confuse the messages."

"But does not the electricity hurt the monkeys?" asked Letta.

"O no! It does them no injury; and birds sitting on the wires are never killed by it, as many people suppose. The electricity passes them unharmed, and keeps faithfully to the wire. If a monkey, indeed, had a tail long enough to reach from the wire to the ground, and were to wet itself thoroughly, it might perhaps draw off some of the current, but fortunately the tails of monkeys are limited. We often find rows of birds lying dead below our telegraph lines, but these have been killed by flying against them, the wires being scarcely visible among trees."

"And what about savages, sir?" asked Jim Slagg, who had become deeply interested in the telegraphist's discourse; "don't they bother you sometimes?"

"Of course they do," replied Redpath, with a laugh, "and do us damage at times, though we bother them too, occasionally."

"How do you manage that, sir?" asked Jim.

"Well, you must know we have been much hindered in our work by the corruptness and stupidity of Eastern officials in many places, and by the destructive propensities and rapacity of Kurds and wandering Arabs and semi-savages, who have found our posts in the desert good for firewood and our wires for arrow-heads or some such implements. Some of our pioneers in wild regions have been killed by robbers when laying the lines, while others have escaped only by fighting for their lives. Superstition, too, has interfered with us sadly, though sometimes it has come to our aid."

"There was one eccentric Irishman -- one of the best servants I ever had," continued Redpath, "who once made a sort of torpedo arrangement which achieved wonderful success. The fellow is with me still, and it is a treat to hear Flinn, that's his name, tell the story, but the fun of it mostly lies in the expressive animation of his own face, and the richness of his brogue as he tells it.

"'I was away in the dissert somewheres,' he is wont to say, 'I don't rightly remimber where, for my brain's no better than a sive at geagraphy, but it was a wild place, anyhow -- bad luck to it! Well, we had sot up a line o' telegraph in it, an' wan the posts was stuck in the ground not far from a pool o' wather where the wild bastes was used to dhrink of a night, an' they tuk a mighty likin' to this post, which they scrubbed an' scraped at till they broke it agin an' agin. Och! it's me heart was broke intirely wi' them. At last I putt me brains in steep an' got up an invintion. It wouldn't be aisy to explain it, specially to onscientific people. No matter, it was an electrical arrangement, which I fixed to the post, an' bein' curious to know how it would work, I wint down to the pool an' hid mesilf in a hole of a rock, wid a big stone over me an ferns all round about. I tuk me rifle, av coorse, just for company, you know, but not to shoot, for I'm not bloodthirsty, by no means. Well, I hadn't bin long down whin a rustle in the laves towld me that somethin' was comin', an' sure enough down trotted a little deer --  as purty a thing as you could wish to see. It took a dhrink, tremblin' all the time, an' there was good cause, for another rustlin' was heard. Off wint the deer, just as a panther o' some sort jumped out o' the jungle an' followed it. Bad luck go wid ye says I; but I'd scarce said it whin a loud crashing in the jungle towld me a buffalo or an elephant was comin'. It was an elephant. He wint an' took a long pull at the pool. After that he goes straight to the post. Ha! says I, it's an owld friend o' yours, I see. When he putt his great side agin' it, for the purpose of scratchin', he got a shock from my electrical contrivance that caused his tail to stand upon end, and the hairs at its point to quiver. Wid a grunt he stood back an' gave the post a look o' surprise, as much as to say, Did ye do that a-purpose, ye spalpeen? Then he tried it again, an' got another shock that sot up his dander, for he twisted his long nose round the post, goin' to pull it down, no doubt, but he got another shock on the nose that made him squeal an' draw back. Then he lowered his great head for a charge. It's all over wid ye now, me post, says I; but the baste changed its mind, and wint off wid its tail an' trunk in the air, trumpetin' as if it had got the toothache. Well, after that nothin' came for some time, and I think I must have gone off to slape, for I was awoke by a most tremendious roar. Lookin' up I saw a tiger sprawlin' on his back beside the post! Av coorse the shock wasn't enough to have knocked the baste over. I suppose it had tripped in the surprise. Anyhow it jumped up and seized the post with claws an' teeth, whin av coorse it got another shock that caused it to jump back about six yards, with its tail curled, its hair all on end, all its claws out, an' its eyes blazin'. You seem to feel it, says I -- into meself, for fear he'd hear me. He didn't try it again, but wint away into the bush like a war-rocket. After that, five or six little wild pigs came down, an' the smallest wan wint straight up to the post an' putt his nose to it. He drew back wid a jerk, an' gave a scream that seemed to rend all his vitals. You don't like it, thinks I; but, faix, it looked as if I was wrong, for he tried it again. Another shock he got, burst himself a'most wid a most fearful yell, an' bolted. His brothers didn't seem to understand it quite. They looked after him in surprise. Then the biggest wan gave a wriggle of his curly tail, an' wint to the post as if to inquire what was the matter. When he got it on the nose the effect was surprisin'. The curl of his tail came straight out, an' it quivered for a minute all over, wid its mouth wide open. The screech had stuck in his throat, but it came out at last so fierce that the other pigs had to join in self-defence. I stuck my fingers in my ears and shut me eyes. When I opened them again the pigs were gone. It's my opinion they were all dissolved, like the zinc plates in a used-up battery; but I can't prove that. Well, while I was cogitatin' on the result of my little invintion, what should walk out o' the woods but a man! At first I tuk him for a big monkey, for the light wasn't very good, but he had a gun on his shoulder, an' some bits o' clothes on, so I knew him for a human. Like the rest o' them, he wint up to the post an' looked at it, but didn't touch it. Then he came to the pool an' tuk a dhrink, an' spread out his blanket, an' began to arrange matters for spendin' the rest o' the night there. Av coorse he pulled out his axe, for he couldn't do widout fire to kape the wild bastes off. An' what does he do but go straight up to my post an' lift his axe for a good cut. Hallo! says I, pretty loud, for I was a'most too late. Whew! What a jump he gave -- six futt if it was an inch. Whin he came down he staggered with his back agin the post. That was enough. The jump he tuk before was nothin' to what he did after. I all but lost sight of him among the branches. When he returned to the ground it was flat on his face he fell, an', rowlin' over his head, came up on his knees with a roar that putt the tigers and pigs to shame. Sarves you right, says I, steppin' out of my hole. Av coorse he thought I was a divil of some sort, for he turned as white in the face as a brown man could, an' bolted without so much as sayin' farewell. The way that nigger laid his legs along the ground was a caution. Ostriches are a joke to it. I picked up his blanket an' fetched it home as a keepsake, an' from that day to this the telegraph-posts have been held sacred by man an' baste all over that part of the country.'"

"I'd like to meet wi' the feller that told that yarn," said Jim Slagg.

"So should I," said Letta, laughing.

"You shall both have your wish, for there he stands," said Redpath, as they dashed round the corner of a bit of jungle, on the other side of which lay as pretty a bungalow as one could wish to see. A man-servant who had heard the wheels, was ready at the gate to receive the reins, while under the verandah stood a pretty little woman to receive the visitors. Beside her was a black nurse with a white baby.

"Here we are, Flinn," said Redpath, leaping to the ground. "All well, eh?"

"Sure we're niver anything else here, sor," replied Flinn, with a modest smile.

"I've just been relating your electrical experiences to my friends," said the master.

"Ah! now, it's drawin' the long bow you've been," returned the man; "I see it in their face."

"I have rather diluted the dose than otherwise," returned Redpath. "Let me introduce Mr Slagg. He wishes to see Indian life in the 'servants'-hall.' Let him see it, and treat him well."

"Yours to command," said Flinn, with a nod as he led the horses away. "This way, Mr Slug."

"Slagg, if you please, Mr Flinn," said Jim. "The difference between a a an' a u ain't much, but the results is powerful sometimes."

While Slagg was led away to the region of the bungalow appropriated to the domestics, his friends were introduced to pretty little Mrs Redpath, and immediately found themselves thoroughly at home under the powerful influence of Indian hospitality.

Although, being in the immediate neighbourhood of a veritable Indian jungle, it was natural that both Sam and Robin should wish to see a little sport among large game, their professional enthusiasm rose superior to their sporting tendencies, and they decided next day to accompany their host on a short trip of inspection to a neighbouring telegraph station. Letta being made over to the care of the hostess, was forthwith installed as assistant nurse to the white baby, whom she already regarded as a delicious doll -- so readily does female nature adapt itself to its appropriate channels.

Not less readily did Jim Slagg adapt himself to one of the peculiar channels of man's nature. Sport was one of Slagg's weaknesses, though he had enjoyed very little of it, poor fellow, in the course of his life. To shoot a lion, a tiger, or an elephant, was, in Slagg's estimation, the highest possible summit of earthly felicity. He was young, you see, at that time, and moderately foolish! But although he had often dreamed of such bliss, he had never before expected to be within reach of it. His knowledge of sport, moreover, was entirely theoretic. He knew indeed how to load a rifle and pull the trigger, but nothing more.

"You haven't got many tigers in these parts, I suppose?" he said to Flinn as they sauntered towards the house after seeing the electrical party off. He asked the question with hesitation, being impressed with a strange disbelief in tigers, except in a menagerie, and feeling nearly as much ashamed as if he had asked whether they kept elephants in the sugar-basin. To his relief Flinn did not laugh, but replied quite gravely -- "Och! yes, we've got a few, but they don't often come nigh the house. We have to thravel a bit into the jungle, and camp out, whin we wants wan. I heard master say he'd have a try at 'em to-morrow, so you'll see the fun, for we've all got to turn out whin we go after tigers. If you're fond o' sport in a small way, howiver, I can give ye a turn among the birds an' small game to-day."

"There's nothing I'd like better," said Slagg, jumping at the offer like a hungry trout at a fly.

"Come along, then," returned the groom heartily; "we'll take shot-guns, an' a spalpeen of a black boy to carry a spare rifle an' the bag."

In a few minutes the two men, with fowling-pieces on their shoulders, and a remarkably attenuated black boy at their heels carrying a large bore rifle, entered the jungle behind the electrician's bungalow.



Chapter Twenty Five.

A Great Field-Day, In Which Slagg Distinguishes Himself.

Now, although we have said that Jim Slagg knew how to pull a trigger, it does not follow that he knew how to avoid pulling that important little piece of metal. He was aware, of course, that the keeping of his forefinger off the trigger was a point of importance, but how to keep it off when in a state of nervous expectation, he knew not, because his memory and the forefinger of his right hand appeared to get disconnected at such times, and it did not occur to him, just at first, that there was such an arrangement in gun-locks as half-cock.

Flinn reminded him of the fact, however, when, soon after entering the jungle, his straw hat was blown off his head by an accidental discharge of Slagg's gun.

"Niver mention it," said Flinn, picking up his riven headpiece, while poor Slagg overwhelmed him with protestations and apologies, and the black boy stood behind exposing his teeth, and gums and the whites of his eyes freely; "niver mention it, Mr Slagg; accidents will happen, you know, in the best regulated families. As for me beaver, it's better riddled than whole in this warm weather. Maybe you'd as well carry your gun at what sodgers call 'the showlder,' wid the muzzle pintin' at the moon -- so; that's it. Don't blame yoursilf, Mr Slagg. Sure, it's worse than that I was when I begood, for the nasty thing I carried wint off somehow of its own accord, an' I shot me mother's finest pig -- wan barrel into the tail, an' the other into the hid. You see, they both wint off a'most at the same moment. We must learn by exparience, av coorse. You've not had much shootin' yet, I suppose?"

Poor, self-condemned Slagg admitted that he had not, and humbly attended to Flinn's instructions, after which they proceeded on their way; but it might have been observed that Flinn kept a corner of his eye steadily on his new friend during the remainder of that day, while the attenuated black kept so close to Slagg's elbow as to render the pointing of the muzzle of his gun at him an impossibility.

Presently there was heard among the bushes a whirring of wings, and up flew a covey of large birds of the turkey species. Flinn stepped briskly aside, saying, "Now thin, let drive!" while the attenuated black fell cautiously in rear.

Bang! bang! went Slagg's gun.

"Oh!" he cried, conscience-stricken; "there, if I haven't done it again!"

"Done it! av coorse ye have!" cried Flinn, picking up an enormous bird; "it cudn't have bin nater done by a sportin' lord."

"Then it ain't a tame one?" asked Slagg eagerly.

"No more a tame wan than yoursilf, an' the best of aitin' too," said. Flinn.

Jim Slagg went on quietly loading his gun, and did not think it necessary to explain that he had supposed the birds to be tame turkeys, that his piece had a second time gone off by accident, and that he had taken no aim at all!

After that, however, he managed to subdue his feelings a little, and accidentally bagged a few more birds of strange form and beautiful plumage, by the simple process of shutting his eyes and firing into the middle of flocks, to the immense satisfaction of Flinn, who applauded all his successes and explained away all his failures in the most amiable manner.

If the frequent expanding of the mouth from ear to ear, the exposure of white teeth and red gums, and the shutting up of glittering eyes, indicated enjoyment, the attenuated boy must have been in a blissful condition that day.

"Why don't ye shoot yerself, Mister Flinn?" asked Slagg on one occasion while reloading.

"Bekaise it shuits me better to look on," answered the self-denying man. "You see, I'm used to it; besides, I'm a marciful man, and don't care to shoot only for divarshion."

"What's that?" cried Slagg, suddenly pointing his gun straight upwards at two brilliant black eyes which were gazing straight down at him.

"Howld on -- och! don't -- "

Flinn thrust the gun aside, but he was too late to prevent the explosion, which was followed by a lamentable cry, as a huge monkey fell into Slagg's arms, knocked him over with the shock, and bounded off his breast into its native woods, shrieking.

"Arrah! he's niver a bit the worse," cried Flinn, laughing, in spite of his native politeness, "it was the fright knocked him off the branch. If you'd only given him wan shot he might have stud it, but two was too much for him. But plaise, Mister Slagg, don't fire at monkeys again. I niver do it mesilf, an' can't stand by to see it. It's so like murther, an' the only wan I iver shot in me life was so like me own owld gran'mother that I've niver quite got over it."

Slagg willingly promised never again to fire at monkeys, and they proceeded on their way.

They had not gone far, when another whirring of wings was heard, but this time the noise was greater than on other occasions.

"What is it?" asked Slagg eagerly, preparing for action.

"Sure it's a pay-cock," said Flinn.

"A what-cock?" asked Slagg, who afterwards described the noise to be like the flapping of a mainsail.

"A pay-cock. Splendid aitin'. Fire, avic!"

"What! fire at that?" cried Slagg, as a creature of enormous size and gorgeous plumage rose above the bushes. "Ye must be jokin'. I couldn't fire at that."

"Faix, an' ye naidn't fire at it now," returned Flinn with a quiet smile, "for it's a mile out o' range by this time. Better luck -- och! if there isn't another. Now, thin, don't be in a hurry. Be aisy. Whatever ye do, be aisy."

While he spoke another huge bird appeared, and as Slagg beheld its size and spreading wings and tail, he took aim with the feelings of a cold-blooded murderer. That is to say, he shut both eyes and pulled both triggers. This double action had become a confirmed habit by that time, and Flinn commended it on the principle that there was "nothin' like makin' cocksure of everything!"

Re-opening his eyes and lowering his gun, Slagg beheld the peacock sailing away in the far distance.

"Sure ye've missed it, but after all it's a most awkward bird to hit --  specially when ye don't pint the gun quite straight. An' the tail, too, is apt to throw even a crack-shot out -- so it is. Niver mind; there's plenty more where that wan came from."

Thus encouraged, our sportsman reloaded and continued his progress.

It is said that fortune favours the brave, and on that occasion the proverb was verified. There can be no question that our friend Jim Slagg was brave. All Irishmen are courageous, therefore it is equally certain that Flinn was brave, and the attenuated black could not have been otherwise than brave, else he would not have continued to enjoy himself in the dangerous neighbourhood of Slagg's gun. As a consequence, therefore, fortune did favour the sportsmen that day, for it brought them unexpectedly into the presence of the king of India's forests -- a royal Bengal tiger -- tawny skin, round face, glaring eyes, and black stripes complete from nose to tail!

There was no doubt in Flinn's mind about it, as his actions proved, but there were considerable doubts in Slagg's mind, as was evinced by his immediate petrifaction -- not with fear, of course, but with something or other remarkably similar.

Slagg chanced to be walking in advance at the time, making his way with some trouble through a rather dense bit of jungle. He had by that time recovered his self-possession so much that he was able to let his mind wander to other subjects besides sport.

At the moment when the rencontre occurred he chanced to be wandering in spirit among the groves of Pirate Island. On turning sharp round a bend in the track, he found himself face to face with the tiger, which crouched instantly for a spring. As we have said, the sportsman was instantly petrified. He could not believe his eyes! He must have believed something, however, else he would not have gazed with such dreadful intensity. Yes, there, a few feet before him, crouched the tenant of the menagerie, without the cage -- the creature of picture story-books endued with life!

Had Slagg's life depended on his putting his gun to his shoulder he would have lost it, for he could not move. His fingers, however, were gifted with independent action. They gave a spasmodic jerk, and both barrels, chancing to be levelled correctly, sent their charges full into the tiger's face.

Small shot may tickle a tiger but it cannot kill. With a roar like thunder the brute sprang on its audacious enemy. Fortunately Slagg made an involuntary step to the rear at the moment, and fell on his back, so that the animal, half-blinded by shot and smoke, went over him, and alighted almost at the feet of Flinn.

That worthy was equal to the occasion. At the sound of his friend's double shot he had seized the large rifle and leaped forward in time to meet the baffled tiger. Quick as light his practised hand discharged the heavy bullet, which, passing over the animal's head, went into its spine near the haunches, so that when it tried a second spring its hind legs refused their office, and it rolled over fuming and struggling in an agony of pain and rage.

Flinn ran a few paces backward so as to reload in comparative safety, while Slagg followed his example, but in desperate haste. Before he had half charged the first barrel, a second shot from the heavy rifle laid the royal monster dead on the ground.

"Well done!" cried Flinn, seizing his friend's hand and wringing it. "It's Nimrod you are, no less. I niver saw a purtier shot. An', faix, it's not every man that kills a tiger his first day out."

"But I didn't kill it," said Slagg modestly.

"Sure but ye drew first blood, me boy, so the tiger's yours, an' I wish you joy. Come, we'll go home now an' git help to fetch the carcass. Won't they open their two eyes aich of them whin they see it! Here, ye black spalpeen, take the rifle an' give me the gun."

In a few minutes the fortunate hunters were wending their way rapidly homeward, and that night the whole party, while enjoying their supper, feasted their eyes on the magnificent form of the royal Bengal tiger as it lay on the verandah, in front of the electricians' bungalow.



Chapter Twenty Six.

Begins With A Disappointment, Continues With A Great Reception, And Ends With A Series Of Surprises.

At the breakfast-table next morning a telegram was handed to Redpath. There was nothing unusual in this. On the contrary, it seemed peculiarly natural that telegrams should be frequent visitors at the house of a telegraphist, but it was not so natural that Redpath should first look at the missive with surprise, and then toss it across the table to Sam.

"It is for you, Mr Shipton."

"For me? Impossible! I am supposed to be dead at home," exclaimed Sam, tearing it open. "Oh, it's from Frank Hedley, and -- well, he has been successful after all! Listen, Robin. Excuse me, Mrs Redpath. May I read it aloud?"

"By all means," answered the pretty little woman, who would probably have answered the same if he had asked leave to go to bed in his boots.

"'Your affair settled'" -- continued Sam, reading.

"'Great Eastern starts almost immediately. Come without delay.'"

"How provoking!" exclaimed the pretty little woman. "I had counted on having you a fortnight at least."

"And I had counted on showing you some capital sport in our jungles, where we have all sorts of large game. But of course you cannot do otherwise than obey the summons at once."

"Of course not," said Sam and Robin together.

Flinn left the room and entered the servants' quarters with something like a groan.

"Sure it's bad luck has followed me iver since I left owld Ireland."

"What's wrong with you?" asked Slagg, looking up from the slice of peacock breast with which he was regaling himself.

"The matter? Och, it's bad luck's the matter. Hasn't our frindship only just begood, an' isn't it goin' to be cut short all of a suddint, niver more to be renewed?"

In pathetic tones, and with many Hibernian comments, the poor man communicated the news brought by the telegram. But regrets were of no avail; the orders were peremptory; the chance of returning to England in such circumstances too good to be lightly thrown away; so that same forenoon saw the whole party, with the skin of the royal tiger, on their way back to the city of Bombay.

It is easier to imagine than to describe the state of mind into which they were thrown when, on returning to their hotel, they discovered the perfidy of Stumps. Fortunately, they had enough of money left to discharge the hotel bill, and redeem their property.

"You're quite sure of the name of the vessel he sailed in?" asked Sam of the waiter who had so cleverly obtained, and so cautiously retained, his information as to the proceedings of Stumps.

"Quite sure, sir," replied the waiter. "The ship's name was Fairy Queen, bound for the port of London, and the thief -- the gen'lem'n, I mean -- shipped in the name of James Gibson."

Having received the "consideration" which he had anticipated, and had afterwards given up as lost, the waiter retired, and Sam, with his friends, went to inquire after the great cable with which they now felt themselves to be specially connected.

"Letta," said Robin, as they went along, "you and I must part for a time."

"Oh! must we?" asked the child, with a distressed look.

"Yes, but only for a very short time, dear," returned Robin. "You know we cannot get you a berth on board the Great Eastern. They won't even take you as chief engineer or captain!"

"But why not as the captain's daughter -- or his wife?" said Letta, who thoroughly understood and enjoyed a joke.

"Because, Letta, you are engaged to me," replied Robin, with an offended look.

"O, yes; I forgot that. Well?"

Well, what we have arranged is this. I have met with many kind people here, some of whom have been greatly interested in your story, and one of them -- a very nice lady, who is going home -- has offered to take you with her, and deliver you safely to my mother in England, there to wait till I come home and marry you.

"How nice!" exclaimed Letta; "and you'll be sure to come home soon?"

"Yes, quite sure, and very soon."

This arrangement, being deemed satisfactory, was afterwards carried into effect, and Letta sailed a few days later in one of the regular steamers for England via the Suez Canal.

Meanwhile the Great Eastern still lay at her moorings, completing the arrangements for her voyage.

During this period our hero lived in a whirl of excitement. It seemed to himself as if he were the subject of an amazing but by no means unpleasant dream, the only dark spots in which were the departure of Letta and the depravity of John Shanks, alias James Gibson, alias Stumps.

"Oh! Stumps, Stumps," he soliloquised, sadly, one day while standing on "the green" in the unromantic shade of a huge bale of cotton, "how could you behave so after being our trusted comrade so long!"

"Never mind Stumps just now," said Sam Shipton, making his appearance at the moment, "but come along with me at once, for we have received an invitation, through my good and remarkable friend Frank Hedley, to the grand entertainment to be given to-night at the palace of the chief and Bahee Sahib of Junkhundee."

"And who may that be?" asked Robin, with an incredulous smile.

"What! know you not the great chief whose praise is in the mouths of all -- Hindu, Mohammedan, Jew, and Gentile, because he feeds and entertains them all like a prince?"

"He is the creation of your own brain, Sam. I fancy."

"No, indeed," protested Sam, earnestly, "I do not jest. The Bahee Sahib is a wealthy young Mahratta chieftain, who has been consistently loyal to us, and who entertains mixed parties of Englishmen and natives in European style, and does his best to break down the barriers of prejudice and caste. He has been hospitably received on board the Great Eastern, it seems, and is now getting up a grand affair in honour of Captain Halpin and his officers. So, come along."

"But, my dear Sam, you forget, we have not a dress suit between us, and in the present condition of our finances it would be folly to -- "

"Fiddlesticks, Robin. We have only to make a couple of turbans out of bath-towels and a few peacock feathers; turn Persian shawls, which we can borrow, into kilts, put on slippers, bare our legs and paint them with red and blue stripes crossed, to indicate something of Scottish Highland origin, anoint our noses with blue bear's-grease, and -- "

"Nonsense, Sam; be serious if you can, and consider what we are really to do."

"You're so impatient, Robin. The thing has all been considered for us. We have nothing to do but accept our fate. Frank Hedley, who is exactly your size, has a dress suit which he will lend you, and a friend of his, who happens to be exactly and conveniently my size, has also a suit, and is equally accommodating. Come now, for time presses, and I am told the Bahee's wife loves punctuality -- but she's liberal-minded like her husband, and makes allowance for laziness, especially in hot weather. She is a regular trump, it seems, and quite amazed our electricians, during her visit to the big ship, by her intelligent comprehension of all they explained to her. She is an accomplished equestrian, and dresses as a native princess, with a huge ornament in her nose, but does not disdain to mingle with English ladies in the Bombay Rotten Row, and uses a European saddle."

The account which Sam had thus slightly sketched was more than borne out by the facts that evening. The young Rajah's reception-rooms, blazing with light, were decorated with all that the wealth of fancy could suggest or the wealth of precious metal procure, while music and perfume filled the air and intoxicated the senses.

For some time Sam and Robin moved slowly about in the crowded rooms, finding themselves rubbing shoulders, now with Eastern aristocrats in richest costume and glittering jewels, now with England's warriors in scarlet and blue; sometimes with Parsees, Hindus, Mohammedans, and Jews in their characteristic garbs; at other times with European civilians, like themselves, in sober black.

It was a bewildering scene, and the loud continuous murmur of many voices, chattering in many tongues, did not tend to decrease the bewilderment.

"What are they about over there?" said Robin, directing his companion's attention to a room in which the people appeared to be observing something with great attention.

"I don't know. Let's go and see," said Sam.

A little polite pushing brought them into an apartment in which an English professor of conjuring, who had been engaged for the occasion, was exhibiting his tricks. They were poor enough, and would not have commanded much applause from any audience, except one that had met to enjoy whatever chanced to be provided.

In another room, however, they found a performer of much greater capacity -- a man who possessed considerable powers as a musician, low comedian, and local satirist; he was noted for his delineations of native character, and succeeded in making the Parsees laugh heartily at his caricature of the Hindus, while he convulsed the Hindus with his clever skits on the Parsees. He also made effective reference to the Great Eastern and her work, bringing out the humorous aspects of telegraphy and of quick communication between India and England.

"Come, let's go and see if we can find anything to eat," said Sam, when tired of this man.

"Who is that?" asked Robin, as they moved through the crowd.

"Why, that's the Bahee himself. See, he has got hold of Captain Halpin, and seems greatly pleased to lead him about."

The Rajah did indeed exhibit much satisfaction in his beaming brown face at having got hold of so noted a character as the commander of the monster ship, and it was pleasant to see the almost childlike glee, with which, taking the captain by the hand, he threaded his way through the crowd, introducing him right and left to his friends. Not less pleasant was it to observe the lively interest, with which the natives regarded the captain when they learned who he was.

At this point in the evening's proceedings, a gentleman in civilian costume came up to Sam Shipton, and asked him if he were acquainted with Mr Davis -- one of the petty officers of the Great Eastern.

"I know him slightly," said Sam.

"He has got into trouble, sir," said the stranger, "and begged me to find you, if possible, and take you to him. I have been on board the Great Eastern looking for you, and was directed here."

"That's strange," returned Sam, "I have seldom spoken to the man. Are you sure he did not send you for some one else -- one of his mess-mates?"

"Quite sure, sir. And he bade me urge you to go quickly, else you may be too late."

"Well -- lead the way. Come, Robin, I'm sorry to quit this gay and festive scene -- especially before supper -- but it can't be helped. You'll go with me, and we can return together."

The stranger seemed to hesitate a moment, as if annoyed at Robin being thus asked to go, but, as if quickly making up his mind, led them out of the Rajah's residence, and, after a smart walk, conducted them into one of the poorer districts of the city.

"What sort of trouble has the man got into?" asked Sam as they went along.

"I really do not know. He will tell you when you see him, I suppose. I am only a casual acquaintance of his, and came on this errand to oblige him, solely because he seemed in great mental distress and was very urgent."

Soon the conversation turned upon cable-laying, and, finding that Robin had been at the laying of the Atlantic cable of 1856, the stranger inquired about the attempts that had been made to injure that cable.

"Tell me, now, would you think it a sin," he said, with a peculiar look at Sam, "to drive a nail into the cable so as to destroy it, if you were offered the sum of ten thousand pounds?"

"Of course I would," said Sam, looking at his conductor with surprise. "I wonder that you should ask the question."

"Why should you wonder," returned the man with a smile, "at any question which aims at the investigation of that great enigma styled the human mind? I am fond of the study of character, and of those principles of good and evil which influence men. Under given circumstances and conditions, the commission of a certain sin is greatly more blameworthy than the commission of the same sin under different conditions and circumstances. Do you not think so?"

"Of course I do," said Sam. "The man who, having been born and brought up among pickpockets, and under strong temptation commits a theft, is not nearly so guilty as the man would be who, having been trained under refined and Christian influences, should commit a similar theft; but I do not see the application of your argument, for your question did not refer to the relative depth of guilt, but to the sinfulness or innocence of a certain dastardly act for a tempting sum of money."

"I may not have put my question very philosophically," returned the stranger, "but I would like to have your opinion as to whether you think, under any circumstances of distress -- poverty, for instance, with those dependent on one dying of hunger -- a man would be justified in destroying the power of a telegraph cable for a sum of money -- part, let us suppose, paid in advance, and the remainder after the deed had been accomplished."

"My opinion is that no circumstances whatever would justify such an act," said Sam with indignation. "Don't you agree with me, Robin?"

"Of course I do," said Robin with even greater indignation.

"And I quite agree with you, gentlemen," said the stranger, with a wider smile than before; "but I like to have my opinions corroborated or combated by other minds. We have now reached our destination; please follow me, and stoop a little, for the ceiling of the passage is rather low, and the poor people here cannot afford to light it."

The recent discussion had diverted Sam's mind from the character of the place into which he had been led, but a suspicion which had been growing now assailed him forcibly.

"Keep your stick handy," he whispered to Robin, at the same time grasping more firmly a stout cudgel which he carried.

These precautions seemed needless, however, for the stranger, opening with a latch-key a door at the further end of the dark passage, ushered them into a dimly lighted room, where about a dozen men were seated round a table drinking and smoking.

The men rose on the entrance of the visitors and received them with courtesy.

"Mr Davis will be glad to see you, sir," said one; "he has been in much anxiety, but here he comes and will speak for himself."

A door at the other end of the room opened, and a tall slightly-built man entered. Sam saw at once that he was not Davis.

"Fool!" growled the man, with a savage look at the stranger who had conducted them there, "you have brought the wrong man!"

"I had already begun to suspect as much," returned the other, with a light laugh.

Swallowing his disgust, apparently with an effort, the slim man turned to Sam and said, "A mistake has been made, sir. One or two of my friends here will conduct you to any part of the city you may wish to go to."

"I require no assistance," said Sam, flushing with sudden indignation. "I believe that you are conspirators, and will take particular note of your dwelling, in order that I may spoil your game."

He was about to turn and quit the room, when he was suddenly seized from behind by two powerful men, who seemed to have come on the scene by rising through the floor! At the same moment Robin was similarly secured. They did not, however, submit tamely. Both were strong-bodied as well as high-spirited, and Sam was large as well as strong.

But what were their powers against such odds! For a few seconds they struggled furiously. Then, feeling that their efforts were fruitless, they ceased.

"It is as well to go quietly, my fine fellows," said the slim man in a slightly sarcastic tone. "We are not only more than a match for you, but we happen to belong to a class of gentlemen who don't allow trifles to stand in their way. At the same time we object to murder when we can get along without it. Some of us will therefore conduct you to another part of the city. Now, I give you fair warning, if you struggle or try to make a noise on the way, we will silence you in a manner that will effectually keep you quiet for ever. Just have your knives handy, men, and don't exercise forbearance if these gentlemen turn out to be fools."

A prick in their necks by the point of some sharp instrument emphasised these words to Robin and Sam, and, at the same time, proved that the subordinates were quite ready, perhaps even anxious, to obey their superior. They suffered themselves, therefore, to be blindfolded, and led out of the house.

Of course once or twice they both thought of making a sudden struggle and endeavouring to throw off their captors, but the vice-like strength of the fingers that held them, and the recollection of the sharp instruments near their necks induced discretion; besides, the absence of the sound of footsteps told them that they could not count on aid from passers-by, even if the dwellers in such a region had been willing to assist them, which was not probable.

After passing quickly along several streets, the men who led them stopped and relaxed their hold.

"Now, you stand quiet for half a minute," said one of them gruffly; "there's a knife close to each of your spines at this moment."

Thus warned, the captives stood still for nearly a minute. Then Sam lost patience.

"Well," he said, angrily, "how long do you mean to keep us here?"

Receiving no reply, he suddenly pulled the handkerchief from his eyes and assumed the pugilistic attitude with the celerity of one whose life may depend on his action, but the only enemy to be seen was Robin, who, having also pulled down the handkerchief, stood staring at his comrade in mute surprise.

"They're gone!" cried Sam, bursting into a fit of laughter. "The villains! The scoundrels! But who can they be? I fear there can be little doubt as to what mischief they are up to."

"We have not the smallest clue to trace them by," said Robin, with a vexed expression.

"Not the smallest. I don't even know what quarter of the town we are in now," returned Sam.

"The handkerchiefs!" exclaimed Robin with sudden animation.

"Well, what of them?"

"They -- they may have names in the corners."

Again the risible Sam burst into a loud laugh, as the idea of scoundrels possessing any handkerchiefs of their own at all, much less having their names marked in the corners; and poor Robin, whose memories of maternal care had prompted the thought, felt some degree of confusion, which was deepened when he discovered that the kerchiefs, with which their eyes had been bound, were their own.

They were startled by a gruff voice demanding to know what they were laughing at, and kicking up such a row at that time of the morning!

It was one of the guardians of the night, who became very polite on drawing nearer and being informed, in a mild voice, by Sam that they had lost their way and would be much indebted for guidance, for Sam thought it best to say nothing about their adventure until they had had ample time to think it over and decide what was best to be done.

Having been directed how to go, having lost themselves a second time, and been directed again by another guardian, they found themselves at last in the neighbourhood of the port, and here the sound of loud voices, as if engaged in some nocturnal orgies, was heard in the distance.

"As we seem in for a night of adventure," said Sam, "we may as well accept our fate, and go see what it's all about."

"Agreed," said Robin.

Hurrying forward, they came upon a remarkable and picturesque scene. The engineers of the Great Eastern had chosen the previous day for the laying of the mile of land-line, with which the cable was to be connected. The burying of it in its appointed home had commenced at half-past six in the evening and had continued all through the night. It was about 2 a.m. when our adventurers came upon the scene. The trench was cut through ground on which a number of soldiers were encamped, whose white tents looked ghostlike in the feeble star-light, and lines of naked natives were seen, waving lanterns, pushing along the mysterious cable, or, with hands and feet busily pressing down the loose soil that covered the buried portion.

The whole operation was conducted with a superabundance of noise, for the burying of a rope in a trench three feet deep was in itself such a tremendous joke to the coolies, that they entered upon it with much excitement as a sort of unusual piece of fun. That they were in some degree also impressed with the mysterious and important object of their work might have been gathered from their chant: -- "Good are the cable-wallahs, great are their names; good are the cable-wallahs, wah! wah! wah! great are the cable-wallahs, wah!" which they continued without intermission all through the night, to their own intense delight and to the annoyance no doubt of the military unfortunates who were encamped on the ground.

Besides the naked fellows who, in their excitement and activity, resembled good-humoured, brown demons, there were many other figures in English dress moving about, directing and encouraging, running from point to point, flitting to and fro like wills-o'-the-wisp, for all bore lights, and plunged ever and anon out of sight in the trench. Between three and four o'clock the work was completed; tests were taken, the portion of cable was pronounced perfect, and communication was thus established between the cable-house and Rampart Row. This was the first link in the great chain of submarine telegraphy between India and England.

"Now, Robin," said Sam, with a tremendous yawn, "as we've seen the first act in the play, it is time, I think, to go home to bed."

With a yawn that rivalled that of his comrade, Robin admitted the propriety of the proposal, and, half an hour later, they turned in, to sleep -- "perchance to dream!"



Chapter Twenty Seven.

Describes Several Important Events.

The laying of this thick shore-end of the cable was an important point in the great work.

By that time Robin and cousin Sam had been regularly installed as members of the expedition, and were told off with many others to assist at the operation.

The Chiltern carried the great coil in her tanks. After rounding Colaba Point into Back Bay, she found a barge waiting to receive some two-and-a-half miles of the cable, with which she was to proceed to the shore. The barge resembled a huge Noah's Ark, having a canvas awning to protect the cable, which was very sensitive to heat.

A measure of anxiety is natural at the beginning of most enterprises, and there were some who dreaded a "hitch" with superstitious fear, as if it would be a bad omen. But all went well.

"Now then, boys -- shove her along; push her through," said an experienced leader among the cable-hands, who grasped the great coil and guided it. The men took up the words at once, and, to this species of spoken chorus, "shove her along, push her through," the snaky coil was sent rattling over the pulley-wheels by the tank and along the wooden gutter prepared for it, to the paying-out wheel at the Chiltern's stern, whence it plunged down into the barge, where other experienced hands coiled it carefully round and round the entire deck.

It is difficult to describe the almost tender solicitude with which all this was done. The cable was passed carefully -- so carefully -- through all the huge staples that were to direct its course from the fore-tank to the wheel at the stern. Then it was made to pass over a wheel here and under a wheel there, to restrain its impetuosity, besides being passed three times round a drum, which controlled the paying-out. A man stood ready at a wheel, which, by a few rapid turns, could bring the whole affair to a standstill should anything go wrong. In the fore-tank eight men guided each coil to prevent entanglement, and on deck men were stationed a few feet apart all along to the stern, to watch every foot as it passed out. Three hours completed the transfer. Then the barge went slowly shoreward, dropping the cable into the sea as she went.

It was quite a solemn procession! First went a Government steam-tug, flaunting flags from deck to trucks as thick as they could hang. Then came the barge with her precious cargo. Then two boats full of cable-hands, and an official gig pulled by a Chinaman, while the steam-launch Electric kept buzzing about as if superintending all.

When the tug had drawn the barge shoreward as far as she could with safety, the smaller "Electric" took her place. When she also had advanced as far as her draught allowed, a boat carried to the shore a hawser, one end of which was attached to the cable. Then the cable-hands dropped over the sides of the barge up to waist, chest, or neck, (according to size), and, ranging themselves on either side of the rope and cable, dragged the latter to the shore, up the trench made for its reception, and laid its end on the great stone table, where it was made fast, tested by the electricians, as we have said, and pronounced perfect.

A few more days had to pass before the insatiable Great Eastern was filled with coal and reported ready for sea. Then, as a matter of course, she wound up with a grand feast -- a luncheon -- on board, at which many of the leading authorities and merchants of Bombay were present, with a brilliant company which entirely filled the spacious saloons.

"Owing to circumstances," said Sam to Robin that day, "over which we have no control, you and I cannot be included among the guests at this approaching feast."

"I'm sorry for that, Sam," said our hero.

"Why so, Robin? Does a morbid devotion to chicken and ham, or sweets, influence you?"

"Not at all, though I make no pretence of indifference to such things, but I should so much like to hear the speeches."

"Well, my boy, your desire shall be gratified. Through the influence of our, I might almost say miraculous, friend, Frank Hedley, we shall be permitted to witness the proceedings from a retired corner of the saloon, in company with crockery and waiters and other debris of the feast."

At the appointed time the company assembled, and enjoyed as good a luncheon as money could procure.

"How some people do eat!" murmured Robin from his corner to Sam, who sat beside him.

"Yes, for it is their nature to," replied Sam.

After the first toast was drunk the company braced themselves to the mental work of the afternoon, and although, as a matter of course, a good deal of twaddle was spoken, there was also much that threw light on the subject of ocean telegraphy. One of the leading merchants said, in his opening remarks: "Few of those present, I daresay, are really familiar with the history of ocean telegraphy."

"Ah!" whispered Robin to Sam, "that's the man for me. He's sure to tell us a good deal that we don't know, and although I have been ransacking Bombay ever since I arrived, for information, I don't yet feel that I know much."

"Hold your tongue, Robin, and listen," said Sam.

"Mind your foot, sir," remonstrated one of the steward's assistants, who had a lugubrious countenance.

Robin took his foot out of a soup tureen, and applied himself to listen.

"When I reflect," continued the merchant, "that it is now fourteen years since the first ocean telegraph of any importance was laid, -- when I remember that the first cable was laid after an infinity of personal effort on the part of those who had to raise the capital, -- when I mention that it was really a work of house-to-house visitation, when sums of 500 pounds to 1000 pounds, and even 10,000 pounds were raised by private subscription, with a view to laying a telegraph cable between England and America, when I reflect that the Queen's Government granted the use of one of its most splendid vessels, the Agamemnon (Hear! hear! and applause), and that the American Government granted the use of an equally fine vessel, the Niagara -- " (Hear! hear! and another round of applause, directed at the American Consul, who was present.)

("Five glasses smashed that round," growled the lugubrious waiter.)

"When I reflect," continued the merchant, "that the expedition set out in 1857 with the greatest hopefulness, but proved a total failure -- that the earnest men (Hear! hear!) connected with it again set to work the following year, and laid another cable (Applause), which, after passing through it a few messages of great importance to England and America (Hear!) also ceased communication, which so damped the courage of all concerned, that for seven or eight weary years nothing was attempted -- no, I should not say nothing, for during that period Mr Cyrus Field," (thunders of long-continued applause, during which the lugubrious waiter counted the demolition of six glasses and two dessert plates), "without whose able and persevering advocacy it is a question whether to this day we should have had ocean telegraphy carried out at all -- during that period, I say, Mr Cyrus Field never gave himself rest until he had inspired others with some of the enthusiasm that burned so brightly in himself, which resulted in the renewed effort of 1865, with its failure and loss of 1213 miles of cable, -- when I think of the indomitable pluck and confidence shown by such men as Thomas Brassey, Sir Samuel Canning, Sir James Anderson, Sir Daniel Gooch, Sir Richard Glass, Mr George Elliot. Mr Fender, Captain Sherard Osborn, and others -- men of mind, and men of capital, and men who could see no difficulties -- and I like men who can see no difficulties," (Hear! hear! and loud applause.)

("You'll see more difficulties than ye bargain for, if ye go through life makin' people smash crockery like that," growled the lugubrious waiter.)

"When I think of these men, and of the formation of the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company (Applause), and the successful laying of the 1866 cable, and the picking-up and completion of the old cable," (Loud cheers), -- ("Hm! a decanter gone this time. Will you take your foot out of the soup tureen, sir," from the lugubrious man, and an impatient "hush!" from Robin.)

"When I think of all these things, and a great deal more that I cannot venture to inflict on the indulgent company (Go on!) I feel that the toast which I have the honour to propose deserves a foremost place in the toasts of the day, and that you will heartily respond to it, namely, Success to the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company, for that Company has laid scores of cables since its formation, and has now successfully commenced, and will doubtless triumphantly complete, the laying of the cable which we have met to celebrate to-day -- the fourth great enterprise, I may remark, which the Company has undertaken -- the cable that is soon to connect India with England."

The merchant sat down amid thunders of applause, during which the reckoning of breakages was lost, and finally abandoned by the lugubrious waiter.

At first Robin and Sam listened with great interest and profound attention, and the former treasured in his memory, or made pencil notes of, such facts and expectations as the following: -- That only nine months previously had they commenced the construction of the cable which was now about to be laid; that Captain Halpin in the Great Eastern had laid the French Atlantic cable; that in a few weeks they hoped to connect Bombay with Malta, and two months later with England; that, a few months after that, England would be connected with the Straits of Malacca and Singapore. "In short," said one gentleman at the close of his speech, "we hope that in 1871 India will be connected, chiefly, by submarine telegraph, with China, Australia, Europe, and America, and that your morning messages will reach home about the same hour at which they are sent from here, allowing, of course, for the difference in time; and that afternoon and evening messages from Europe will be in your hands at an early hour next morning."

At this point the heat and unpleasant fumes around him began to tell upon Robin, and he suggested that they had better go on deck for a little fresh air.

"I'll not budge," said Sam, positively. "Why, the best is yet to come."

Saying this, to the surprise of Robin, Sam rose, went forward to the table, and asked permission to make a few remarks.

"Who is he? -- what? eh!" exclaimed the chairman. "Turn him out," cried one. "Sit down," cried another. "No, no, let him speak," cried a third. "Don't you know it is Samuel Shipton, the great electrician?"

"Bravo! go on! speak out!" cried several voices, accompanied by loud applause.

"Gentlemen," began Sam in his softest voice, "I regard this as one of the greatest occasions of -- of -- my life," (Hear! hear! from a fussy guest; and Hush! hush! and then we shall hear here better, from an angry one). "I little thought," continued Sam, warming apparently with his subject -- or the heat, "little thought that on this great occasion I could -- could -- I could -- " (would or should; go on, man, from an impatient guest).

"Oh, Sam, don't stick!" cried Robin, in an agony of anxiety.

"Who's that? Put him out!" chorused several voices indignantly.

"There, sir, you've put your foot in it at last," said the lugubrious waiter.

Robin thought he referred to the interruption, but the waiter's eyes and forefinger directed his attention to the soup tureen, which, in his eagerness, he had sacrificed with a stamp. Finding that no further notice was taken of the interruption, he listened, while Sam continued: -- 

"Yes, gentlemen, I have some difficulty in starting, but, once set agoing, gentlemen, I can keep on like an alarum clock. What nonsense have some of you fellows been talking! Some of you have remarked that you shall be able to exchange messages with England in a few hours. Allow me to assure you that before long you will accomplish that feat in a few minutes."

"Pooh! pooh!" ejaculated an irascible old gentleman with a bald head.

"Did you say 'pooh!' sir?" demanded Sam, with a terrible frown.

"I did, sir," replied the old gentleman, with a contemptuous smile.

"Then, sir, take that."

Sam hurled a wine decanter at the old gentleman, which, missing its mark, fell with a loud crash at the feet of Robin, who awoke with a start to find Sam shaking him by the arm.

"Wake up, Robin," he said; "man, you've lost the best speech of the evening. Come -- come on deck now, you've had quite enough of it."

"Yes, an' done enough o' damage too," growled the lugubrious waiter.

So Robin became gradually aware that Sam's speech was a mere fancy, while the smashing of the soup tureen was a hard fact.

It may not, however, be out of place to remark here that the prophecy made by Sam in Robin's dream, did afterwards become a great reality.



Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Cable Laid.

"I say, Robin," said Samuel Shipton, as he encountered our hero and Slagg that same evening in the streets of Bombay, "the government land telegraph was reported this morning to have recovered its health."

"Well, what of that?"

"I have taken advantage of the lucid interval to send a telegram to uncle Rik. No doubt your father has by this time received the telegram we sent announcing our safety and arrival here, so this one won't take them by surprise."

"But what is it about?" asked Robin.

"It is sent," replied Sam, "with the intention of converting uncle Rik into a thief-catcher. That stupid waiter told me only this morning that the time he followed Stumps to the harbour, he overheard a sailor conversing with him and praising a certain tavern named the Tartar, near London Bridge, to which he promised to introduce him on their arrival in England; so it struck me that by telegraphing to uncle Rik to find out the owners of the Fairy Queen and the position of the Tartar, he might lay hold of Stumps on his arrival and recover our stolen property."

"But I hope he won't put him in limbo, sir," said Jim Slagg. "I've no objection to recover our property, but somehow I don't like to have the poor fellow transported. You see I can't help thinkin' he was half-cracked when he did it."

"He must take his chance, I suppose," said Sam, thoughtfully. "However, the telegram is off, and, if it ever reaches him, uncle Rik will act with discretion."

"I agree with Jim," said Robin, "and should be sorry to be the means of ruining our old comrade."

"It did not strike me in that light," returned Sam, a little troubled at the thought. "But it can't be helped now. In any case I suppose he could not be tried till we appear as witnesses against him."

"I ain't much of a lawyer," said Slagg, "but it do seem to me that they couldn't very well take him up without some proof that the property wasn't his."

"It may be so," returned Sam; "we shall see when we get home. Meanwhile it behoves us to square up here, for the Great Eastern starts early to-morrow and we must be on board in good time to-night."

Now, you must not imagine, good reader, that we intend to drag you a second time through all the details of laying a deep-sea cable. The process of laying was much the same in its general principles as that already described, but of course marked by all the improvements in machinery, etcetera, which time and experience had suggested. Moreover, the laying of the Indian cable was eminently, we might almost say monotonously, successful, and, consequently, devoid of stirring incident. We shall therefore merely touch on one or two features of interest connected with it, and then pass on to the more important incidents of our story.

When Robin and his comrades drew near to the big ship, she was surrounded by a perfect fleet of native boats, whose owners were endeavouring to persuade the sailors to purchase bananas and other fruits and vegetables; paroquets, sticks, monkeys, and fancy wares.

Next morning, the 14th of February 1870, the Great Eastern lifted her mighty anchor, and spliced the end of the 2375 miles of cable she had on board to the shore-end, which had been laid by the Chiltern. This splice was effected in the presence of the Governor of Bombay, Sir Seymour Fitzgerald, who, with a small party, accompanied the Great Eastern a short distance on its way. Then, embarking in his yacht, they bade God-speed to the expedition, gave them three ringing cheers, and the voyage to Aden began.

Soon the cable-layers were gliding merrily over the bright blue sea at the rate of five or six knots an hour, with the cable going quietly over the stern, the machinery working smoothly, the electrical condition of the cable improving as the sea deepened, and flocks of flying-fish hovering over the crisp and curly waves, as if they were specially interested in the expedition, and wished to bear it company.

All went well, yet were they well prepared for accident or disaster, as Sam informed Robin on the morning of the 16th while sitting at breakfast.

"They have got two gongs, as you've observed, no doubt," he said, "which are never to be sounded except when mischief is brewing. The first intimation of fault or disaster will be a note from one of these gongs, when the ship will be instantly stepped, the brakes put on, and the engines reversed."

"Everything is splendidly prepared and provided for," said Robin; "hand me the sugar, Sam."

"The elasticity and good behaviour of the big ship are all that could be desired," remarked one of the engineers, "though she carries 3000 tons more dead-weight than when she started with the Atlantic cable in 1865."

At that moment there was a lull of consternation round the breakfast-table, for a drumming upon metal was heard! For one instant there was a gaze of doubt round the table. Then they rose en masse; cups were upset, and chairs thrown over; the cabin was crossed at racing speed, -- Captain Halpin leading -- the stair-case surmounted, and a rush made to the testing-room.

There all was quiet and orderly; the operators placidly pursuing their labours, working out their calculations, or watching the tell-tale spot of light on the scale, and all looking up in silent surprise at the sudden hubbub round their door. It was a false alarm, caused by the steady dripping of a shower-bath on its metal bottom! That was all, but it was sufficient to prove how intensely men were on the qui vive.

It was a wonderful scene, the deck of the Great Eastern --  incomprehensible by those who have not seen it. The cabins, offices, workshops, and machinery formed a continuous line of buildings up the centre of the vessel's deck, dividing it into two streets an eighth of a mile long. At the end of one of these were the wheels and drums running from the top of the aft-tank to the stern; and between them and the two thoroughfares were wooden houses which shut them out from view. There was a farmyard also, where cattle were regularly turned out for exercise; there were goats which were allowed to go free about the decks, and chickens which took the liberty of doing so, sometimes, without leave; there were parrots being taken home by the sailors which shrieked their opinions noisily; and there were numerous monkeys, which gambolled in mischievous fun, or sat still, the embodiment of ludicrous despair; while, intermingling with the general noise could be heard the rattle of the paying-out wheels, as the cable passed with solemn dignity and unvarying persistency over the stern into the sea, it seemed almost unheeded, so perfect and self-acting was the machinery; but it was, nevertheless, watched by keen sleepless eyes -- as the mouse is watched by the cat -- night and day.

The perfection not only achieved but expected, was somewhat absurdly brought out by the electrician in the cable-house at Bombay, who one day complained to the operators on board the Great Eastern that the reply to one of his questions had been from three to twelve seconds late! It must be understood, however, that although the testing of the cable went on continuously during the whole voyage, the sending of messages was not frequent, as that interfered with the general work. Accordingly, communication with the shore was limited to a daily statement from the ship of her position at noon, and to the acknowledgment of the same by the electrician at Bombay.

One of the greatest dangers in paying-out consists in changing from tank to tank when one is emptied, and a full one has to be commenced. This was always an occasion of great interest and anxiety.

About midnight of the 19th the change to the fore-tank was made, and nearly every soul in the ship turned out to see it. The moon was partially obscured, but darkness was made visible by a row of lanterns hung at short intervals along the trough through which the cable was to be passed, making the ship look inconceivably long. As Robin Wright hurried along the deck he observed that both port and starboard watches were on duty, hid in the deep shadow of the wheels, or standing by the bulwark, ready for action. Traversing the entire length of the deck --  past the houses of the sheep and pigs; past the great life-boats; past the half-closed door of the testing-room, where the operators maintained their unceasing watch in a flood of light; past the captain's cabin, a species of land-mark or half-way house; past a group of cows and goats lying on the deck chewing the cud peacefully, and past offices and deck-cabins too numerous to mention, -- he came at last to the fore-tank, which was so full of cable that the hands ready to act, and standing on the upper coil, had to stoop to save their heads from the deck above.

The after-tank, on the contrary, was by that time a huge yawning pit, twenty-five feet deep, lighted by numerous swinging lamps like a subterranean church, with its hands, like Lilliputians, attending to the last coil of the cable. That coil or layer was full four miles long, but it would soon run out, therefore all was in readiness. The captain was giving directions in a low voice, and seeing that every one was in his place. The chiefs of the engineers and electricians were on the alert. Every few minutes a deep voice from below announced the number of "turns" before the last one. At last the operation was successfully accomplished and the danger past, and the cable was soon running out from the fore-tank as smoothly as it had run out of the other.

The tendency of one flake or coil of cable to stick to the coil immediately below, and produce a wild irremediable entanglement before the ship could be stopped, was another danger, but these and all other mishaps of a serious nature were escaped, and the unusually prosperous voyage was brought to a close on the 27th of February, when the Great Eastern reached Aden in a gale of wind -- as if to remind the cable-layers of what might have been -- and the cable was cut and buoyed in forty fathoms water.

The continuation of the cable up the Red Sea, the successful termination of the great enterprise, and the start of our hero and his companions for Old England after their work was done, we must unwillingly leave to the reader's imagination.



Chapter Twenty Nine.

Uncle Rik's Adventures.

Uncle Rik seated in Mr Wright's drawing-room; Mr Wright in an easy-chair near the window; Mrs Wright -- with much of the lustre gone out of her fine eyes -- lying languidly on the sofa; Madge Mayland at work on some incomprehensible piece of netting beside her aunt, -- all in deep mourning.

Uncle Rik has just opened a telegram, at which he stares, open eyed and mouthed, without speaking, while his ruddy cheeks grow pale.

"Not bad news, I trust, brother," said poor Mrs Wright, to whom the worst news had been conveyed when she heard of the wreck of the Triton. Nothing could exceed that, she felt, in bitterness.

"What is it, Rik?" said Mr Wright, anxiously.

"Oh! nothing -- nothing. That is to say, not bad news, certainly, but amazing news. Boh! I'm a fool."

He stopped short after this complimentary assertion, for uncle Rik had somewhere read or heard that joy can kill, and he feared to become an accomplice in a murder.

"Come, Rik, don't keep us in suspense," said his brother, rising; "something has happened."

"O yes, something has indeed happened," cried Rik, "for this telegram is from Sam Shipton."

"Then Robin is alive!" cried Mrs Wright, leaping up, while Madge turned perfectly white.

"No -- that is to say -- yes -- it may be so -- of course must be so -- for, --  bah! what an ass I am! Listen."

He proceeded to read Sam's telegram, while Mrs Wright covered her face with her hands and sank trembling on the sofa.

The telegram having suffered rather severe mutilation at the hands of the foreigners by whom it was transmitted, conveyed a very confusing idea of the facts that were intended, but the puzzling over it by the whole party, and the gradual, though not perfect, elucidation of its meaning, had perhaps the effect of softening the joyful intelligence to a bearable extent.

"Now," said uncle Rik, while the perspiration of mental effort and anxiety stood on his bald forehead, "this is the outcome of it all. Sam clearly says 'all well,' which means, of course, that Robin is alive --  thank God for that! Then he refers to a previous telegram, which, of course, must be lost, for it hasn't come to hand. Bah! I wonder the nasty things ever do come to hand. Anyhow, that telegram must have been meant to announce their safe arrival at Bombay, undoubtedly."

"Of course -- I see it now," said Mrs Wright, with a deep sigh.

"Of course," echoed Rik. "Then there's some queer reference to a ship and a Fiery Queen, and a Stamps and a Shunks, and a Gibson, and a thief, and three bags, and the port of London, which of course means London, and a public-house named, apparently, Torture -- "

"Tartar, I think, uncle," said Madge.

"Well, Tartar if you like, it's much the same if you catch him. And it winds up with a girl -- which is not surprisin' -- who is to be expectorated -- "

"Expected, surely," said Madge, with a rather hysterical laugh, for the conflicting feelings within her tended rather to tears.

"So be it, Madge -- expected, with an unreadable name beginning with an L, -- and that's all; and a pretty penny he must have paid to send us such a lot o' rubbish."

"It has brought the oil of gladness to our hearts, brother," said Mr Wright, "and is worth its cost. But, now, what do you intend to do?"

"Do!" exclaimed Rik, who was never happier than when he could explode his feelings in action. "I'll go this moment to the port of London, find out the owners of the Fiery Queen, make particular inquiries about the Stampses, Shunkses, and Gibsons, visit Torture public-houses -- though they're all that, more or less -- and see if I can hear anything about girls to be expectorated, with names beginning with L. There -- these are my sailing directions, so -- up anchor and away!"

Uncle Rik immediately obeyed his own commands, and spent the remainder of that day in what he styled cruising. And he cruised to some purpose, for although he failed to obtain any information as to the girl, he discovered the owners of the Fairy -- not Fiery -- Queen, who said that she was expected home in a few weeks, but that they knew nothing whatever about the rather remarkable names which he submitted for their consideration. With this amount of information he was fain to rest content, and returned in an elevated state of mind to his brother's house.

Some weeks after these events, the Wright family was again seated round the social board, as uncle Rik called it, when two visitors were announced. The social meal happening to be tea, and the drawing-room at that time in dishabille, owing to carpet disturbances, the visitors were shown into the dining-room -- a lady, accompanied by a pretty little girl.

"Excuse my calling at an unusual hour," said the lady, "but I trust the occasion of my visit will be a sufficient excuse. I have just arrived from Bombay, and hasten to present a letter from your son, and to deliver over my interesting charge, this dear child, Letta Langley, whom -- "

"The expectorated girl!" shouted uncle Rik, leaping up, "begins with an L, -- two L's indeed. Bah, I'm an idiot! Excuse my excitement, madam --  pray go on."

Slightly surprised, but more amused, the lady went on to tell all she knew about Robin and his friends, while the happy mother read snatches of Robin's letter through her tears, and Mr Wright and Madge plied the lady with questions and tea, and Letta, taking at once to uncle Rik, ecstatified, amazed and horrified that retired sea-captain with her charming earnest little ways, her wonderful experiences, and her intimate acquaintance with pirates and their habits.

A letter from Robin to his mother, and another from Sam to Mr Wright, arrived next morning, and proved to be those which had been written immediately after their landing at Bombay, and had been posted, so the writers thought, at the time their first telegram was despatched. But the letters had been given to Stumps to post, and Stumps was not blessed with a good memory, which may account for the delay in transmission. These letters corroborated all the lady had said. Thus was Letta formally installed in the Wright family, and uncle Rik solemnly charged himself with the discovery of her mother!

"Depend upon it, my dear," he said, with an amount of self-sufficient assurance and indomitable resolution that carried sweet consolation to the child's heart, "that I'll find your mother if she's above ground, though the findin' of her should cost me the whole of my fortune and the remainder of my life."

And nobly did Rik redeem his promise. He obtained special introduction to the British Museum, consulted every Directory in existence, hunted up every widow of the name of Langley in the kingdom, and found the right one at last, not three miles distant from his own door in London. Captain Rik, it must be known, had a room in London furnished like a cabin, which he was wont to refer to as his "ship" and his "bunk," but he paid that retreat only occasional visits, finding it more agreeable to live with his brother.

It was a fine Sabbath morning when Rik took Letta's hand and led her into the presence of her mother. He would not let himself be announced, but pushed the child into the drawing-room and shut the door.

With similar delicacy of feeling we now draw a curtain over the meeting of the mother and the long-lost child.

"It's almost too much for me, tough old sea-dog though I am, this perpetual cruisin' about after strange runaway craft," said uncle Rik, as he and Letta walked hand in hand along the streets one day some weeks later. "Here have I been beatin' about for I don't know how long, and I'm only in the middle of it yet. We expect the Fairy Queen in port to-night or to-morrow."

"But you won't hurt poor Stumps when you catch him, will you?" pleaded Letta, looking earnestly up into her companion's jovial face. "He was very nice and kind to me, you know, on Pirate Island."

"No, I'll not hurt him, little old woman," said Rik. "Indeed, I don't know yet for certain that Stumps is a thief; it may be Shunks or it may be Gibson, you see, who is the thief. However, we'll find out before long. Now then, good-bye, I'll be back soon."

He shook hands with Letta at Mr Wright's house, she and her mother having agreed to reside there until Robin's return home.

Wending his way through the streets until he reached one of the great arteries of the metropolis, he got into a 'bus and soon found himself on the banks of the Thames. Arrived at the docks, one of the first vessels his eyes fell on was the Fairy Queen.

Going on board, the first man he met was the captain, to whom he said, touching his hat -- 

"Excuse me, captain; may I ask if you have a man in your crew named Stumps?"

"No, sir, no such name on my books."

"Nor one named Shunks?"

"No, not even Shunks," replied the captain, with a sternly-humorous look, as if he thought the visitor were jesting.

"Nor Gibson?" continued Rik.

"Yes, I've got one named Gibson. What d'ye want with him?"

"Well, I have reason to believe that he is -- or was -- a friend of a friend of mine, and I should like to see him."

"Oh! indeed," responded the captain, regarding his visitor with a doubtful look. "Well, Gibson has just got leave to go ashore, and I heard him say to one of his mates he was going to the Tartar public-house, so you'll see him there, probably, for he is not invisible or'narily. But I don't know where the Tartar is."

"But I know," returned Captain Rik; "thank you. I'll go seek him there."

Stumps sat alone in one of the boxes of the Tartar public-house, which at that hour chanced to be nearly empty. His face was buried in his hands, and a pot of untasted beer stood at his elbow. Poor Stumps! Conscience had been remarkably busy with him on the voyage home. He would have given worlds to have got back to Bombay, return the ill-gotten bags, and confess his guilt, but it was too late -- too late.

There is something very awful in these words, too late! We read of and hear them often, and we use them sometimes, lightly it may be, but it is only when they can be used by ourselves with reference to something very serious, that we have a glimmering of their terrible significance. There is a proverb, "It is never too late to mend," which is misleading. When the dream of life is over, and the doom is fixed, it is too late to mend. No doubt the proverb is meant to refer to our condition while this life lasts, but even here it is misleading. When the murderer withdraws the knife and gazes, it may be, horror-struck at the expressionless face of his victim, it is too late. He cannot mend the severed thread of life. When the reckless drunkard draws near the end of his career, and looks in the mirror, and starts to see the wreck of his former self, it is too late. Health will never more return. Not too late, blessed be God, for the salvation of the soul, but too late for the recovery of all that was held dear in the life of earth.

Yes, Stumps had many a time while on the sea muttered to himself, "Too late!" He did so once again in that low public-house near the docks. Uncle Rik overheard him, and a feeling of profound pity arose within him.

"I beg pardon," he said, and at the first word Stumps looked quickly, almost fiercely, up, "your name, I believe, is Gibson."

"No, it isn't -- I, that is to say -- Well, yes it is. Sailors has got aliases, you know, sometimes. What d'ye want wi' me?"

"You were acquainted in Bombay," resumed Captain Wright, very quietly, as he sat down opposite to Stumps, "with a young man named Wright -- Robin Wright?"

Stumps's face became deadly pale.

"Ah! I see you were," resumed the captain; "and you and he had something to do, now, with bags of some sort?"

The captain was, as the reader knows, profoundly ignorant of everything connected with the bags except their existence, but he had his suspicions, and thought this a rather knowing way of inducing Stumps to commit himself. His surprise, then, may be imagined when Stumps, instead of replying, leaped up and dashed wildly out of the room, overturning the pot of beer upon Captain Rik's legs.

Stumps shot like an arrow past the landlord, a retired pugilist, who chanced to be in the doorway. Captain Rik, recovering, darted after him, but was arrested by the landlord.

"Not quite so fast, old gen'l'man! As you've had some of your mate's beer, you'd better pay for it."

"Let me go! -- stop him!" cried the captain, struggling.

As well might he have struggled in the grasp of Hercules. His reason asserted itself the instant the fugitive was out of sight. He silently paid for the beer, went back to the Fairy Queen to inform the captain that his man Gibson was a thief -- to which the captain replied that it was very probable, but that it was no business of his -- and then wandered sadly back to tell the Wright family how Gibson, alias Stumps, alias Shunks, had been found and lost.



Chapter Thirty.

The Wright Family Reunited, And Sam Becomes Highly Electrical.

That much-abused and oft-neglected meal called tea had always been a scene of great festivity and good-fellowship in the Wright family. Circumstances, uncontrollable of course, had from the beginning necessitated a dinner at one o'clock, so that they assembled round the family board at six each evening, in a hungry and happy frame of body and mind, (which late diners would envy if they understood it), with the prospect of an evening -- not bed -- before them.

In the earlier years of the family, the meal had been, so to speak, a riotous one, for both Robin and Madge had uncontrollable spirits, with tendencies to drop spoons on the floor, and overturn jugs of milk on the table. Later on, the meal became a jolly one, and, still later, a chatty one -- especially after uncle Rik and cousin Sam began to be frequent guests.

But never in all the experience of the family had the favourite meal been so jolly, so prolific of spoony and porcelain accidents, so chatty, and so generally riotous, as it was on a certain evening in June of the year 1870, shortly after the return home of Robin and his companions.

Besides the original Wright family, consisting of father, mother, Robin, and Madge, there were assembled uncle Rik, Sam Shipton, Mrs Langley, Letta, and -- no -- not Jim Slagg. The circle was unavoidably incomplete, for Jim had a mother, and Jim had said with indignant emphasis, "did they suppose all the teas an' dinners an' suppers, to say nothin' o' breakfasts, an' mess-mates an' chums an' friends, crammed and jammed into one enormous mass temptation, would indooce him to delay his return to that old lady for the smallest fraction of an hour?" No, Jim Slagg was not at the table, but the household cat was under it, and the demoralising attentions that creature received on that occasion went far to undo the careful training of previous years.

The occasion of the gathering was not simple. It was compound. First, it was in commemoration of Robin's birthday; second, it was to celebrate the appointment of Sam Shipton to an influential position on the electrical staff of the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company, and Sam's engagement to Marjory Mayland; third, to celebrate the appointment of Robin Wright to a sufficiently lucrative and hopeful post under Sam; and, lastly, to enjoy the passing hour.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said uncle Rik, getting on his feet with some difficulty, when the tea, toast, muffins, eggs, and other fare had blunted the appetites, "I rise to propose the toast of the evening, and mark you, I don't mean to use any butter with this toast," (Hear, from Sam), "unless I'm egged on," (Oh!), "to do it -- so I charge you to charge your cups with tea, since we're not allowed grog in this tee-total ship -- though I'm free to confess that I go in with you there, for I've long since given, up the use o' that pernicious though pleasant beverage, takin' it always neat, now, in the form of cold water, varied occasionally with hot tea and coffee. My toast, ladies and gentlemen, is Rob -- " (Rik put his hand to his throat to ease off his necktie), "is Robin Wright, whom I've known, off an' on, as a babby, boy, an' man, almost ever since that night -- now twenty years ago, more or less -- when he was launched upon the sea in thunder, lightning, and in rain. I've known him, I say -- ever since -- off an' on -- and I'm bound to say that -- "

The captain paused. He had meant to be funny, but the occasion proved too much for him.

"Bless you, Robin, my lad," he gasped, suddenly stretching his large hand across the table and grasping that of his nephew, which was quickly extended. After shaking it with intense vigour he sat promptly down and blew his nose.

The thunders of applause which burst from Sam and Mr Wright were joined in even by the ladies, who, in the excess of their sympathy, made use of knife-handles and spoons with such manly vigour that several pieces of crockery went "by the board," as the captain himself remarked, and the household cat became positively electrified and negatively mad, --  inasmuch as it was repelled by the horrors around, and denied itself the remaining pleasure of the tea-table by flying wildly from the room.

Of course, Robin attempted a reply, but was equally unsuccessful in expressing his real sentiments, or the true state of his feelings, but uncle Rik came to the rescue by turning sharply on Sam and demanding -- 

"Do you really mean to tell me, sir, that, after all your experience, you still believe in telegraphs and steamboats?"

Sam promptly asserted that he really did mean that.

"Of course," returned the captain, "you can't help believing in their existence -- for facts are facts -- but are you so soft, so unphilosophical, so idiotical as to believe in their continuance? That's the point, lad -- their continuance. Are you not aware that, in course o' time, rust they must -- "

"An' then they'll bu'st," interpolated Robin.

"Hee! hee! ha!" giggled Letta, who, during all this time, had been gazing with sparkling eyes and parted lips, from one speaker to another, utterly forgetful of, and therefore thoroughly enjoying, her own existence.

"Yes, then they'll bu'st," repeated Rik, with an approving nod at Robin; "you're right, my boy, and the sooner they do it the better, for I'm quite sick of their flashings and crashings."

"I rather suspect, Sam," said Mr Wright, "that the gentlemen with whom you dined the other day would not agree with uncle Rik."

"Whom do you refer to, George?" asked Mrs Wright.

"Has he not yet told you of the grand 'inaugural fete,' as they call it, that was given at the house of Mr Fender, chairman of the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company, to celebrate the opening of direct submarine telegraphic communication with India?"

"Not a word," replied Mrs Wright, looking at Sam.

"You never mentioned it to me," said Madge, with a reproachful glance in the same direction.

"Because, Madge, we have been so busy in talking about something else," said Sam, "that I really forgot all about it."

"Do tell us about it now," said Mrs Langley, who, like her daughter, had been listening in silence up to this point.

"A deal o' rubbish was spoken, I daresay," observed the captain, commencing to another muffin, and demanding more tea.

"A deal of something was spoken, at all events," said Sam, "and what is more to the point, an amazing deal was done. Come, before speaking about it, let me propose a toast -- Success to Batteries and Boilers!"

"Amen to that!" said Robin, with enthusiasm.

"If they deserve it," said the captain, with caution.

The toast having been drunk with all the honours, Sam began by saying that the fete was a great occasion, and included brilliant company.

"There were present, of course," he said, "nearly all the great electrical and engineering lights of the day, also the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cambridge, with a lot of aristocrats, whom it is not necessary to mention in the presence of a democratic sea-dog like uncle Rik."

"Don't yaw about to defame me, but keep to your course, Sam."

"Well, you have no idea what an amount of interest and enthusiasm the affair created. You all know, of course, that the Indian cable, which Robin and I had a hand in laying, is now connected with the lines that pass between Suez, Alexandria, Malta, Gibraltar, Lisbon, and England; and the company assembled at Mr Pender's house witnessed the sending of the first messages direct from London to Bombay; and how long, do you think, it took to send the first message, and receive a reply? -- only five minutes!"

"You don't mean it, Sam!" exclaimed Rik, getting excited, in spite of his professed unbelief.

"Indeed I do," replied Sam, warming with his subject. "I tell you the sober truth, however difficult it may be for you to believe it. You may see it in the papers of the 24th or 25th, I suppose. Here is my note-book, in which I jotted down the most interesting points.

"The proceedings of the evening were opened by the managing director in London sending a telegram to the manager at Bombay.

"'How are you all?' was the brief first telegram by Sir James Anderson. 'All well,' was the briefer first reply from Bombay. The question fled from London at 9:18 exactly -- I had my watch in my hand at the time -- and the answer came back at 9:23 -- just five minutes. I can tell you it was hard to believe that the whole thing was not a practical joke. In fact, the message and reply were almost instantaneous, the five minutes being chiefly occupied in manipulating the instruments at either end. The second message between the same parties occupied the same time. After that Sir Bartle Frere sent a telegram to Sir Seymour Fitzgerald, the Governor of Bombay, as follows: -- 'Sir Bartle Frere wishes health and prosperity to all old friends in Bombay.' This was received by the Company's superintendent at Bombay, and the acknowledgment of its receipt sent back in four minutes and fifty seconds! But the reply from the Governor, 'Your old friend returns your good wishes,' did not come to us for thirty-six minutes, because the message had to be sent to the Governor's house, and it found his Excellency in bed.

"Next, a message was sent by Lady Mayo in London to Lord Mayo at Simla, which, with the acknowledgment of it, occupied 15 minutes in transmission. Of course time was lost in some cases, because the persons telegraphed to were not on the spot at the moment. The Prince of Wales telegraphed to the Viceroy of India, 'I congratulate your Excellency on England and India being now connected by a submarine cable. I feel assured this grand achievement will prove of immense benefit to the welfare of the Empire. Its success is thus matter of imperial interest,' which telegram passed out, and the acknowledgment of its receipt in India was returned to London, all within eleven minutes, but, as in the former case, the Viceroy was in bed, so that his reply was not received till forty-five minutes had elapsed. Had the Viceroy been at the Indian end of the wire, he and the Prince could have conversed at an average rate of five minutes a sentence.

"Many other messages were sent to and fro," continued Sam, turning over the leaves of his note-book, "not only from London to India, but to each of the intermediate stations on the cable line, so that we had direct intercourse that night with the King of Portugal, the Governors of Gibraltar, Malta, and Aden, and the Khedive of Egypt. But that was not all. We put the old and the new world into communication, so that the 'press of India sent salaam to the press of America.' Sir James Anderson also telegraphed to Cyrus W. Field, Esquire, the father of submarine telegraphy in my estimation," (Hear, hear, from Robin), "and he sent a reply, which began, 'Your message of this evening received by me before five o'clock this afternoon.' Mark that, Captain Rik, the message received before it was sent, so to speak!"

"Ay, ay, lad -- I know -- difference of longitude, -- fire away."

"Well, I have fired away most of my ammunition now," returned Sam, "and if you don't haul down your colours, it must be because you have nailed them to the mast and are blind to reason. I may add, however, that the Viceroy of India sent a telegram to the President of the United States, to which he got a reply in seven hours and forty minutes, but the slowness of this message was accounted for by the fact of accidental and partly unavoidable delay in transmission both in Washington and London. At 1:30 a.m. of the 24th the traffic of the line became pressing, and all complimentary messages ceased with one from Bombay, which said, 'Sun just risen; delightfully cool; raining.'"

"Doesn't it seem as if the Baron Monkhausen's tales were possible after all?" remarked Mrs Wright, looking as if her mind had got slightly confused.

"The Baron's tales are mere child's-play, mother," said Robin, "to the grand facts of electricity."

"That's so, Robin," said Sam, still turning over the leaves of his note-book, "and we had some magnificent experiments or illustrations at the fete, which go far to prove the truth of your remark -- experiments which were so beautiful that they would have made the eyes of Letta sparkle even more gorgeously than they are doing at present, if she had seen them."

Letta blushed, returned to self-consciousness for a moment, looked down, laughed, looked up as Sam proceeded, and soon again forgot herself in a fixed and earnest gaze.

"The two telegraph instruments communicating with India and America, which stood on two tables, side by side, in Mr Pender's house, were supplied by two batteries in the basement of the building. Eighty cells of Daniel's battery were used upon the Penzance circuit for India, and 100 cells on the Brest circuit for America. The ordinary water-pipes of the house served to connect the batteries with the earth, so as to enable them to pump their electricity from that inexhaustible reservoir."

"I was not aware that electricity had to be pumped up through pipes like water," interrupted Mrs Wright, on whose mild countenance a complication of puzzled expressions was gradually gathering.

"It is not so pumped up," said Sam. "The pipes were used, not because they were pipes, but because they were metal, and therefore good conductors."

"But you haven't told us about the beautiful experiments yet," murmured Letta, a little impatiently.

"I'm coming to them, little one," said Sam. "One battery exhibited the power as well as the beauty of that mysterious force which we call electricity. It was the large Grove battery. A current passed from it to copper wires, in a certain manner, produced a dazzling green light, and the copper melted like wax. With silver a still brighter and purer green flame was the result. With platinum an intense white light was given off, and the molten metal fell in globules of exceeding brilliancy. With iron lovely coruscations were exhibited, the boiling vapour flying and burning in all directions; and a platinum wire three feet long was in an instant melted into thousands of minute globules. All this showed the power of electricity to produce intense heat when resistance is opposed to its passage."

"It is remarkably human-like in that respect," said Captain Rik, in an under-tone.

"Then its power to produce magnetism," continued Sam, "was shown by Lord Lindsay's huge electro-magnet. This magnet, you must know, is nothing but a bit of ordinary metal until it is electrified, when it becomes a most powerful magnet. But the instant the current is cut off from it, it ceases to be a magnet. If you understood much about electricity," said Sam, looking round on his rapt audience, "I might tell you that it is upon this power of making a piece of iron a magnet or not at pleasure, that depend the Morse and Digne telegraph instruments; but as you don't understand, I won't perplex you further. Well, when a piece of sheet copper was passed between the poles of Lord Lindsay's giant magnet, it was as difficult to move as if it had been sticking in cheese -- though it was in reality touching nothing! -- influenced only by attraction." ("That beats your power over Sam, Madge," whispered Robin. "No it doesn't," whispered Madge in reply.) "Then, one most beautiful experiment I could not hope to get you to understand, but its result was, that a ten-gallon glass jar, coated inside and out with perforated squares of tinfoil, was filled with tens of thousands of brilliant sparks, which produced so much noise as completely to drown the voices of those who described the experiment. A knowledge of these and other deep things, and of the laws that govern them, has enabled Sir William Thomson and Mr Cromwell F. Varley to expedite the transmission of messages through very long submarine cables in an enormous degree. Then the aurora borealis was illustrated by a large long exhausted tube -- "

"I say, Sam," interrupted Rik, "don't you think there's just a possibility of our becoming a large long-exhausted company if you don't bring this interesting lecture to a close?"

"Shame! shame! uncle Rik," cried Robin.

As the rest of the company sided with him, the captain had to give way, and Sam went on.

"I won't try your patience much longer; in fact I have nearly come to an end. In this long exhausted tube, ten feet in length and three inches in diameter, a brilliant and beautiful crimson stream was produced, by means of an induction coil. In short, the occasion and, the proceedings altogether, made it the most interesting evening I have ever spent in my life, e-except -- "

Sam paused abruptly, and looked at Madge. Madge blushed and looked down under the table, -- presumably for the cat, -- and the rest of the company burst into an uproarious fit of laughter, in which condition we will leave them and convey the reader to a very different though not less interesting scene.



Chapter Thirty One.

Describes A Happy Home And A Happier Meeting.

In a small wayside cottage in the outskirts of one of those picturesque villages which surround London, an old woman sat at the head of a small deal table, with a black teapot, a brown sugar-basin, a yellow milk jug, and a cracked tea-cup before her.

At the foot of the same table sat a young man, with a large knife in one hand, a huge loaf of bread in the other, and a mass of yellow butter in a blue plate in front of him.

The young man was James Slagg; the old woman was his mother. Jim had no brothers or sisters, and his father chanced to be absent at market, so he had the "old lady" all to himself.

"Well, well, Jim," said Mrs Slagg, with a loving look at her son's flushed face, "you've told me a heap o' wonderful tales about telegrumphs, an' tigers, an' electricity an' what not. If you was as great a liar as you was used to be, Jim, I tell 'ee plain, lad, I wouldn't believe one word on it. But you're a better boy than you was, Jim, an' I do believe you -- indeed I do, though I must confess that some on it is hard to swallow."

"Thank 'ee, mother," said Jim, with a pleasant nod, as he cut an enormous slice from the loaf, trowelled upon it a mass of the yellow butter, and pushed in his cup for more tea.

"It was good of ye, Jim," said the old woman, "to leave all yer fine friends and come straight away here to see your mother."

"Good o' me!" ejaculated Jim, with his mouth full -- too full, we might say -- "what goodness is there in a feller goin' home, eh? Who's finer, I should like to know, than a feller's mother?"

"Well, you are a good boy, Jim," said the old woman, glancing at a superannuated clock, which told of the moments in loud, almost absurd solemnity; "but if you don't stop talkin' and go on wi' your eatin', you'll lose the train."

"True, mother. Time and tide, they say, wait for no man; but trains is wuss than time or tide, they won't even wait for a woman."

"But why go at all to-day, Jim; won't to-morrow do?"

"No, mother, it won't do. I didn't mean to tell 'ee till I came back, for fear it should be a mistake; but I can't keep nothin' from you, old lady, so I may as well ease my mind before I go. The fact is, I've just heard of the whereabouts of John Shanks -- Stumps, you know -- my old mate, that I've told you bolted with all our treasure from Bombay. Ah! mother, if I'd only brought that treasure home wi' me, it's a lady you'd have bin to-day. I had all sorts o' plans for you -- a coach an' six was -- "

"Never mind your plans, Jim, but tell me about poor Stumps."

"Well, mother, a tramp came past here, an' had a bit of a talk wi' me yesterday. You know I ginerally have a bit of a chat wi' tramps now, ever since that city missionary -- God bless him -- pulled me up at the docks, an' began talkin' to me about my soul. Well, that tramp came here early this mornin', sayin' he'd bin in a poor woman's house in the city, where there was a man dyin' in a corner. While he was talkin' with some o' the people there he chanced to mention my name, an' observed that the dyin' man got excited when he heard it, and called to the tramp and asked him about me, and then begged him, for love and for money, which he offered him, to come and fetch me to him as fast as he could, sayin' that his name was Stumps, and he knew me. So, you see, as the next train is the first that -- you needn't look at the clock so often, old lady; it's full ten minutes yet, and I'll back my legs to do it in three."

"Don't forget to take your Bible wi' you, dear boy."

Jim Slagg rose with a pleasant nod, slapped the breast of his coat, on which the oblong form of a small book in the pocket could be traced, said "Good-day, mother," and left the cottage.

It was not long before he stood in the dark passage which led to the room described to him by the tramp. The old woman who rented it gave him her unasked opinion of her lodger before admitting him.

"You've got no notion, sir, what a strange character that young man is."

"O yes, I have; let me see him," said Slagg.

"But, sir," continued the landlady, detaining him, "you must be careful, for he ain't hisself quite. Not that he's ever done anythink wiolent to me, poor young man, but he's strong in his fits, an' he raves terribly."

"Has no doctor bin to see him?" asked Slagg.

"No; he won't let me send for one. He says it's o' no use, an' he couldn't afford to pay for one. An' oh! you've no notion what a miser that poor young man is. He must have plenty of money, for the box as he takes it out on -- an' it's at his head he keeps it, day and night, ginerally holdin' it with one hand -- seems full o' money, for it's wonderful heavy. I could see that when he brought it here, an' there's no clo'es in it, that I can see, when he opens it, to get at the few pence he wants now an' again. An' he starves hisself, an' says he's not fit to live, an' calls hisself sitch awful names, an' -- "

"Well, well, show me his room," said Slagg, with as much decision in his tone as compelled immediate obedience.

In the corner of a small room, on a truckle-bed, with scant bedding, lay the emaciated form of John Shanks, alias Stumps, alias James Gibson. He had raised himself on one elbow, and was gazing with great lustrous invalid eyes at the door, when his old comrade entered, for he had been watching, and heard the first sound of footsteps in the passage.

"Oh! Jim Slagg," he cried, extending a hand which bore strong resemblance to a claw, it was so thin. "Come to me, Jim, How I've wished an' longed, an' -- "

He stopped and burst into tears, for he was very weak, poor fellow, and even strong men weep when their strength is brought low.

"Come now, Stumps," said Slagg, in a serious voice, as he sat down on the bed, put an arm round his old comrade's thin shoulders, and made him lie down, "if you go to excite yourself like that, I'll -- I'll -- quit the room, an' I won't come back for an hour or more."

"No! O no!" exclaimed the sick man; clutching Slagg's arm with a trembling grip, "don't leave me, Jim -- don't, don't! I shall die if you do! I'm dyin' anyhow, but it will kill me quicker if you go."

"Well, I won't go. There, keep quiet, my poor old Stumps."

"Yes, that's it -- that's it -- I like to hear the old name," murmured the sick man, closing his eyes. "Say it again, Jim -- say it again."

"Stumps," said Slagg, getting down on his knees, the better to arrange and grasp his former comrade, "don't be a fool now, but listen. I have come to look after you, so make your mind easy."

"But I've been such a beast to you, Jim; it was so awful shabby," cried Stumps, rousing himself again, "and I've been so sorry ever since. You can't think how sorry. I have repented, Jim, if ever a man did. An' I'd have come back and confessed long ago, if I'd had the chance, but I can get no rest -- no peace. I've never spent a rap of it, Jim, except what I couldn't help -- for you know, Jim, body an' soul wouldn't stick together without a little o' suthin' to eat an' drink; an' when I was ill I couldn't work, you know. See, it's all here -- all here -- except what little -- "

He stopped abruptly, having raised himself to open the lid of the box at his elbow, but his strength failed, and he sank on the pillow with a groan.

"Stumps," said Slagg, "come, old boy, you an' me will have a bit of prayer together."

The sick man opened his great eyes in astonishment. It was so unlike his old friend's brusque rollicking character to propose prayer, that he fancied he must be dreaming, and the possibility of the visit turning out unreal, induced an expression of distress on his haggard countenance. On being ordered, however, in the peremptory and familiar tones of former days, to shut his eyes, he felt reassured and became calm, while his friend prayed for him.

It was not a set or formal prayer by any means. It sounded strangely like a man asking a friend, in commonplace terms, but very earnestly, to give him what he stood in great need of; and what Jim asked for was the salvation of his friend's soul and his restoration to health. The petition, therefore, was remarkably brief, yet full of reverence, for Jim, though naturally blunt and straightforward, felt that he was addressing the great and blessed God and Saviour, who had so recently rescued his own soul.

After saying "Amen!" which the sick man echoed, Slagg pulled out his Bible and read through the fourteenth chapter of John's gospel, commenting quietly as he went along, while his comrade listened with intense earnestness. At the first verse Jim paused and said, "This wasn't written to holy and sinless men. 'Let not your heart be troubled,' was said to the disciples, one o' them bein' Peter, the man who was to deny Jesus three times with oaths and curses, and then forsake Him. The Lord came to save sinners. It would be a poor look-out for you, Stumps, if you thought yourself a good man."

"But I don't -- oh! I don't, and you know I don't!" exclaimed the sick man vehemently.

"Then the Lord says, 'Let not your heart be troubled,' and tells you to believe in God and Himself."

At the second verse Slagg remarked that it would be a sad, sad thing if the mansion prepared, among the many mansions, for his friend were to be left empty.

"But how am I to get to it, Jim; how am I ever to find the way?"

"Just what the disciple named Thomas asked -- an' he was a very doubting follower of Jesus, like too many of us. The Master said to him what He says to you and me, 'I am the way and the truth and the life; no one cometh unto the Father but by me.'"

At the ninth verse the sailor-missionary said, "Jesus is God, you see, so we're safe to trust Him," and, at the thirteenth verse, "Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name that will I do," he said. "Now, we have asked Jesus to save you, and He will do it, by His Holy Spirit, as He has saved me -- has saved millions in time past, and will save millions more in time to come. Why, you see, in the sixteenth verse He tells you He will pray the Father to send you a Comforter, who will stay with you for ever. Has He not reason then for beginnin' with 'let not your heart be troubled'? And that same Comforter, the Holy Spirit, is to 'teach us all things,' so, you see, every difficulty is taken out of our way. 'Arise, let us go hence.' Now, my old messmate, I have arisen. Will you not arise and go with me, both of us looking unto Jesus?"

"I will -- God helping me!" cried the sick man, literally arising from his couch and raising both arms to heaven.

"There, now -- thank the Lord; but you must lie down again and keep quiet," said Jim, gently and kindly forcing his friend backward.

Stumps did not resist. He closed his eyes, and the restful feeling that had suddenly arisen in his heart when he said the momentous words, "I will," coupled with exhaustion, resulted almost instantaneously in a quiet slumber.

"When did he eat last?" asked Slagg of the old woman, in a low voice, for he had been taught, or had learned intuitively, that few things are more disheartening in a sick-room than a whisper.

"This morning he breakfasted at six, but it was on'y a hap'orth o' bread and a drink o' cold water."

"And how dare you starve your lodger in that way?" demanded Slagg, leading the astonished woman into the passage and closing the door. "Don't you know that starving a man is equal to murdering him, and that you'll be liable to be hung if he dies? There, take this half-sov, and be off to the nearest shop, an' buy -- let me see -- sassengers and steaks and -- oh, you know better than me what a sick man wants. Get along with you, and be back sharp. Stay! where are your matches? Ah! Any coals? Good, now away with you and fetch a doctor too, else I'll fetch a policeman, you bolster of bones."

Thus ordered, threatened, and adjured, the landlady, half-amused, and more than half-frightened at the visitor's gushing energy, hurried from the house, while Slagg returned to the miserable room, and did his best to render it less miserable by kindling a splendid fire.

It is, perhaps, unnecessary to add, that a breakfast soon filled that room with delicious odour, such as had not been felt in that lowly neighbourhood for many years; that Stumps, after a refreshing sleep, partook of the feast with relish; that Jim Slagg also partook of it -- of most of it, indeed -- and enjoyed it to the full; that the old landlady was invited to "fall to," and did fall to with alacrity; that the domestic cat also managed to fall to, surreptitiously, without invitation, and not the less enjoyably on that account; that a miserable semi-featherless but unconquerable canary in a cage in the window took care that it was not forgotten; and that several street boys, smelling the viands from afar, came round the outer door, became clamorous, and were not sent empty away.

It may, however, be advisable to add, that Stumps did not die; that joy of heart, good feeding, and -- perhaps -- the doctor, brought him round, and that he afterwards went to the country to spend the period of convalescence in the cottage by the roadside, with Slagg's mother.



Chapter Thirty Two.

In Which The Story Finds A "Fault," And The Electrical Current Ends.

Now, it is not in the nature of things that man, in his present state, should attain to full satisfaction. He may, indeed he should, attain to contentment, but as long as there are higher and better things within his reach, he must of necessity remain in some degree unsatisfied.

Some such idea must have been passing through Robin Wright's brain one fine morning, as he slowly paced the deck of a small schooner with his friend Sam Shipton, for he suddenly broke a prolonged silence with the following remark: -- 

"I don't know how it is, Sam, but although I am surrounded with everything that should make a fellow happy, I'm -- I'm not happy. In fact, I'm as miserable as it is possible to be!"

"Come now, Robin, don't exaggerate," said Sam in a remonstrative tone. "Hyperbole is very objectionable, especially in young men. You know that if you were tied to a huge gridiron over a slow fire, you would be more miserable than you are at present."

Robin smiled and admitted the truth of this, but nevertheless reiterated his assertion that he was decidedly unhappy.

This conversation, we may remark, took place on board of Sam Shipton's yacht, off the west coast of Scotland, several years after the events narrated in the previous chapter.

"Well, now, it is strange," said Sam, with an earnestly sympathetic air and tone of voice, but with the faintest possible twinkle in the extreme corner of one of his eyes. "Let me see -- everything, as you justly remark, ought to make you happy here. The weather, to begin with --  people always begin with the weather, you know -- is splendid, though there is a thundery look about the horizon to the west'ard. Then our yacht, the Gleam, is a perfect duck, both as to her sea-going and sailing qualities, and Captain James Slagg is a perfect seaman, while Stumps is a superlative steward and cook. Our time is our own, and the world before us where to choose. Then, as to our companionship, what female society could be more agreeable than that of my wife Madge, and her bosom friend Letta, who, since she has grown up, has become one of the most beautiful, fascinating, charming, -- but why go on, when, in the language of the poet, 'adequate words is wantin'!' And Letta's mother is second only to herself. Then as to the men, could there be found anywhere finer fellows than uncle Rik and Ebenezer Smith, and Frank Hedley -- to say nothing of myself and our splendid little boy Sammy? I can't understand it, Robin. You're not ill, are you?"

"Ill? no. Never was better in my life."

"Well, then, what is it? Be confidential, my boy. The witching hour of sunrise is fitted for confidential communications. You're not in love, are -- "

"Hush, Sam! the skylight is open. Come forward to the bows. Yes, Sam, I am in love."

"Well, Robin, I can't pretend ignorance, for I know it -- at least I have seen it."

"Seen it!" echoed Robin, "how is that? I have never by word or look given the slightest indication to any one, of the state of my feelings."

"True, Robin, as regards words, but there are other modes of indication, as must be well-known to a celebrated electrician like yourself. The fact is, my dear boy, that you and Letta have been rubbing your intellects together for so many years, that you have electrified each other -- the one positively, the other negatively; and even a Manx cat with an absent mind and no tail could hardly fail to observe the telegraphic communication which you have established by means of that admirable duplex instrument, a pair of eyes."

"You distress me very much, Sam," returned Robin, seriously. "I assure you I have never consciously done anything of the sort, and I have never opened my lips to Letta on the subject -- I dare not."

"I believe you as to your consciousness; but, to be serious, Robin, why should being in love make you miserable?"

"Because it makes me doubt whether Letta cares for me."

"Nonsense, Robin. Take my advice, put an end to your doubts, and make sure of your ground by taking heart and proposing to Letta."

"I dare not, Sam. It is all very well for a fine manly fellow like you to give such advice, but I am such a poor, miserable sort of -- "

"Hallo, fasser!" cried a merry voice at that moment, "how red de sun am!"

The owner of the voice -- a mere chip of a child, in perfect miniature middy costume -- ran up to its father and was hoisted on his shoulder.

"Yes, the sun is very red, like your own face, Sammy, my boy, to say nothing of cousin Robin's. Where is mamma?"

The question was answered by mamma herself, our old friend Madge Mayland, coming up the companion-hatch, -- tall, dark, beautiful, like the spirit of departed night. She was followed by Letta, -- graceful, fair, sunny, like the spirit of the coming morn.

"Sunbeam, ahoy!" came up through the cabin skylight at that moment, like the sonorous voice of Neptune.

"Well, grunkle Rik, w'at is it?" shouted Sammy, in silvery tones, from his father's shoulder.

"Grunkle" was the outcome of various efforts made to teach Sammy to call the old captain grand-uncle.

"Where have you stowed away my hair-brush, you rascal?" cried the voice of thunder.

"It's under my bunk, grunkle; I was bracking yous boots with it."

The thunder subsided in tempestuous mutterings, and Sammy, feeling that he had begun the day well, struggled out of his father's arms and went careering round the deck into every possible position of danger. He kept them all lively until Stumps caught him and extinguished him, for a time, with breakfast.

"Uncle Rik," said Sam, while that meal was being discussed in the snuggest little cabin that could be imagined, "did you hear of the extraordinary manner in which a whale was caught by a telegraph cable lately?"

"No, I didn't, Sam, an' what's more, I wouldn't believe it if I did."

"It is true, nevertheless," said Sam, breaking his fifth egg -- sea breezes being appetising.

"How did it happen, Sam?" asked Madge.

"In a very curious manner Madge. It will amuse Letta, for I know she takes a deep interest in cables."

"Indeed it will," said Letta, who was the soul of earnest simplicity; "I delight in electric cables."

Robin looked at Letta, and wished that he were an electric cable!

"It happened to the Persian Gulf cable, quite recently," continued Sam, addressing himself to Letta. "The cable between Kurrachee and Gwadur, a distance of 300 miles, suddenly failed one evening. Now, you must know that electrical science has advanced with such rapid strides of late, that we have the power to discover pretty nearly the exact position of a fault in a cable. Of course I cannot expect a young lady to understand the technical details of the mode, in which this is done, but you will understand that by tests taken at either end the damage appeared to be about 118 miles from Kurrachee, and a telegraph steamer was sent with an electrical and engineering staff to repair it. The steamer reached the supposed locality early on the morning of the second day out, and proceeded at once to grapple for the cable, though a thick fog prevailed at the time, and a heavy sea was running.

"The soundings at the place were very irregular, implying a rugged bottom of submarine mountain-tops and valleys. On winding in the cable unusual resistance was experienced, as if it were foul of rocks, and when, after great difficulty, they drew it up they found that this was caused by the body of an immense whale, with two and a half turns of the cable round it immediately above the tail."

"Pooh! boh!" exclaimed uncle Rik, "I don't believe it."

"But I do, uncle," returned Sam, as he opened his sixth egg, "for I read the account of it in one of the engineering journals, in which dates and names were given. The steamer was the Amber Witch, commanded by Captain Bishop, and the staff of operators were under Mr Harry Mance. The body of the huge creature was found to be rapidly decomposing, the jaws falling away as it reached the surface, and sharks had evidently been devouring it. The tail, which measured twelve feet across, was covered with barnacles at the extremities."

"But how could it have entangled itself so?" asked Mrs Langley.

"They suppose that at the time the whale had found a part of the cable hanging in a deep loop over a submarine precipice, and, thinking the chance a good one no doubt for scraping off the barnacles and other parasites that annoy whales very much, had probably twisted the cable round him with a flip of his tail. Anyhow, the fact is unquestionable that it held him fast until he was fished up dead by the electricians and engineers."

"How strange!" murmured Letta.

"It is indeed," responded Robin, "the most extraordinary case I ever heard of, though cables are subject to many singular accidents. I remember one case of accident to the cable across the river Yar, in the Isle of Wight. A bullock fell from the deck of a vessel, and, in its struggles, caught the cable and broke it."

"I have read of several very singular cases," said Sam, "in which cables have been attacked and damaged by inhabitants of the sea. The Cuba and Florida cable was once damaged by the bite of some large fish, and a similar accident happened to the China cable. In the Malta-Alexandria cable, a piece of the core from which the sheathing had been worn was found to have been bitten by a shark, and pieces of the teeth were found sticking in the gutta-percha."

"I thought it was to the Singapore cable that that happened," said Robin.

"No, but something similar happened to it. That cable was laid in December. In the following March a stoppage occurred. The fault was spotted at 200 miles from Singapore. When hauled up, the cable was found to have been pierced, and bits of crushed bone were sticking in the hole. The piece was cut out and sent to Mr Frank Buckland, who, after long and careful examination, came to the conclusion that it had been the work of a saw-fish."

"Dear me, Mr Shipton," said Mrs Langley, "you speak as if every part of the world were connected by electric cables."

"And such is the case," said Sam; "we have now direct communication by submarine cable and land telegraph with every part of Europe; with Canada and the United States; down South America, nearly to Cape Horn; with Africa from Algiers to the Cape of Good Hope; with India from Afghanistan to Ceylon; with China from Pekin to Hong-Kong; and down through the Malacca Archipelago, Australia, and Tasmania."

"I say, Sam, are you a member of the Royal Geographical Society, or a walking atlas?" asked uncle Rik.

"In short," continued Sam, not heeding the interruption, "there isn't a civilised quarter of the globe which is not tied to us by telegraph, and from which we might not hear any morning of the events of the preceding day."

"Always excepting Central Africa and the two poles," said the captain.

"I said civilised quarters," retorted Sam, "and, as far as I know, the poles are inhabited only by bears."

"True, I forgot, the poles are barely civilised," said uncle Rik.

"Now, Master Sammy," growled a deep voice from the adjoining galley, "you keep your hands out o' that copper."

"Fasser," shouted a silvery voice from the same region, "'Tumps is naughty. I wants to wass my hands in de soup, an' he won't let me."

"Quite right. Keep him in order, Stumps," said the unfeeling Sam, senior.

"Dere -- pa says I's kite right, an' to keep you in order, 'Tumps," said the silvery voice. (Then, after a few minutes), "Grunkle Rik, is you finish bekfist?"

"Ay, ay, Sunbeam, quite finished."

"Den come on deck an' p'ay vid me."

Uncle Rik rose with a laugh, and obediently went on deck to play. But the play did not last long, for that day ominous clouds rose in the west, and, overspreading the sky, soon drenched the little yacht with rain. Towards evening the rain ceased, but the wind increased to a gale, and the weather showed signs of becoming what is known among seamen, we believe, as dirty. Ere long the low mutterings of thunder increased to mighty peals, and the occasional gleams of lightning to frequent and vivid flashes, that lit up the scene with the brilliancy of full moonlight.

"I wish we were nearer shore," said Letta, timidly, to Robin, as they stood looking over the bulwarks; "what is the land we see far away on our left?"

"The Island of Mull," returned Robin.

"Better if it was further away," growled Captain Rik, who overheard the remark. "We want plenty of sea-room on a night like this."

"We've got sea-room enough," observed "Captain" Slagg, with the confidence of a man who knows well what he is about, as he stood by the tiller, balancing himself with his legs well apart.

"You've got a lightning conductor on the mast, of course?" observed Captain Rik to Sam.

"No," replied Sam.

"Sam!" exclaimed the captain in a tone of intense surprise, "you, of all men, without such a safeguard."

"Well, uncle Rik," replied Sam with a laugh, "yachts are not always fitted with conductors. But I'm not so bad as you think me. I had ordered a special conductor with some trifling novelties of construction for the yacht, but it was not ready when we started, so we had to sail without it. However, it is not once in a thousand times that a vessel is struck by lightning."

While Sam was yet speaking, a flash of lightning almost blinded them, and the little schooner received a shock which told of disaster. Next moment the roar of reverberating thunder drowned the crash of timber as the topmast went overboard, carrying the bowsprit and its gear along with it.

Fortunately no one was hurt, but the schooner became unmanageable, owing to the mass of wreckage which hung to her.

Jim Slagg, seizing an axe, sprang to the side to cut this away, ably seconded by all the men on board, but before it could be accomplished the Gleam had drifted dangerously near to the rocks on the coast of Mull. To add to the confusion, the darkness became intense.

Captain Rik, forgetting or ignoring his years, had thrown off his coat and was working like a hero with the rest. The ladies, unable to remain below, were clinging to the stern rails, Madge holding her little boy tightly in her arms, and the spray dashing wildly over all.

Another moment and the Gleam struck on the rocks with tremendous violence. Only by the lightning could they see the wild rocky shore, on which they had drifted.

Instinctively each member of the little crew drew towards those nearest and dearest.

"Get out the boat!" shouted Captain Slagg; but the men could not obey, for a heavy sea had anticipated them, and the little dinghy was already careering shoreward, bottom up.

The next wave lifted the Gleam like a cork, and let her down on the rocks like fifty-six tons of lead. A flash of lightning revealed for a moment a range of frowning cliffs, as if to add horror to a scene that was already sufficiently appalling. Then all was again dark as Erebus.

In a frenzy of resolution Captain Rik seized an axe with the view of extemporising a raft, when the Gleam parted amidships, and we might almost say went out, leaving her crew struggling in the waves.

Sam had seized his wife with his strong left arm -- he happened to be left-handed -- and buffeted the waves with his right. Madge held on to Sammy with the power of maternal love. Sam was aware of that, and felt comparatively at ease in regard to his first-born.

Robin's arm had been round Letta's waist -- unknown to himself or her! --  when the Gleam struck. It did not relax when he felt that they were afloat. Frank Hedley gallantly offered to take charge of Mrs Langley.

Ebenezer Smith, being unable to swim, confessed the fact, with something of a gasp, to Captain Rik, who considerately told him never to mind.

"I can swim for both," he said, tying a piece of rope-yarn tight round his waist, for he had long before cast off coat, vest, and braces; "but you ought to be ashamed of yourself, a man come to your time o' life, an' not able to swim!"

"I never lived near the sea, and had no one to teach me," pleaded Ebenezer in a tremblingly apologetic voice, for the roar of united wind, waves, and thunder was really tremendous even to those who could swim.

"What o' that?" returned Captain Rik, sternly. "Was there no river or pond nigh? Even a horse-trough or a washing-tub would have sufficed to make a man of you. As for teaching -- what teaching did you want? Swimmin' ain't Latin or Greek. It ain't even mathematics -- only aquatics. All the brute beasts swim -- even donkeys swim without teaching. Boh! bah! There, lay hold o' me -- so. Now, mind, if you try to take me round the neck with your two arms I'll plant my fist on the bridge of your nose, an' let you go to Davy Jones's locker."

A flash of lightning revealed Captain Rik's face in such a way that Ebenezer Smith resolved to obey him to the letter.

It was at this point of their conversation that the Gleam went down -- or out -- and they sank with a gurgle, coming up next moment, however, with a gasp.

Strange to say, after the first plunge and overthrow amid the boiling waves, the swimmers found themselves in almost still water.

"You'd better let me take Sammy, ma'am," said Captain Slagg, swimming quietly alongside of Madge, and speaking in the calm tone of a man taking an evening stroll.

"Is that you, Slagg?" asked Sam, who was striking out vigorously.

"Yes, sir, it is," said Slagg. "You've no need to exert yourself, sir, so violently. I know the spot well. We've bin washed clean over the reef by the wave that sank us, into a sort o' nat'ral harbour, an' we ain't far from shore. I can feel bottom now, sir, which, bein' a six-footer, you'll touch easy."

"So I do!" exclaimed Sam, letting down his feet. "Madge, darling, cheer up, we've got soundings. Give Sammy to Slagg. There, we'll do famously now."

Only those who have been for a few moments in deadly peril can understand the feeling of intense relief that came to Sam Shipton's heart when he felt his toes touch ground on that eventful night. The feeling was expressed in his tone of voice as he asked Slagg whether he had seen any of the others.

"No, sir, I ain't seen 'em for want o' light, but I've heerd 'em. Stumps is splutterin' behind us like a grampus. If you'll hold on a bit an' listen you'll hear him. He's a bad swimmer, and it's all he can do to save hisself. If he only knowed he could reach bottom with his long legs, he'd find it easier. Not quite so tight, Sammy, my boy, and keep off the wind-pipe -- so; you're quite safe, my lad. As for the rest of 'em, sir, they all swim like ducks except Mr Ebbysneezer Smith, but he's took charge on by Captin Rik, so you may keep your mind easy. There's a bit o' flat beach hereabouts, an' no sea inside the reef, so we'll git ashore easy enough -- let's be thankful."

Jim Slagg was right. They got ashore without difficulty, and they were thankful -- profoundly so -- when they had time to think of the danger they had escaped.

After a few minutes' rest and wringing of salt water from their garments, they proceeded inland to search for shelter, and well was it for the shipwrecked party that the captain of the lost yacht was acquainted with the lie of the land, for it was a rugged shore, with intermingled fields and morasses, and wooded rocky heights, among which it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to thread one's way in the dark without severe damage to the shins. But Jim Slagg led them to a cottage not far from the sea, where they received from the family resident there at the time a warm and hearty Scottish welcome.

It is not uncommon, we suspect, for eccentric natures to undertake the most important matters at the most unsuitable times and in the most ridiculous manners. At all events Robin Wright, while stumbling among the rocks and rugged ground of that midnight march in Mull, dripping wet and with the elements at war around him, conceived the idea of declaring his unalterable, not to say unutterable, attachment to Letta Langley, who leant heavily on the arm of her preserver. But Robin was intensely sensitive. He shrank from the idea, (which he had only got the length of conceiving), as if it had been a suggestion from beneath. It would be unfair, mean, contemptible, he thought, to take advantage of the darkness and the elemental noise to press his suit at such a time. No, he would wait till the morrow.

He did wait for the morrow. Then he waited for the morrow afterwards, and as each morrow passed he felt that more morrows must come and go, for it was quite obvious that Letta regarded him only as a brother.

At last, unable to bear it, our unhappy hero suddenly discovered that one of the morrows was the last of his leave of absence, so he said good-bye in despair, and parted from his companions, who could not resist the genial hospitality of their new friends in the cottage on the west of Mull.

Ten days later Sam got a letter from Robin, telling him that he had received a cable-telegram from India, from their friend Redpath, offering him a good situation there, and that, having reached the lowest depths of despair, he had resolved to accept it, and was sorry he should not have an opportunity of saying good-bye, as he was urged to start without a day's delay.

Sam was staying with his friends at the Oban Hotel at the time, having at last managed to tear himself away from the cottage in Mull.

He instantly ran out and telegraphed -- 

"Don't accept on any account."

Then he sought Mrs Langley, and opened Robin's case to her. Mrs Langley listened with a smile of intelligence, and soon after went to her daughter's room, the window of which commanded a splendid view of the western sea.

"Letta, dear, are you moralising or meditating?"

"Both, mamma."

"Well, I will try to help you," said Mrs Langley, seating herself by the window. "By the way, did you hear that Mr Wright has been offered a lucrative appointment in the Telegraph Department of India, and is going off at once; -- has not time even to say good-bye to his old friend Sam Shipton?"

Letta turned very pale, then extremely red, then covered her face with both hands and burst into tears.

"So, Letta, you love him," said her mother, gently. "Why did you not let me know this sooner?"

"Oh, mamma!" said poor Letta, "why do you put it so -- so -- suddenly. I don't love him -- that is -- I don't know that I love him. I've never thought about it seriously. He has never opened his lips to me on the subject -- and -- and -- "

"Letta, dear," said her mother, tenderly, "would you wish to prevent his going away if you could? Open your heart to your mother, darling."

Letta laid her head on her mother's shoulder, but spoke not.

A few minutes later Mrs Langley went to Sam and said -- 

"Robin must not go to India."

Sam instantly went by the shortest conceivable route to London, where he found Robin in his room feverishly packing his portmanteau, and said -- 

"Robin, you must not go to India."

From that text he preached an eloquent lay-sermon, which he wound up with the words, "Now, my boy, you must just propose to her at once."

"But I can't, Sam. I haven't got the pluck. I'm such a miserable sort of fellow -- how could I expect such a creature to throw herself away on me? Besides, it's all very well your saying you have good ground for believing she cares for me; but how can you know? Of course you have not dared to speak to her?"

Robin looked actually fierce at the bare idea of such a thing.

"No, I have not dared," said Sam.

"Well, then. It is merely your good-natured fancy. No, my dear fellow, it is my fate. I must bow to it. And I know that if I were to wait till I see her again, all my courage would have oozed away -- "

"But I don't intend that you shall wait, Robin," interrupted Sam. "You need not go on talking so selfishly about yourself. You must consider the girl. I'm not going to stand by and see injustice done to her. You have paid marked attention to her, and are bound in honour to lay yourself at her feet, even at the risk of a refusal."

"But how, Sam? I tell you if I wait -- "

"Then don't wait, -- telegraph."

Robin gazed at his friend in stupefied amazement. "What! make a proposal of marriage by telegraph?"

"Even so, Robin. You began life with electricity, so it is quite in keeping that you should begin a new departure in life with it."

Sam rose, sought for paper, and with pencil wrote as follows: -- "From Mr R. Wright, London, to Miss Letta Langley,  --  - Hotel, Oban. -- I can stand it no longer. May I come to see you?"

Presenting this to his friend, Sam said, "May I despatch it?"

Robin nodded, smiled, and looked foolish.

An hour later Mrs Langley, sitting beside her daughter, took up a pen, and wrote as follows: -- 

"From Miss Letta Langley, Oban, to R. Wright, London. -- Yes."

Presenting this to her daughter, she said. "May I send it?"

Letta once more covered her face with her hands, and blushed.

Thus it came to pass that our hero's fate in life, as well as his career, was decided by the electric telegraph.

But the best of it was that Robin did go to India after all -- as if to do despite to his friends, who had said he must not go. Moreover, he took Letta with him, and he hunted many a day through the jungles of that land in company with his friend Redpath, and his henchman Flinn. And, long afterwards, he returned to England, a sturdy middle-aged man, with a wife whose beauty was unabated because it consisted, chiefly, in that love of heart to God and man which lends never-fading loveliness to the human countenance.

Awaiting them at home was a troop of little ones -- the first home-instalment of a troop of lesser ones who accompanied the parent stems. All of these, besides being gifted with galvanic energy and flashing eyes, were impressed with the strong conviction, strange to say, that batteries, boilers, and submarine cables, were the most important things in the whole world, and the only subjects worth being played at by reasonable human children.

<eob>

Wulf The Saxon: A Story Of The Norman Conquest

By

G. A. Henty



Chapter I.


A Quarrel.

The great Abbey of Westminster was approaching its completion; an army of masons and labourers swarmed like bees upon and around it, and although differing widely in its massive architecture, with round Saxon windows and arches, from the edifice that was two or three generations later to be reared in its place, -- to serve as a still more fitting tomb for the ashes of its pious founder, -- it was a stately abbey, rivalling the most famous of the English fanes of the period.

From his palace hard by King Edward had watched with the deepest interest the erection of the minster that was the dearest object of his life. The King was surrounded by Normans, the people among whom he had lived until called from his retirement to ascend the throne of England, and whom he loved far better than those over whom he reigned. He himself still lived almost the life of a recluse. He was sincerely anxious for the good of his people, but took small pains to ensure it, his life being largely passed in religious devotions, and in watching over the rise of the abbey he had founded.

A town had risen around minster and palace, and here the workmen employed found their lodgings, while craftsmen of all descriptions administered to the wants both of these and of the nobles of Edward's court.

From one of the side doors of the palace a page, some fifteen or sixteen years of age, ran down the steps in haste. He was evidently a Saxon by his fair hair and fresh complexion, and any observer of the time would have seen that he must, therefore, be in the employment of Earl Harold, the great minister, who had for many years virtually ruled England in the name of its king.

The young page was strongly and sturdily built. His garb was an English one, but with some admixture of Norman fashions. He wore tightly-fitting leg coverings, a garment somewhat resembling a blouse of blue cloth girded in by a belt at the waist, and falling in folds to the knee. Over his shoulders hung a short mantle of orange colour with a hood. On his head was a cap with a wide brim that was turned up closely behind, and projected in a pointed shovel shape in front. In his belt was a small dagger. He wore shoes of light yellow leather fastened by bands over the insteps. As he ran down the steps of the palace he came into sharp contact with another page who had just turned the corner of the street.

"I crave your pardon, Walter Fitz-Urse," he said hurriedly, "but I was in haste and saw you not."

The other lad was as clearly Norman as the speaker was Saxon. He was perhaps a year the senior in point of age, and taller by half a head, but was of slighter build. The expression of his face differed as widely from that of the Saxon as did his swarthy complexion and dark hair, for while the latter face wore a frank and pleasant expression, that of the Norman was haughty and arrogant.

"You did it on purpose," he said angrily, "and were we not under the shadow of the palace I would chastise you as you deserve."

The smile died suddenly out from the Saxon's face. "Chastise me!" he repeated. "You would find it somewhat difficult, Master Fitz-Urse. Do you think you are talking to a Norman serf? You will please to remember you are in England; but if you are not satisfied with my apology, I will ride with you a few miles into the country, and we will then try with equal arms where the chastisement is to fall."

The Norman put his hand to his dagger, but there was an ominous growl from some men who had paused to listen to the quarrel.

"You are an insolent boor, Wulf of Steyning, and some day I will punish you as you deserve."

"Some day," the Saxon laughed, "we shall, I hope, see you and all your tribe sent across the Channel. There are few of us here who would not see your backs with pleasure."

"What is this?" an imperious voice demanded; and turning round, Wulf saw William, the Norman Bishop of London, who, followed by several monks and pages, had pushed his way through the crowd. "Walter Fitz-Urse, what means this altercation?"

"The Saxon ran against me of set purpose, my lord," Walter Fitz-Urse said, in tones of deep humility, "and because I complained he challenged me to ride with him into the country to fight, and then he said he hoped that some day all the Normans would be sent across the Channel."

"Is this so?" the prelate said sternly to Wulf; "did you thus insult not only my page, but all of us, his countrymen?"

"I ran against him by accident," Wulf said, looking up fearlessly in the prelate's face. "I apologized, though I know not that I was more in fault than he; but instead of taking my apology as one of gentle blood should do, he spoke like a churl, and threatened me with chastisement, and then I did say that I hoped he and all other Normans in the land would some day be packed across the Channel."

"Your ears ought to be slit as an insolent varlet."

"I meant no insolence, my Lord Bishop; and as to the slitting of my ears, I fancy Earl Harold, my master, would have something to say on that score."

The prelate was about to reply, but glancing at the angry faces of the growing crowd, he said coldly:

"I shall lay the matter before him. Come, Walter, enough of this. You are also somewhat to blame for not having received more courteously the apologies of this saucy page."

The crowd fell back with angry mutterings as he turned, and, followed by Walter Fitz-Urse and the ecclesiastics, made his way along the street to the principal entrance of the palace. Without waiting to watch his departure, Wulf, the Saxon page, pushed his way through the crowd, and went off at full speed to carry the message with which he had been charged.

"Our king is a good king," a squarely-built man, -- whose bare arms with the knotted muscles showing through the skin, and hands begrimed with charcoal, indicated that he was a smith, -- remarked to a gossip as the little crowd broke up, "but it is a grievous pity that he was brought up a Norman, still more that he was not left in peace to pass his life as a monk as he desired. He fills the land with his Normans; soon as an English bishop dies, straightway a Norman is clapped into his place. All the offices at court are filled with them, and it is seldom a word of honest English is spoken in the palace. The Norman castles are rising over the land, and his favourites divide among them the territory of every English earl or thane who incurs the king's displeasure. Were it not for Earl Harold, one might as well be under Norman sway altogether."

"Nay, nay, neighbour Ulred, matters are not so bad as that. I dare say they would have been as you say had it not been for Earl Godwin and his sons. But it was a great check that Godwin gave them when he returned after his banishment, and the Norman bishops and nobles hurried across the seas in a panic. For years now the king has left all matters in the hands of Harold, and is well content if only he can fast and pray like any monk, and give all his thoughts and treasure to the building of yonder abbey."

"We want neither a monk nor a Norman over us," the smith said roughly, "still less one who is both Norman and monk I would rather have a Dane, like Canute, who was a strong man and a firm one, than this king, who, I doubt not, is full of good intentions, and is a holy and pious monarch, but who is not strong enough for a ruler. He leaves it to another to preserve England in peace, to keep in order the great Earls of Mercia and the North, to hold the land against Harold of Norway, Sweyn, and others, and, above all, to watch the Normans across the water. A monk is well enough in a convent, but truly 'tis bad for a country to have a monk as its king."

"There have been some war-loving prelates, Ulred; men as ambitious as any of the great earls, and more dangerous, because they have learning."

"Ay, there have been great prelates," the smith agreed. "Look at Lyfing of Worcester, to whom next only to Godwin the king owed his throne. He was an Englishman first and a bishop afterwards, and was a proof, if needed, that a man can be a great churchman and a great patriot and statesman too. It was he rather than Godwin who overcame the opposition of the Danish party, and got the Witan at last to acquiesce in the choice of London and Wessex, and to give their vote to Edward.

"Well was it he did so. For had he failed we should have had as great a struggle in England as when Alfred battled against the Danes. We of London and the men of Wessex under the great Earl were bent upon being ruled by a prince of our own blood. The last two Danish kings had shown us that anything is better than being governed by the Northmen. It was Lyfing who persuaded the Earl of Mercia to side with Wessex rather than with Northumbria, but since Lyfing, what great Englishman have we had in the church? Every bishopric was granted by Edward to Norman priests, until Godwin and his sons got the upper hand after their exile. Since then most of them have been given to Germans. It would seem that the king was so set against Englishmen that only by bringing in foreigners can Harold prevent all preferment going to Normans. But what is the consequence? They say now that our church is governed from Rome, whereas before Edward's time we Englishmen did not think of taking our orders from Italy.

"There will trouble come of it all, neighbour. Perhaps not so long as Edward reigns, but at his death. There is but one of the royal race surviving, and he, like Edward, has lived all his life abroad. There can be no doubt what the choice of Englishmen will be. Harold has been our real ruler for years. He is wise and politic as well as brave, and a great general. He is our own earl, and will assuredly be chosen. Then we shall have trouble with the Normans. Already they bear themselves as if they were our masters, and they will not give up their hold without a struggle. Men say that William, their duke, makes no secret of his hope to become master of England, in which case God help us all. But that won't come as long as Harold lives and Englishmen can wield sword and battle-axe. As for myself, I have patched many a Norman suit of armour, but, by St. Swithin, I shall have far more pleasure in marring than I have ever had in mending them."

"Know you who were the boys who had that contention just now?"

"The Norman is a page of William, our Norman bishop; I know no more of him than that the other is Wulf, who is a ward and page of Earl Harold. His father was thane of Steyning in South Sussex, one of Godwin's men, and at his death two years ago Harold took the lad into his household, for he bore great affection for Gyrth, who had accompanied him in his pilgrimage to Rome, and fought by his side when he conquered the Welsh. It was there Gyrth got the wound that at last brought about his death. Wulf has been to my smithy many times, sometimes about matters of repairs to arms, but more often, I think, to see my son Osgod. He had seen him once or twice in calling at the shop, when one day Osgod, who is somewhat given to mischief, was playing at ball, and drove it into the face of a son of one of the Norman lords at court. The boy drew his dagger, and there would have been blood shed, but Wulf, who was passing at the time, and saw that the thing was a pure mishap and not the result of set intention, threw himself between them.

"There was a great fuss over it, for the boy took his tale to his father, who demanded that Osgod should be punished, and would doubtless have gained his end had not Wulf spoken to Earl Harold, who intervened in the matter and persuaded the Norman to let it drop. Since then the boys have been great friends in their way. Osgod is a year older than the young thane, and has already made up his mind to be his man when he grows up, and he has got me to agree to it, though I would rather that he had stuck to my handicraft. Still, the prospect is not a bad one. Harold will be King of England, Wulf will be a powerful thane, and will doubtless some day hold high place at court, and as he seems to have taken a real liking to Osgod, the boy may have good chances.

"Wulf will make a good fighting man one of these days. Harold sees that all his pages are well instructed in arms, and the two boys often have a bout with blunted swords when Wulf comes to my smithy; and, by my faith, though I have taught Osgod myself, and he already uses his arms well, the young thane is fully a match for him. You would hardly believe that the boy can read as well as a monk, but it is so. Earl Harold, you know, thinks a good deal of education, and has founded a college at Waltham. He persuaded Wulf's father to send him there, and, indeed, will take none as his pages unless they can read. I see not what good reading can do to most men, but doubtless for one who is at court and may hold some day a high post there, it is useful to be able to read deeds and grants of estates, instead of having to trust others' interpretation."

"I wondered to see you press forward so suddenly into the crowd, neighbour, seeing that you are a busy man, but I understand now that you had an interest in the affair."

"That had I. I was holding myself in readiness, if that Norman boy drew his dagger, to give him such a blow across the wrist with my cudgel that it would be long before he handled a weapon again. I fear Wulf has got himself into trouble. The bishop will doubtless complain to the king of the language used by one of Harold's pages, and though the earl is well able to see that no harm comes to the lad, it is likely he will send him away to his estates for a time. For he strives always to avoid quarrels and disputes, and though he will not give way a jot in matters where it seems to him that the good of the realm is concerned, he will go much farther lengths than most men would do in the way of conciliation. Look how he has borne with Tostig and with the Earls of Mercia. He seems to have no animosity in his nature, but is ready to forgive all injuries as soon as pardon is asked."

The smith was not far wrong in his opinion as to what was likely to happen. As soon as Wulf returned to the palace he was told that the earl desired his presence, and he proceeded at once to the apartment where Harold transacted public business. It was a hall of considerable size; the floor was strewed with rushes; three scribes sat at a table, and to them the earl dictated his replies and decisions on the various matters brought before him. When he saw Wulf enter he rose from his seat, and, beckoning to him to follow, pushed aside the hangings across a door leading to an apartment behind and went in. Wulf had no fear whatever of any severe consequence to himself from his quarrel with Walter Fitz-Urse, but he was ashamed that his thoughtlessness should have given the slightest trouble to the earl, for, popular as he was among all classes of men in southern England, Harold was an object of love as well as respect to his dependents, and indeed to all who came in close contact with him.

The earl was now forty-one years of age. He was very tall, and was considered the strongest man in England. His face was singularly handsome, with an expression of mingled gentleness and firmness. His bearing was courteous to all. He united a frank and straightforward manner with a polished address rare among his rough countrymen. Harold had travelled more and farther than any Englishman of his age. He had visited foreign courts and mingled with people more advanced in civilization than were those of England or Normandy, and was centuries ahead of the mass of his countrymen. He was an ardent advocate of education, a strong supporter of the national church, an upholder of the rights of all men, and although he occasionally gave way to bursts of passion, was of a singularly sweet and forgiving disposition.

King Edward was respected by his people because, coming after two utterly worthless kings, he had an earnest desire for their good, although that desire seldom led to any very active results. He was a member of their own royal house. He was deeply religious. His life was pure and simple, and although all his tastes and sympathies were with the land in which he had been brought up, Englishmen forgave him this because at least he was a Saxon, while his predecessors had been Danes. But while they respected Edward, for Harold, their real ruler, they felt a passionate admiration. He was a worthy representative of all that was best in the Saxon character. He possessed in an eminent degree the openness of nature, the frank liberality, the indomitable bravery, and the endurance of hardship that distinguished the race. He was Earl of the West Saxons, and as such had special claims to their fealty.

London, it was true, did not lie in his earldom, but in that of his brother Leofwyn, but Leofwyn and Harold were as one -- true brothers in heart and in disposition. The gentleness and courtesy of manner that, although natural, had been softened and increased by Harold's contact with foreigners, was not only pardoned but admired because he was England's champion against foreigners. He had fought, and victoriously, alike against the Norwegians, the Danes of Northumbria, and the Welsh, and he struggled as sturdily, though peacefully, against Norman influence in England. Already the dread of Norman preponderance was present in the minds of Englishmen. It was no secret that in his early days Edward had held out hopes, if he had not given an actual promise, to William of Normandy that he should succeed him. Of late the king had been somewhat weaned from his Norman predilections, and had placed himself unreservedly in Harold's hands, giving to the latter all real power while he confined himself to the discharge of religious exercises, and to the supervision of the building of his abbey, varied occasionally by hunting expeditions, for he still retained a passionate love of the chase; but men knew that the warlike Duke of Normandy would not be likely to forget the promise, and that trouble might come to England from over the sea.

Harold, then, they not only regarded as their present ruler, but as their future king, and as the national leader and champion. Edward had no children. The royal house was extinct save for Edward the Atheling, who, like the present king, had lived all his life abroad, and could have no sympathy with Englishmen. There being, then, no one of the royal house available, who but Harold, the head of the great house of Godwin, the earl of the West Saxons, the virtual ruler of England, could be chosen? The English kings, although generally selected from the royal house, ruled rather by the election of the people as declared by their representatives in the Witan than by their hereditary right. The prince next in succession by blood might, at the death of the sovereign, be called king, but he was not really a monarch until elected by the Witan and formally consecrated.

It had been nine months after he had been acclaimed to the throne by the people of London that King Edward had been elected king by the Witan, and formally enthroned. Thus, then, the fact that Harold did not belong to the royal family mattered but little in the eyes of Englishmen. To them belonged the right of choosing their own monarch, and if they chose him, who was to say them nay?

Wulf felt uncomfortable as he followed the stately figure into the inner room, but he faced the Earl as the door closed behind him with as fearless a look as that with which he had stood before the haughty prelate of London. A slight smile played upon Harold's face as he looked down upon the boy.

"You are a troublesome varlet, Wulf, and the Lord Bishop has been making serious complaint of you to the king. He says that you brawled with his page, Walter Fitz-Urse; that you used insolent words against his countrymen; and that you even withstood himself. What have you to say to this?"

"The brawling was on the part of the bishop's page and not of mine, my lord. I was running out to carry the message with which you charged me to Ernulf of Dover when I ran against Fitz-Urse. That was not my fault, but a pure mischance, nevertheless I expressed my regret in fitting terms. Instead of accepting them, he spoke insolently, talked of chastising me, and put his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Then, my lord, I grew angry too. Why should I, the page of Earl Harold, submit to be thus contemptuously spoken to by this young Norman, who is but the page of an upstart bishop, and whom, if your lordship will give permission, I would right willingly fight, with swords or any other weapons. Doubtless, in my anger, I did not speak respectfully of Walter's countrymen, and for this I am sorry, since it has been the ground of complaint and of trouble to you."

"In fact, Wulf, you spoke as a quarrelsome boy and not as the page of one who has the cares of this kingdom on his shoulders, and whose great desire is to keep peace between all parties," the earl put in gravely.

For the first time Wulf hung his head:

"I was wrong, my lord."

"You were wrong, Wulf; it is not good always to say what we think; and you, as my page, should bear in mind that here at court it behoves you to behave and to speak not as a headstrong boy, but as one whose words may, rightly or wrongly, be considered as an echo of those you may have heard from me. And now to the third charge, that you withstood the prelate; a matter that, in the king's eyes, is a very serious one."

"The bishop would give ear to nought I had to say. He listened to his own page's account and not to mine, and when I said in my defence that though I did use the words about the Normans, I did so merely as one boy quarrelling with the other, he said I ought to have my ears slit. Surely, my lord, a free-born thane is not to be spoken to even by a Norman bishop as if he were a Norman serf. I only replied that before there was any slitting of ears your lordship would have a say in the matter. So far, I admit, I did withstand the bishop, and I see not how I could have made other reply."

"It would have been better to have held your peace altogether, Wulf."

"It would, my lord, but it would also surely have been better had the bishop abstained from talking about slitting ears."

"That would have been better also, but two wrongs do not make a right. I was present when the bishop made his complaint, and upon my inquiring more into the matter, his version was somewhat similar to yours. I then pointed out to him that if holy bishops lost their tempers and used threats that were beyond their power to carry into effect, they must not be too severe upon boys who forget the respect due to their office. Nevertheless, I admitted that you were wrong, and I promised the king, who was perhaps more disturbed by this incident than there was any occasion for, that I would take you to task seriously, and that to avoid any further brawl between you and young Fitz-Urse, you should for a time be sent away from court. I did this on the agreement that the bishop should, on his part, admonish Walter Fitz-Urse against discourteous behaviour and unseemly brawling, and had I known that he had put his hand on his dagger, I would have gone further. Have you any witnesses that he did so?"

"Yes, my lord; I saw the smith Ulred among those standing by, and doubtless he would see the action."

"That is well," Harold said. "I shall acquaint the bishop with the fact when I tell him that I have ordered you to leave for your estate at Steyning, and that if his page denies it, I have witnesses to prove the truth of your assertions. I think in that case he will be glad to drop the matter, for were I to mention the fact to the king, he, who has a horror of the drawing of weapons, would order Walter Fitz-Urse to be sent back to Normandy. So your exile is not likely to be of long duration. You understand, Wulf, that I am not seriously angered with you in this matter. You are but a boy, and one cannot expect that you will behave as a prudent man; but remember, lad, even a boy's words may do mischief, especially when placed as you are. There may come a time when you shall show by deeds and not by words your feelings against the Normans, but till then bear yourself prudently. We Saxons are over given to hasty words, and this is a fault. I myself, as all men know, have no love for the Normans, but no one has heard me speak against them. The king loves them, as is but natural, seeing that he was brought up amongst them, and I have not withstood his wishes in the matter, trying only that a certain amount of preferment in the land should be bestowed upon those who are its owners and not strangers to it and its tongue. You will ride this afternoon for Steyning, Wulf, but I hope it will not be long before you are back again. If I had my own way in the matter, I should think that sufficient had already been said and done in so trifling a matter as a boys' quarrel; but as it has been brought before our king by a bishop, it is in the king's eyes a serious business, for assuredly he himself would have borne a reproof from William of London more meekly than you did, and having therefore become a church matter, it is altogether beyond my power to interfere. At any rate, a short sojourn on your estate will do you no harm; it is sometime since you were there, and it is a good thing that the lord of the soil should be well known by those over whom he is placed."

Wulf bowed deeply and withdrew. The prospect of a visit for a few weeks or even months to Steyning was not a terrible one. It was some years since he had stayed there for any time. He had been two years at Waltham, and since his father's death had been for the most part with Harold, and the thought of an unrestricted life and of spending his time as he chose, hunting and hawking, and going about among his tenants, was by no means unpleasant. He was quite satisfied that Harold was not seriously angered with him, and for anything else he cared little.

As he understood that his duties as a page were at present at an end, he thought he would first call upon Ulred the smith, to ask him if he had seen Walter Fitz-Urse handle his dagger, and also to tell Osgod that he was going away for a time. He found the smith at work.

"Good morning, Master Wulf; though this is not the first time I have seen you today, for I was at hand when you had that quarrel with the Norman page."

"Yes, I caught sight of your face, Ulred. It was about that I have come to you. The bishop has made complaint against me to the king, and Earl Harold has ordered me to go down to Steyning for a time. Of course I acted wrongly in speaking as I did to the bishop, but so far as Walter Fitz-Urse is concerned I maintain that I did no wrong. I told my lord as much, and that the Norman put hand upon his dagger. The earl said that if I could prove that it would benefit my case. I told him that I had seen you close by, but that I did not know whether you saw the page do it."

"Assuredly I did," the smith replied, "and had my cudgel in readiness to tap him on the wrist if he had drawn his dagger. I would testify the same before King Edward himself."

"Thank you, Ulred, I will tell my lord so."

"I am sorry you are to be sent away from court. That is a bad job, Master Wulf, and Osgod here will miss you greatly."

"That shall I," the lad said. "Could you not take me down with you, young master? You could teach me there how to comport myself as your squire, so that when the time comes that you need one, I should know my duties. Besides, you could practise on me with sword and battle-axe."

"I could not do much in the way of teaching you, Osgod, seeing as yet I am myself but a learner, but I should be glad, in truth, to have you with me, and it would be good for me to keep up my practice in arms. I shall feel almost like a stranger there, and should like to have one I know with me. I could ask Earl Harold to let me have a horse for you from his stables, where he has two or three score doing nothing."

"With your favour, sir, I would rather trust to my own feet. I am a stout walker, and though I shall not be able to keep up with you, I think that each night I can get to the hostelrie where you may put up; but, if not, it matters little, I can make my way after you and join you there -- that is, if my father will give me permission to go."

"You may as well go sooner as later," the smith said. "Since you have taken into your head that you will be Master Wulf's man, I see not that it will benefit you remaining in the forge. You know enough now to mend a broken rivet and to do such repairs to helm and armour as may be needed on an expedition; therefore, if the young thane is minded to take you I have naught to say against it."

"Then so shall it be," Wulf said, "I shall see my Lord Harold before I start, and will tell him that you are minded to be my man, and that I am minded so to take you. He will not object, I am sure, but it were best to ask him, since, when I return to court, I shall have you about me."

"When do you start, Master Wulf?"

"I am ordered to go to-day; therefore, as soon as I have seen the earl again I shall be off."

"Where will you sleep to-night?"

"I shall ride to Guildford this afternoon."

"Then you had better lay aside your hammer at once, Osgod," the smith said, "and don fresh clothes, and make your best suit into a bundle and start without delay; it is but ten o'clock, and you may be at Guildford before sunset. 'Tis but thirty miles, and eight hours' walking will take you there. If the young thane tells you that Lord Harold makes objection to his taking you, you can turn your face backward to-morrow and no harm will be done."

"I shall overtake you before you are half-way, Osgod, and can then take you up behind me on my horse; and now I will go back to the palace. I may have to wait some time before I can see Earl Harold. From sunrise to sunset he has but a few moments to himself, and I shall have to watch my time to get a word with him."

It was not, indeed, until two o'clock in the afternoon that Wulf had a chance of speaking to the duke. Then, seeing that he was for the moment alone, he entered the room and stood with bowed head waiting for Harold to address him.

"So you have come to say good-bye, Wulf," the latter said kindly; "it is best so, boy. A time in the country will do you good, and there will be much for you to do down there. I have ordered two of my men to be in readiness to mount and ride with you, for I would not that you should go unattended. One of them will bear a message from me and a letter under my hand to the steward, and will tell him that although you will, of course, remain as my ward until you come of age, you are in all respects to be treated as if you were already my sworn man, and thane. It would be well if you could gather among your tenants twenty stout men as house-carls. The steward is ordered to pay to you whatever moneys you may require, and to account for them to me when he sends me in his checkers. These house-carls will, of course, be paid. There must be ample store of armour at Steyning for them, for your father was followed by forty house-carls when he went with me to the Welsh wars. One of the men who goes with you is a stout man-at-arms and is one of my own house-carls; he will remain with you and will instruct your men in arms and teach them to fight shoulder to shoulder. There may be bad times ere long, and it is upon trained troops and not upon hasty levies that we must most depend. In time I trust you will be able to place fifty such men in the field, but at present twenty will suffice. Have you aught to say to me before you go?"

"Yes, my lord; first, to thank you for your kindness, and to say that I will carry out your instructions; secondly, to tell you that Ulred the smith saw Walter Fitz-Urse handle his dagger, and was standing ready to knock it from his hand did he draw it. Lastly, that Ulred's son Osgod, who is a stout lad a year older than myself, and for his age well accustomed to arms, desires to be sworn as my man and to serve me in hall and in field. I like him much and have almost daily practised with him in arms, and I should be glad to have him with me if you see no objection."

"Not at all, Wulf; it is well that a man should have at his side one in whom he can altogether trust, be he of gentle blood or simple man-at-arms."

"Then I may take him down with me, my lord?"

"Yes, if it pleases you. Can he ride?"

"Not as yet, my lord, I will see that he is instructed down at Steyning. He started to walk this morning, understanding that if you refused him permission to be my man he would at once return. We shall overtake him on the road."

"Bid one of your escort take him up behind," the earl said, "I like his spirit. See that he is fittingly apparelled. You shall hear from me ere long."

Half an hour later Wulf mounted, and with his two followers rode from Westminster.



Chapter II.


Country Life.

Far from being depressed, Wulf felt his spirits rise as he rode away on his banishment from court, for instead of feeling it a disgrace he regarded it as a step forward in life. Earl Harold could certainly, had he been so inclined, have smoothed down the angry prelate, and could have retained him at court; but by the way he had spoken, Wulf was convinced that the earl let him go because he thought that it was good for him to be away. For four years he had been under tutelage, first at Waltham, and then at the court. In the last position his life had indeed been a pleasant one, for as one of Harold's pages he had mixed with all the noble youths of the court, and had had a place at every festive gathering. Still, he had been but a page, and treated as a boy. Now he was to go forth, and to learn his duties as his father's successor.

Harold's steward, who had since the thane's death acted as the earl's agent in the management of the estate, would instruct him doubtless in his civil duties, while the soldier who rode behind him would teach him how to lead men in battle, and how to make the fighting force of the estate efficient. Beyond these duties his time would be his own. He would have responsibilities, but they would be the responsibilities of a thane towards his tenants, and not of a page towards his master. He was going away a boy, but if it pleased Harold that he should remain away for two years he would return a thane. A young one, indeed, but one who had learned the duties of his station, and who, if needs be, could take his place in the field of battle at the head of his followers. For, even putting aside the Normans, from whom the earl seemed to think the greatest danger would come, there was never any long cessation of fighting in England.

There were the Welsh, who were always turbulent; the Danes of Northumbria, who were still a distinct people, although throughout the rest of England their identity was fast being merged into that of the Saxons. There were the Norsemen, still ready to take every opportunity of interfering in the affairs of England, or, if none offered, to plunder and harry the coast. There were the earls of Mercia, who bore no great love to the house of Godwin, and who resented the ascendency of the West Saxons. Lastly, there was Harold's brother Tostig, a fiery and turbulent noble, now Earl of Northumbria, who was jealous of Harold, ever ready to join in plots, and in close alliance with Norway already; he had several times withstood the royal authority, and would assuredly again become a fomenter of trouble should he see a favourable opportunity. At the king's death, if not before, that opportunity would be sure to present itself. Harold would be certainly chosen king by the people of London and by the West Saxons, but almost as certainly would his claim be disputed by the earls of Mercia on one hand, and by Tostig and the Danes on the other. Wulf was sure, therefore, that the work spent in preparing his tenants to take the field when called upon to do so, would not be wasted.

Full of these thoughts he rode for some miles from Westminster without addressing himself to the two men behind him; then, bethinking him that these were trusted followers of the earl, and had been specially told off by him to accompany and stay with him, he called them up to his side. Wulf had donned a riding suit instead of court attire, which, in deference to the king's partiality for the Normans, was, even among the staunchest opposers of the foreigners, a compromise between Saxon and Norman fashions. He now wore a tunic of a bright green cloth, girded in at the waist and reaching only to the knee. Over this was worn a garment closely resembling the Roman toga, though somewhat less ample. The folds in front fell below the waist, but it was looped up at each shoulder by a brooch, leaving the arms bare. His legs were clad in tightly-fitting trousers, and his feet in somewhat high shoes. On his head he wore a cap in shape closely resembling the Phrygian bonnet. He was armed with a dagger, and a short sword, which hung by a leather strap, two or three inches long, from his belt. The outer garment had a hood which could in bad weather be drawn over the head.

The man who was the bearer of Harold's orders to the steward wore a civilian dress, not unlike that of Wulf's. He occupied the position of a confidential scribe to Harold. The other wore the garb of a soldier. He was clothed from head to foot in a tight fitting leather suit, upon which were sewn iron rings overlapping each other, and strongly resembling in appearance the chain-armour of later days. His casque, with a curtain of leather similarly covered and affording a protection to the neck, cheeks, and throat, hung from his saddle-bow, and he wore a cap with a long projecting peak, while a cloak was thrown over his shoulders and fell almost to his feet.

"I am afraid you will find it but dull time with me, Leof," Wulf said as they came up abreast of him, "for the earl says that he has charged you to remain with me at Steyning."

"I shall not be sorry for that," the soldier said bluntly, "for I shall be right glad to be away from these Normans who fill every place at court and swagger there as if Englishmen were but dirt under their feet. Moreover, I love not London nor its ways, and shall be glad to be down again among honest country folk, though I would still rather be following my lord the earl in the field."

"And you, Master Gurth, will your stay down at Steyning be a long one?"

"No, indeed. I have but to bear my master's wishes and instructions to the steward, and to stay for a few days to see that they are carried out according to his desires. I am not like Leof, for I prefer life in London, where one meets with learned monks and others, can obtain sometimes the use of a choice manuscript, and can hear the news from beyond the seas, whereas in the country there is nought to talk about save beeves and sheep. I like the journey well enough, though I would that the animal I bestrode were more gentle in his paces. He has for the last half-hour been fretting on the rein to place himself by the side of yours. Horses are well enough for nobles and fighting men, but for a peaceful scrivener like myself a chair makes a far more comfortable seat."

The soldier gave a contemptuous grunt, and Wulf laughed. "It is well that we have not all the same tastes, but for my part a seat in a chair tires me more than one in a saddle, and I am never more happy than when galloping briskly along," and he shook the reins, a signal which the horse had been expecting for a considerable time, and at once responded to by breaking into a canter.

"Stay you, I pray, Master Wulf," the scrivener cried in great tribulation as his horse followed the example of its companion. "Even if the animal does not break my neck he will jolt the life out of me. I pray you curb him in if you would not see me prone in the dust; and if I am disabled, who is to carry the earl's message to the steward?"

Wulf reined in his horse. "Pardon me, good Gurth. I had forgotten that you are not accustomed to journey on horseback. I was scarce conscious, indeed, that I touched my horse, but he is used to travel more rapidly, and was so eager to be off at the slightest hint that I was willing that he should do so. We will try and journey soberly for the rest of the distance."

Osgod was overtaken, plodding steadily along the road, fifteen miles from town. Leof took him up on his horse, and they reached Guildford just as the sun was setting. The inn, which stood in the principal street of the town, was a low building built with a massive framework filled in with bricks. The ground-floor was occupied by a single room. At one end was the great fireplace where, over a pile of blazing logs, were hung many cauldrons and pots. Round the room ran a raised bench some six feet wide on which the guests disposed themselves for sleep at night; rough tables and benches occupied the rest of the room. Some twenty or thirty travellers were seated at these. Few were eating, but the greater portion had horns of beer or mead before them. As Wulf and his companions entered, after giving over their horses to one of the helpers, the host, seeing by his attire that he was of condition above the ordinary, came forward and led him to the end of the room nearest the fire, where the floor was raised a foot and a half above the general level, forming a sort of dais where travellers of distinction could take their meals apart from the rest of the guests. Leof was now spokesman.

"We will have supper, and of your best, master host, for we have ridden from London. We are in the service of Earl Harold, and are riding with this young thane, Wulf of Steyning."

The name of Earl Harold was sufficient to gain for them the best attentions of their host, and in twenty minutes supper was served, consisting of trout broiled over the fire, swine's flesh, and a stew of fowls and smoked bacon flavoured with herbs. Wulf took the head of the table, and the other three sat a short distance below him. The dishes were handed round, and each with his dagger cut off his portion and ate it on his wooden platter with the assistance of dagger and fingers only, for the utility of forks was at that time a matter undreamt of. After the meal was over, the host brought a ewer of water with a napkin, and each dipped his fingers into the water, an operation necessary even for the most dainty feeder. Presently a glee singer came in, and for an hour amused the guests with songs, for the most part of a patriotic character.

Wulf was then conducted by the host to a small chamber upstairs, where there was the luxury of a bed stuffed with straw. The rest of the travellers, including Wulf's companions, merely wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay down on the raised bench which ran round the room.

On the afternoon of the third day the party arrived at Steyning. It was four years since Wulf had been at home, and he gave a shout of pleasure as his eye fell on the long low house with its background of trees, and touching his horse with his heel he left his companions behind and galloped towards the door. An old servitor came out.

"Why, Cedric, do you not know me? I am Wulf, whom you first taught to play single-stick and to draw a bow."

"Why, surely it is my young master," Cedric said, taking the hand that Wulf held out to him and placing it to his lips; "this is a glad day indeed for us all. We have longed sorely for a sight of you, for though I say nought against Master Egbert the steward, who is well liked by all, it is not the same as having our lord with us. You have come to stay, I trust."

"For a time at any rate, Cedric. Earl Harold wishes me to learn my duties as a thane and to fit myself to lead my people in the field if it be necessary."

"I trust that it never will be so," Cedric said, "but as we fought under your father so will we all be ready to fight under you should it be needful. The men of Steyning were never backward when there was fighting to be done, and in my young days there was no lack of that, though we have had quiet times since King Edward came to the throne."

The house was not built for the purpose of resistance, for, unlike the Normans, the Saxons did not deem it necessary to convert their houses into castles. It was, however, massively framed, the windows on the ground-floor were barred, the door was strong and solid, and after nightfall none could come in or go out without the knowledge and consent of the master. Wulf's companions came up just as the steward himself appeared at the door. He knew both Gurth and Leof, having himself been in the service of Harold before being deputed by him to manage the estates of Steyning during the earl's guardianship of its thane.

"The earl sends his greetings to you, Egbert," Gurth said, "and he has sent us hither with the young thane, who, as the letter I bring from the earl will inform you, has come down to take up his position as lord here, and to learn from you all things connected with his estate."

"Welcome to Steyning, thane," the steward said, doffing his cap; "it is well that you should be here. I have done my best to carry out the earl's commands to keep all things in readiness for your coming, and to be just and fair to the tenants, seeing that they pay their dues, and yet not pressing too hardly upon them if things go not well with them; but it is always best that the master should be in his own place, and right willingly do I give over my authority to you."

"The authority has been in good hands, I know well," Wulf said, "and right heartily do I thank you for having so well filled my place; but I would not take up my thaneship as yet I am but a boy, and have to learn my duties from you, and shall account myself but as your pupil. I know something of the ways of court, but nothing at all of those of the country, and it will be long before I am fit to take the control of things into my own hands."

They had by this time entered the great hall which formed the common room of the establishment. Its arrangement was similar to that of the room at the inn, with its raised dais for the master, his family, and guests, while the rest of the room was devoted to the retainers and servants. The cooking, however, was carried on in a room apart. There were two fireplaces, one upon the dais and the other in the body of the hall. On the walls hung trophies of the chase and arms of all sorts. The wooden roof was supported by massive beams, and with the exception of the trophies on the walls there was no attempt at decoration of any kind. During the residence of the family at the house, however, the hangings of tapestry, the work of generations of dames of Steyning, their daughters and maids, hung upon the walls round the dais.

The news quickly spread of the arrival of the young thane, and a score of men and eight or ten women and maids flocked into the hall to welcome him, and as he stood on the dais each in turn came forward to kiss his hand and salute him.

"I think my first order must be," he said to the steward, "that a cask of your best ale be broached."

"That shall be done at once," Egbert replied; "there is never a lack of drink here, but the best is none too good for the occasion. And who is this youth with you?" he went on when he had given the necessary orders, pointing to Osgod, who was standing somewhat shyly apart.

"He is my friend, and is going to be my body attendant and squire," Wulf said. "He, like myself, knows nothing as yet of his duties, but that he will be faithful and trusty I know full well, and the earl himself said that I did wisely to bring him with me."

"I will myself instruct him in his duties," Egbert said, "which indeed are not hard to learn by one of willing mind. He will stand behind you at table, will hand you your cup and take your orders. In the old times it would have been his duty to see that you were not struck down by a traitorous blow while you drank, but those days are passed. When in the field he will carry your helmet till you need to put it on; will keep close to you in the fight and guard you with his shield from arrows, and with his sword from attacks from behind; he will carry your banner, and see that as long as he has strength to hold it, it floats fairly out as a rallying point for your men. In the field indeed his duties are numerous, but at home in peace, beyond seeing that your arms are bright and clean, and that your orders are carried out properly, he will have but little to do. It is well that you brought him with you, for otherwise you would have had to choose one of the sons of your tenants, and the choice would have been a difficult one, for each would have desired the honour, and whichever you chose there would have been sore jealousy among the others."

The next day there was a great gathering in the hall. The whole of the tenants attended, and took the oath to be Wulf's men, as they had been those of his father, to obey his orders, and to follow him in the field with the due number of men according to the size of their holdings; while Wulf on his part swore to protect them from all wrong and oppression, to be a just master, calling upon them only for such service as he was entitled to demand, and exacting no feus or payments beyond those customary. A bullock had been killed, and after the ceremony was over all present sat down to a banquet at which much ale was drunk and feasting went on till nightfall.

The next morning Wulf, accompanied by Leof and Egbert, rode round the estate, choosing among the sons of the tenants thirty stout young men willing to enrol themselves as house-carls, receiving a regular rate of pay, and ready at all times to give service under arms, and to remain in the field as long as they might be required, whereas the general levy could only be kept under arms for a limited time. He had already gone into the matter with Leof, who pointed out that, as at present he had no wish to keep up any show or to have a body of armed men in the house, it would suffice if the men were exercised every day for a month, and after that merely practised with sword and battle-axe for two or three hours once a week. On these terms he had no difficulty in obtaining considerably more than the number he asked for, and finally fifty men were enrolled.

For those carls helmets were bought and coats of ringed armour made, and for a month they exercised daily. Of manoeuvring there was little indeed. The Saxons and Danes alike fought in line, with but room enough between them to swing their battle-axes. Each carried a spear as well as an axe, and when repelling the assault of an enemy closed up so that their shields well-nigh touched each other. Their exercise was generally either to engage in combats between chosen pairs, or, dividing into two parties, to fight line against line with blunted poles for spears and with stout cudgels for axes. Leof in these combats acted as judge, decided which side had gained the victory, praised the skilful, and chided the careless and sluggish. He gave lessons in the use of the sword and battle-axe to Wulf and Osgod, sometimes pitting them against each other, sometimes fighting himself against Wulf, and teaching Osgod how to assist his master by covering him with his shield.

Sometimes he would order three or four of the men to shoot with blunted arrows at Wulf, whom he taught to catch them on his shield or to sever the shafts with a blow of his sword, while Osgod standing by helped to cover him when two or three arrows flew at him together. This was a daily exercise, and even after the month's regular work was over some of the men came up every day to shoot, until Wulf had attained such coolness and skill that he could in the great majority of cases cut the shafts in two with his sword.

But the whole day was by no means given up to warlike exercises. Wulf rode out with the steward inspecting the houses and farms, learning what there was to be learned of the rude processes of agriculture, investigating the complaints of the depredations committed by errant herds of swine or by neighbours' cattle and sheep, seeing what was required in the repairs of farmhouses, and learning from Egbert to discriminate between those who were unable to pay their dues owing to misfortune, illness, or murrain among the animals, and those whose losses were due to their own sloth or carelessness. Upon these visits, too, the arms of the tenants were inspected to ascertain that they could properly fulfil their service if summoned to take the field.

The lands embraced by Wulf's feof were of considerable extent, reaching down to the sea, where they were some eight miles broad, and running back twelve miles beyond Steyning. Several small hamlets lay within it, and in case of war he could summon more than three hundred men to his banner. Several of the neighbouring thanes rode in as soon as they heard that Wulf had returned to fill his father's place at Steyning, and these visits were duly returned. But accustomed as Wulf had been to the orderliness of the court of the ascetic King Edward the rude manners and nightly revelry of these rough thanes by no means pleased him, so that he was glad when the visits were over, and he could remain quietly at home, where he was not without frequent guests.

The most regular of his visitors was the prior of the monastery at Bramber, which had been founded by the piety of one of Wulf's ancestors. The prior had, though Wulf was ignorant of it, received a letter from Earl Harold asking him to befriend Wulf, to encourage him to keep up the studies he had followed at Waltham, and to see that he did not fall into the drinking habit so common among the Saxons. The priest was well fitted for the mission. He was by no means a strict disciplinarian, but the monastery had the reputation of being one of the best managed in Sussex, and among the monks were many of good blood. He was passionately fond of art, and encouraged its exercise among the monks, so that the illuminated missals of Bramber were highly prized, and added largely to the revenues of the monastery.

The prior had been one of the monks at Waltham, and owed his elevation to the influence of Earl Harold with the late thane of Steyning. He was well taught in all the learning of the day, and having been for a time at Westminster, knew more of court life than the majority of the priors of isolated monasteries, and could suit his conversation to his hearer. Harold had said in his letter, "The lad has good parts. He is somewhat full of mischief, and has got into a scrape here by a quarrel with a Norman page, and by failing somewhat in the respect due to William of London, who took his compatriot's part with too much zeal. But Wulf is shrewd, and benefited greatly by his stay at Waltham, and both for the lad's own sake and for my friendship with the good thane, his father, I would fain that he grew up not only a sturdy Englishman, as to which I have no manner of doubt, but one who may some day play his part at court, and be a worthy friend and counsellor of an English king. Therefore I pray you, father, to keep an eye on the lad, and spare him what time you can from your duties. Tell him not that I have written to you, for it is the nature of youth to be averse to anything that looks like guardianship."

Such a request from Earl Harold was regarded by the prior as an order, and a few days after Wulf was installed at Steyning the prior rode over on his palfrey, accompanied only by the almoner of the convent.

"Peace to you, my son," he said, as Wulf bowed respectfully to him, "I have called not only as the prior of the monastery founded by the piety of one of the thanes of Steyning, but to welcome one who was a pupil at Earl Harold's college of Waltham, in which I at one time was a preceptor. Not when you were there, for I was installed here just before your good father's death."

"I left there two years since," Wulf said, "in order to be one of Earl Harold's pages; but I have not forgotten my reading, for the earl insists that his pages give two hours a day to study."

"Tis a good rule," the prior said, "for learning is like a weapon, it soon becomes rusted when thrown aside. You will, I hope, continue the habit."

"I should wish to do so, father, but there are no manuscripts here."

"In that at least I can supply your wants," the prior said. "My monastery has a good library, and it will be quite at your service, and also my advice in any matters that may concern you. My almoner here, brother John, knows pretty well the circumstances of most of your people, and may be able to tell you where your alms may be well bestowed, and where they would do more harm than good. The worthless are ever the most importunate, and for every honest man in need there are twenty rogues abegging."

The ice once broken, the prior came over frequently. His conversation was bright and interesting. He himself was engaged in writing a history of the Saxon and Danish monarchs from the times of Alfred, and had stores of anecdotes of people and events of whom Wulf had before heard only vague traditions from the wandering singers and story-tellers who travelled the country, and were welcome guests in every household. As Wulf was urged by the prior to come over whenever time hung on his hands, his visits to the monastery were naturally very much more frequent than those of the prior to Steyning. Sometimes he would sit in the private apartment of the prior, but more often he spent his time studying the rare manuscripts, or watching the monks at their work of copying and illuminating. If he went in the evening he generally sat in the refectory, where the monks for the most part spent their evening in talk and harmless amusement, for the strict rules and discipline that prevailed in monastic establishments on the Continent had been unknown up to that time in England, although some of the Norman bishops were doing their best to introduce them into the establishments in their dioceses, -- a proceeding that caused great discontent, and was strongly opposed by the English monks. These had, hitherto, regarded monastic life as one of work for the good of the poor, and as affording for those who wished it a tranquil retirement from the trials of the world. Moreover, it offered special attractions to those of quiet and studious tastes, since the monasteries provided the architects and the painters, the teachers and the writers, and it was here alone that learning was maintained and fostered. Consequently, at Bramber there was none of that monastic asceticism that prevailed abroad, and later became the rule in England also.

During the day the monks had their pursuits according to their tastes. There were those who worked in the copying and painting room. There were some who drew plans for churches or the dwellings of the wealthy, and who sometimes went out and superintended the carrying out of their designs. Some were in charge of the garden, where the work was chiefly done by the lay servitors, and where the herbs and simples were grown that were used in the concoction of the medicines distributed among the sick, and highly prized throughout the country round. Two or three were skilled in music, and these taught and conducted the choir, while two acted as teachers to youths, the sons of thanes and others, who, moved by the ardour with which their earl advocated learning, intrusted their sons to the monks for education. Then when the day's work was done, and vespers sung in the chapel, the monks gathered in the refectory. The conversation was of a bright and varied description, and as Wulf moved about from group to group he listened to the talk with far greater pleasure than he had ever derived from that at court, and largely increased his knowledge in many respects.

National matters were discussed with keen interest, for the monks were all English, and viewed with bitter hostility the elevation of foreigners to the chief dignities of the church, not only because they were foreigners, but because they introduced innovations of all kinds, and sought to reduce the Church of England to subjection to Rome, whereas previously it had been wholly independent of Papal authority. In secular matters, too, there were dangers that threatened the tranquillity of the country. Chief among these were the turbulence and ambition of Tostig, and the menace to the kingdom by his extensive earldom of Northumbria with its alien Danish population, which was rendered more serious by his alliance with the kings of Norway.

Then, too, it was doubtful whether the great central earldom of Mercia could be relied upon to act cordially with the West Saxons; Griffith of Wales was still restless and turbulent; and lastly, there was the ever-present menace of the Norman duke. Had England been united it could have laughed at the pretensions of the Duke of Normandy; but with Northumbria ready at any moment to break into civil war, and with Mercia doubtful, the claim of Normandy, however shadowy and indefensible, could not but be considered as a grave element of danger.

Listening to the talk of the monks Wulf learned much more as to the actual situation than he had done in the court of the Normanized king, and his feelings of patriotism became more and more developed and strengthened, while he applied himself with even greater ardour to his military exercises, as he recognized more fully the necessity that might arise for every West Saxon to be ready to take his place in the line of battle. The evenings that he spent at home were by no means dull. It was only in considerable towns that there were inns for the accommodation of travellers. Everywhere else these were dependent upon hospitality, and no door was ever closed in their faces. It was seldom that less than five or six travellers rested for the night at Steyning, and often that number was largely exceeded. Besides the wayfarers there were the professional wanderers, the minstrels, the story-tellers, and occasionally a troupe of buffoons.

All these were welcome, for they brought the news from without; the last rumours in London concerning the quarrels of the earls; the movements of the Danish ships that were harrying the coast, and those of the vessels Earl Harold despatched to cope with them; the prices of wool and hides in the chief markets; and even reports of what was happening beyond the seas. Leaving the dais, Wulf would go down and listen to the talk of the travellers, or, when they were of a degree above the common, have them up beside him, and question them as to their journeyings, the places they had visited, and the personages they had seen. Thus his hours were fully occupied from morning until night. He found far less time than he had expected for sport, and although he occasionally went out with his falcons or hunted the stag in the forest, which covered a wide extent of country beyond the hills, it was but seldom that he could find leisure for these amusements.

"It seems to me that you are always doing something, Wulf," Osgod said one day. "It is not at all the sort of life I should have thought a young thane would live. Why, you work many more hours a day than I did in my father's forge. It is either books, or the affairs of the tenants, or visiting the monastery all day when you are not at work with your sword exercises. When I have done with my work with Leof I like to lie down in the sun and take it quietly, and I cannot understand how you can be for ever on foot."

"I have so many things to do, Osgod; there is so much to learn, and I do not wish to grow up a mere beer swiller like Edmund of Angmering or Ethelred of Arundel. Their lives are, as far as I can see, no whit higher or more worthy than that of their own serfs, from whom they differ only that they eat more, drink more, and sleep on softer beds. Earl Harold expects better things than that of me, and I want to make myself worthy of being one of those in whom he can place confidence and on whom he can depend in case of trouble. I have heard him say how bad it is for England that our thanes are, in learning and culture, so far behind the nobles of other countries, and that if England is ever to take her place among great nations it must be by her thanes first raising themselves to the level of the nobles abroad, who are the counsellors of their kings. I can never hope to be anything like Earl Harold, who is the wisest and greatest of Englishmen, but I do hope so to fit myself that some day he may think me worthy of trust and confidence."

"Well, master," Osgod said lazily, "every one to his liking. I hope to be a good soldier and your true servant, but as for all this thinking and learning it would weary me to death."



Chapter III.


At Court.

Two months after Wulf had gone down to Steyning one of Harold's men brought a short letter from the earl himself. "I am glad to hear, Wulf," it began, "from my steward, Egbert, that you are applying yourself so heartily to your work. I have also good accounts of you from the Prior of Bramber, who sometimes writes to me. He is a good and wise man, as well as a learned one, and I am right glad to hear that you are spending your time so well. I told you that you should hear if there was any alteration in your affair. Some change was made as soon as you had left; for, two days later, meeting William of London in the presence of the king, I told him that I had inquired further into the matter, and had found that you were by no means the aggressor in the quarrel with young Fitz-Urse, for that he had fingered his dagger, and would doubtless have drawn it had there not been many bystanders. I also said that, with all respect to the bishop, it would have been better had he not inclined his ears solely to the tale of his page, and that under the circumstances it was scarcely wonderful that, being but a boy, you had defended yourself when you were, as you deemed, unjustly accused.

"The prelate sent at once for his page, who stoutly denied that he had touched the hilt of his dagger, but I too had sent off for Ulred, the armourer, and he brought with him a gossip who had also been present. I asked the king's permission to introduce them, and they entirely confirmed your story. Fitz-Urse exclaimed that it was a Saxon plot to do him harm, and I could see that the bishop was of the same opinion; but the king, who is ever anxious to do justice, declared at once that he was sure that the two craftsmen were but speaking the truth. He sternly rebuked Fitz-Urse as a liar, and signified to the bishop that he would do well to punish him severely by sending him back to Normandy, for that he would not tolerate his presence at court -- an order which the bishop obeyed with very bad grace. But at any rate the lad was sent away by a ship a week later.

"After the bishop had left the audience-chamber the king said that he was afraid he had acted with harshness to you, as it seemed that the fault was by no means wholly on your side, and that I could at once recall you if I wished to do so. I thanked his majesty dutifully, but said I thought it were best in all ways that for a time you should remain away from court. In the first place, you deserved some punishment for your want of respect for the bishop, to whom you should have submitted yourself, even if you had thought him unjust. In the second place, as Fitz-Urse had been sent away, it would create an animosity against you on the part of his countrymen at court were you to reappear at once; and lastly, that I considered it would be to your benefit to pass at least some months on your estates, learning your duties as thane, and making the acquaintance of your people. Therefore, I wished you to continue at Steyning. It will assuredly be pleasant for you to know that you are no longer to be considered as being there in consequence of having fallen under the king's displeasure, but simply because it is my wish that you should for a time dwell among your people, and fit yourself to be a wise lord to them."

Wulf was much pleased at the receipt of this letter, partly because the fact that he had been sent away in disgrace stung him, and he had felt obliged frankly to acknowledge to the neighbouring thanes that he had been sent down on account of a quarrel with a Norman page; but chiefly because it showed the kindly interest that Harold felt in him, and that although absent he had still thought of him.

It was nigh ten months before he heard again. During that time he had grown a good deal, and although he would never be tall, his frame had so widened out that it was evident he would grow into an exceptionally powerful man.

At sixteen he was still a boy, and although his position at Steyning, where, although still under the nominal tutelage of the earl's steward, he was practically lord and master, accustomed to play the part of host within its walls, and that of feudal lord over the wide estates, had given him the habits of authority and the bearing of one who respected himself, the merry expression of his face, aided by a slight upward turn of his nose, showed that in other respects he was unchanged. He had learned with his weapons all that Leof could teach him. He could wield a light battle-axe, and with his sword could turn aside or sever an arrow however sharply shot at him, provided that he had time to mark its flight. With a quarter-staff he was a match for any youth on the estate, and he could hurl a dart with unerring aim.

Osgod had sprung up into a powerful young fellow, taller than his master by well-nigh a head, and his equal in exercises requiring strength rather than quickness and skill. His duties at table had been delegated to another, for there was a certain clumsiness in Osgod's strength that no teaching could correct; and in his eagerness to serve his master he so frequently spilled the contents of a cup, or upset a platter, that even Egbert acknowledged that it was hopeless to attempt to make a skilful servitor of him.

The earl's second letter contained only the words:

"Come up to London as soon as you receive this. Leave Egbert in charge of everything as before."

Although the time had not seemed long, and his occupations were so varied that he had never felt dull since he had come down, Wulf was delighted to receive the summons. He had, unconsciously to himself, begun to feel restless, and to wonder whether Earl Harold had altogether forgotten his existence.

"We are going back to London, Osgod," he shouted.

"I am right glad of it," the young giant said, stretching his arms lazily. "I am grievously tired of the country, and had it not been that nothing would induce me to leave your service, I have thought sometimes that I would gladly be back again in my father's smithy, hammering away on hot iron. I used to think it would be the grandest thing possible to have nothing to do, but I have found that one can have too much of a good thing. Certainly I am glad to be going back, but I am not sure whether it won't be worse at court than it is here."

"Perhaps we may not be staying there," Wulf said encouragingly. "Maybe the earl is going to start on some expedition; though we have heard of no trouble, either in the North or in Wales. But even if I stay at court, Osgod, you will often be able to be away, and can spend some hours a day at the smithy, where, if you like, you can take off your smock and belabour iron to your heart's content. I should say you would be a rare help to your father, for, as Leof says, for a downright solid blow there are not many men who could surpass you."

Osgod laughed. "Leof has not forgiven that blow I dealt him a month ago, when I flattened in his helmet with my blunted axe and stretched him senseless on the ground; in faith, I meant not to hit so hard, but he had been taunting me with my slowness, and seeing an opening for a blow at his head I could not resist it, and struck, as he was always telling me to do, quickly."

"You well-nigh killed him," Wulf said, shaking his head; "he has not taken an axe in his hand since, at least not with either of us. He said to me the first time I invited him to a bout, it was high time a man should give up teaching when he came to be struck senseless by a boy."

"Not much of a boy," Osgod replied, "seeing that I stand over six feet high, and got my muscles hardened early at the forge. However, he bears me no ill-will; all he ever said to me on the matter was, 'I am glad to see that you can shake off your sluggishness sometimes, Osgod; I should have been less earnest in my advice to you to strike more quickly if I had thought that you were going to do it at my expense. Keep those blows for your master's enemies, lad. If you deal them to his friends you will lessen their number.'"

"Have my horse brought round at once, Osgod, have the wallets packed, and be ready to start in an hour's time. I cannot go without riding over to say good-bye to the prior and some of the monks. Do you, when you have packed, follow me; it is not greatly out of the way, and I shall meet you on the road. A short half-hour will suffice for me there."

"So Harold has sent for you, Wulf?" the prior said, when the young thane told him that he was on the point of starting for London. "'Tis as well. Come back when you may, you will now be fit to rule at Steyning, and to rule well, but I foresee that we are likely to have you but seldom down here. You are in good train to rise high among Englishmen. You already possess the favour of Earl Harold, who is, in all respects but name, King of England. You possess far more learning than most young men of your rank, and as Harold rightly thinks much of such knowledge, you are likely, if you live, to learn more. But better than this, so far as your prospects are concerned in the troubled times that may be coming, you are quick witted and ready. I hear that you are already very proficient in arms, and a match for most grown men. Best of all, so far as your future happiness is concerned, you have a kind heart and a good disposition. You could scarce be a page of Earl Harold's and not be a true Englishman and patriot; therefore, my son, I think that I can predict a bright and honourable future for you if Harold lives and reigns King of England. Be steadfast and firm, lad. Act ever in what your heart tells you is the right; be neither hasty nor quarrelsome. But," -- he broke off with a smile, "you have had one lesson that way already. Now I will detain you no longer. Pax vobiscum, may God keep and guard you! If opportunity offer, and a messenger comes this way, write me a few lines; news of you will be always welcome at Bramber."

Leaving the prior, Wulf paid a hurried visit to the chambers where the monks were engaged in their various avocations, and then started at a canter and met Osgod coming along with a sumpter-horse carrying the wallets, a store of provisions for the way, and Wulf's arms and armour fastened to the crupper of his saddle.

"You have done well, Osgod," Wulf said as he turned his horse, and at a quieter pace proceeded beside him. "I forgot to give you any directions or to speak about your bringing a pack-horse with you, but I am glad you thought of it, for our steeds would have been heavily burdened had all that baggage been divided between them."

"We go back more heavily laden than we came," Osgod remarked. "My wardrobe was then of the scantiest, and your own has been considerably added to since we came here. Truly, Wulf, I feel that I have changed mightily in this year, and can scarce believe that it is but a twelvemonth back since I flung down my hammer and started on my tramp to Guildford with a change of clothes dangling from the end of my cudgel. I was glad when you and your party overtook me, for I was badly scared once or twice when I met a rough fellow or two on the way, though, fortunately, they did not deem me worth robbing. We could give a good account of four or five of such knaves now."

"There has been a change indeed, Osgod, and in me as much as in you, though I have not shot up into such huge proportions. I was a page then, and had learned but to obey. I am a boy still, but I have begun to learn to rule; at any rate, to rule myself. I have not conquered my fault of hastiness altogether."

Osgod smiled broadly.

"You are quick in temper still, Wulf. You remember it was but yesterday that you rated me soundly because I had fed your hawks early, and they were too lazy to fly when you wanted them."

"Well, it was annoying," Wulf laughed; "and you deserved rating, since you have been told over and over again that the hawks were not to be fed early in the morning. Besides, the rating did you no harm."

"None at all, master. I know that you mean not what you say, and hard words break no bones. I should have thought no more of it had you yourself not remarked that you were still somewhat hasty of temper."

"I was wrong, Osgod," Wulf said, holding out his hand, "but you know that I love you, and that though your carelessness and forgetfulness chafe me sorely at times, I mean not what I say."

"I know it, master, and I would not have you other than you are. I suppose it is the thickness of my skull that prevents me from taking in all that I am told, and perhaps if I had more to do I might do it better. I shall be able to play my part when it comes to hard blows, and you must remember that no one can excel in all things. A staghound is trusty and sure when on the chase, but he could not be taught to fetch and to carry and to perform all sorts of tricks such as were done by the little mongrel cur that danced to the order of the mountebank the other evening. My father always said I was a fool, and that, though for a piece of rough hammering I was by no means amiss, I should never learn the real intricacies of repairing fine armour. Everything has its good, you see, Master Wulf; for had my father thought better of me in his trade, I doubt if he would ever have given me leave to quit it, and go as your man."

"I have no doubt that is so, Osgod, and heartily glad am I that you showed no genius for smith's work. Nature evidently intended you to damage casques and armour rather than to repair them. You have not got all my clothes with you," he added, as he looked round at the led horse.

"No indeed, Wulf," Osgod said, "nor a quarter of them, for in truth your wardrobe has grown prodigiously since we came here. I had to talk it over with Egbert, having but little faith in my own wits. He advised me to take the two suits that were most fitted for court, saying that if he heard you were going to remain there he would send on the rest in charge of a couple of well-armed men."

"That is the best plan, doubtless," Wulf agreed. "My hawking suit and some of the others would be useless to me at court, and it would have been folly to have burdened ourselves with them if we are likely to return hither shortly."

"Where shall we stop to-night?" Osgod asked.

"At the monastery of the Grey Friars, where we put up on our way from London. It will not be a long ride, but we started late. To-morrow we shall of course make a long day's journey to Guildford. I don't know what travellers would do were it not for the priories."

"Sleep in the woods, Wulf, and be none the worse for it. For myself, I would rather lie on the sward with a blazing fire and the greenwood overhead, than sleep on the cold stones in a monk's kitchen, especially if it happened to be a fast-day and one had gone to rest on a well-nigh empty stomach."

"It is never so bad as that," Wulf laughed; "as a rule, however much the monks may fast, they entertain their guests well."

"If it is an English monastery they do," Osgod admitted, "but not where there is a Norman prior, with his new-fangled notions, and his vigils and fasts and flagellations. If I ever become a monk, which I trust is not likely, I will take care to enter a Saxon house, where a man may laugh without its being held to be a deadly sin, and can sleep honestly without being wakened up half a dozen times by the chapel bell."

"You would assuredly make but a bad monk, Osgod, and come what will I do not think you will ever take to that vocation. But let us urge on our horses to a better pace, or the kitchen will be closed, and there will be but a poor chance of supper when we reach the priory."

"Well, Osgod," Wulf asked the next morning as they rode on their way, "how did you fare last night?"

"Well enough as to the eating, there was a haunch of cold venison that a king needn't have grumbled at, but truly my bones ache now with the hardness of my couch. Couch! there was but the barest handful of rushes on the cold stone floor, and I woke a score of times feeling as if my bones were coming through the skin."

"You have been spoilt, Osgod, by a year of sleeping softly. I marked more than once how thickly the rushes were strewn in that corner in which you always slept. How will it be when you have to stand the hardships of a soldier's life?"

"I can sleep well on the ground with my cloak round me," Osgod said steadily, "and if the place be hard you have but to take up a sod under your hip-bone and another under your shoulder, and you need not envy one who sleeps on a straw bed. As to cold and wet, I have never tried sleeping out of doors, but I doubt not that I can stand it as well as another. As to eating and drinking, they say that Earl Harold always looks closely after his men, and holds that if soldiers are to fight well they must be fed well. At any rate, Master Wulf, I shall be better off than you will, for I have never been accustomed, as you have, to such luxuries as a straw bed; and I doubt whether you ever went hungry to bed as I have done many and many a time, for in the days when my father hoped to make an armourer of me I was sent off supperless whenever I bungled a job or neglected his instructions. I wonder what the earl can want you for in such haste?"

"I do not suppose he wants me in any haste at all. He may have spoken to the king about me, and when Edward again spoke of my returning he would simply send for me to come at once."

Such indeed proved to be the case. When he waited on Harold as soon as he arrived the latter held out his hand; "I am glad to see you back again, Wulf. A year of country air and exercise has done wonders for you, and though you are not as tall as you might be, you have truly widened out into fair proportions, and should be able to swing a battle-axe of full weight. Thinking it was time for you to return here, I spoke to the king, who was in high good-humour, for he had been mightily pleased that morning at some of the figures the monks have wrought in stone for the adornment of his Church of St. Peter; therefore he not only consented to your return, but chided me gently for not having called you up to town before. 'The matter had altogether slipped my mind,' he said; 'I told you that he might return directly it was shown that it was the bishop's page who was in fault, and from that day I have never thought of it.'

"I told the king that I had purposely kept silence, for I thought the day had come when you should learn your duties down there instead of dawdling away your time at court. You need not put on a page's attire any more. You will remain here as my ward, and I have had so good an account from the good prior of Bramber that in a short time I shall be able to receive your oath as Thane of Steyning. You will attend me to court this evening as one of my gentlemen, and I will then present you to the king, whom it is well that you should thank for having pardoned you. I hear from the prior that the varlet you took down with you has grown into a big man, and is well-nigh as tall as I am already. He must have lodging with my followers while you are here."

Finding that he was to remain for the present at Westminster, Wulf sent off a messenger at once to request Egbert to forward the rest of his clothes immediately. That evening the earl took him into a chamber, where the king was seated surrounded by a few of his favourites.

"This is Wulf of Steyning, my lord king," Harold said, "the youth who was unfortunate enough to incur your royal displeasure a year since, and who has upon your order returned from his estates. I have had excellent accounts of him from my good friend the prior of Bramber, who speaks well alike of his love of study and his attention to the affairs of his estate. I have also heard from other hands of his progress in military exercises, and that he bids fair to become a valiant and skilful soldier of your majesty. He has prayed me to express his thanks to your majesty for having pardoned him, and having authorized me to enrol him again in the ranks of my followers here."

The king nodded pleasantly in answer to the deep bow that Wulf made. "I was somewhat hasty in your matter," he said graciously, "and dealt out somewhat hard measure to you, but doubtless, as Earl Harold said, your stay in the country has been for your good, and I am glad to hear that the worthy prior of Bramber speaks so well of you."

The earl gave a little nod to Wulf, and the latter, gathering that his case was concluded, and that he could now go at once, retired with another deep obeisance.

Leaving the palace he made his way to the armourer's, whither he had sent Osgod as soon as they arrived. The smith doffed his cap as he entered. "I am right glad to see you back again, young master. My son gave me a rare surprise, for truly when he walked in I did not know him again, not having had him in my thoughts or having heard of his arrival. The varlet saw that I did not know him, and said, 'Canst mend me a broken dagger, master armourer?'

"'That can I,' I answered, and would have said more, when a laugh came from his great mouth that well-nigh shook the house, and I knew that it was my son, though the note was deeper than his used to be, and was, as I told him, more like the bellow of a bull than the laugh of a young fellow of eighteen. His mother looked in from behind the shop and said, 'Surely that must have been Osgod's laugh.' 'It was,' I said, 'and there he stands before you. The impudent rascal has topped me by over half a head, though I am a fair height myself.' Then she carried him away, and I saw no more of him until I had finished my work. Since supper he has been telling me somewhat of what he has been doing down with you, which, as far as I can learn, amounts to nothing, save the exercising of his arms and the devouring of victuals."

"He did all there was to do, Ulred, except that he could not bring that long body and those loose arms of his to offer me cup or platter without risk to my garments, and even Egbert was forced to agree that he should never be able to make a courtly servant of him; but save in that matter Osgod has got on right well. He has always been ready when I wanted him, and prepared at once to start with me either on foot or horseback whenever I wished to go out. He is growing into a mighty man-at-arms, and well-nigh broke the skull as well as the casque of the captain and teacher of my house carls. Another two years, if he goes on as he has done and we go into battle again, no thane in the land will have a stouter body-guard."

"Are you going to stay in London, Master Wulf?"

"Yes; that is, while the earl is here. When he is away hunting or attending to the affairs of the state I suppose I shall go with him. Osgod of course will go with me. While here I shall have but little use for his services, and he can be at home most part of the day."

"Then I trust you will soon be off," the smith said bluntly, "for to have a youth six feet and a hand in height hanging about doing nothing would set all the men thinking it well that they too should be idle. Osgod was always ready enough for a talk, though I do not say he could not work when it was necessary, but now that he is in your worship's service and under no orders of mine, his tongue will never cease wagging."

"Oh, I am ready to work a bit, father. I know how long it took me to hammer out a bar before, and I shall be curious to find out in what time I can do it now."

"I doubt you will spoil more than you make, Osgod. Still, I too shall be curious to see how many strokes you can give with the big hammer, and how quickly you can beat a bar into a blade."

The stay in town was, however, of short duration, for four days later the earl told him that he was going down to his house at Bosham, and that he was to accompany him.

"'Tis three months since I was away from London," he said. "The king is going down into Hereford to hunt, and I am therefore free for a while, as there are no matters of state that press at present, though I fear that ere very long the Welsh will be up again. I hear that their King Griffith, not content with the beating he had a short time since, is again preparing for war. Still it may be some time before the storm bursts, and I am longing to be down again among the green woods or afloat on the water."

Harold took with him a large party of personal friends, his brother Wulfnoth, and his nephew Hakon. Among the party was Beorn, a young thane, who also was a ward of the earl. He was two years older than Wulf, but there had been a close friendship between them at Edward's court. Shortly after Wulf's departure Beorn had also been sent by the earl to his estates in Hampshire, and had been recalled at the same time.

Beorn was far less strong and active than Wulf, having been very weakly during the early years of his life, nor had he had the same advantages of education, as he only became Harold's ward a year after Wulf was installed as a page at Westminster. He was a youth of good and generous disposition, and looked with feelings of admiration upon the strength and skill in arms of the younger lad, and especially at his power of reading.

"I can never be like you there, Wulf," he would say, "but I hope I may some day grow as strong as you and as skilful in arms."

Beorn's stay in the country had done much for him, his thin tall frame had filled out and there was a healthy colour on his cheek. He had practised diligently at military exercises, and although he found when, on the first day after Wulf's arrival in London, he challenged him to a trial in arms, he was still very greatly his inferior in skill and strength, he bade fair to become a gallant fighter.

"It is a disappointment to me, Wulf," he said as he picked up the battle-axe that had been struck from his hand and sent flying across the hall by a sweeping blow of Wulf's weapon. "I have really worked very hard, and I did think that I ought to have caught you up, seeing that I am two years the elder. But you have gained more than I have. I did as well as the other youths who were taught with me by the house-carl Harold sent down with me, but I am sure I shall never be as quick or hit as strongly as you do."

"Oh yes, you will, Beorn. Age is nothing. You see you were sick and ailing till you were fifteen years old, so those years counted for nothing, and instead of being two years older than I am you are many years younger. In another four or five years you will come to your full strength, and will be able to strike a far heavier blow than I can now; although I do not say heavier than I may be able to do then, as you are neither so wide nor so deep chested as I am. But what does it matter, one only fights sometimes. You have other advantages, you are gentler in speech and manner and have a handsome face. When we were pages together the bower-maidens of the queen always made much of you, while they called me impudent, and would give me many a slap on the cheek."

"Well, you deserved it richly, Wulf, for you were always playing tricks upon them -- hiding their distaffs or tangling their thread, and giving them pert answers when they wanted you to do their errands. Well, I hope we shall be always great friends, Wulf. Your estates lie not far from mine, and though we can scarce be called neighbours we shall be within a day's ride of each other, and I trust that we shall fight together under the good earl, and often spend our time at each other's houses, and hunt and feast together."

"I hope we shall be much together, Beorn," Wulf said warmly, "and that we shall be sworn friends; but as for feasting, I care but little for it. We Saxon thanes are too fond both of food and wine-cup, and though I am no monk I would that our customs could be altered. I hate foreigners, but their ways are in many respects better than ours. The Normans, it is true, may not be much better than we are, but then they are but Northmen a little civilized; but I have heard the earl say that the French, and still more the Italians, are vastly ahead of us in all arts, and bear themselves with a courtesy and gentleness to each other that puts to shame our rough manners."

"We should be neither happier nor better that I can see, Wulf, did we adopt the manners of these Italians you speak of instead of our own."

"Perhaps not, Beorn, but we should be able to make the people happier and better if we could raise them."

"I will not even grant that, Wulf. Think you that the smith and the shepherd, the bowmaker and the weaver, would be any the happier could they read or even write than they are as they sing Saxon songs over their work? I should like to be able to read, because Harold thinks much of it, but except for that I see not that it would do me much good. If the king makes me any further grant of land it will be doubtless properly made out, and I can get a clerk or a monk to read it to me. My steward will keep the tallies of the tenants' payments. I can learn the history of our forefathers as well from the songs and tales of the gleemen as from books."

"You are as bad as my man Osgod," Wulf said indignantly.

"Well, you need not get hot about it, good Wulf," Beorn laughed. "When you come to see me I will have gleemen to sing the deeds of our fathers to you. When I come to you I will sit as mum as a mouse while you read to me from some monk's missal. I will force you neither to eat nor to drink more than it pleases you, and you shall give me as much to eat and drink as it pleases me, then we shall be both well satisfied. As for your man Osgod, I wish I had such a fellow. He will be well-nigh a giant one of these days, and in strength may come to rival the earl, who is said to be the strongest man on English soil."

"He is a good fellow, Beorn, and I could wish for no better to hold a shield over me in the day of battle or to stand back to back with me in a hand-to-hand fight."

"You should get him to stand in front of you," Beorn laughed. "He would be a rare screen against arrows and javelins."

The friends were well pleased when they heard they were both to accompany Harold to Bosham, which was one of the favourite abodes of the Earls of Wessex. It had originally been built as a hunting-seat, but Godwin had grown to love the place, with its woods extending for miles back and its quiet landlocked harbour, and additions had been made until it had grown to be, in point of size at least, a residence worthy of the great earls, and Harold preferred it to any of the many mansions belonging to him. It was a large and gay party that rode down the road through the quiet woods of Surrey and Sussex. They put up each night at the houses of thanes, where, as notice had been sent of their coming, they were royally entertained, and those selected were proud to afford hospitality to the earl.

For a week they stayed at Bosham, hunting in the forests, going off in parties under the guidance of the foresters, some who cared not for hard labour, hunting in the woods between Bosham and the hills, while others went far inland into the weald, which was for the most part covered by a great forest, with but a few scattered hamlets here and there. Smoke rising among the trees showed where the charcoal-burners were at work, or where the furnaces were glowing, converting the ore into the tough iron that furnished arms and armour for the greater portion of the men of the south. At the end of the week the earl announced to his guests that he had provided a new diversion for them.

"You see those three ships in the harbour," he said. "They were brought here last night, and three hundred men have been at work all day preparing them for our reception. I propose that we all embark with our dogs and servants, and sail along the coast, landing where we please and taking our sport. As we sail eastward there are abundant forests, and the game is far more plentiful than here, and our trip will partake of the character of an adventure in thus dropping upon unknown places. Tents have been stored on board the vessels, with abundance of good cheer of all kinds, so that we can establish ourselves where we will, and sleep on shore instead of rocking uneasily on the waves."

The proposal was received with acclamation, and the following morning the whole party embarked upon the three ships. The largest was occupied by Harold himself, his brother and nephew, and six or seven of his principal thanes. In this craft too went Wulf and Beorn with their men. On issuing from the harbour the ships' heads were turned to the east. The wind was light and fitful, the sails therefore were not loosed, and they proceeded under oars. There was but little tide until they reached the extremity of the long point of Selsea, past which they were hurried at great speed by the rapid current. Rowing closer inshore they got into quieter water, and continued their way until tide turned, when they anchored, and landing with their dogs hunted in the woods for some hours.

On their return to the sea-shore they found the tents erected and supper prepared, and the sport having been good they remained another day. The tide took them the next day past the shore of Wulf's estate, and he begged the earl to land there and to pass a day or two with his company at Steyning; but all were bent upon the chase, and they kept on until they reached the point where the white cliffs began to rise from the edge of the water. Here they landed again, and spent two or three days in hunting. Neither Wulf nor Beorn had been to sea before, and the quiet motion of the ships with their bellying sails and banks of sturdy oarsmen delighted them. There had been scarcely any motion, and neither had felt the qualms which they had been warned were generally experienced for a while by those who went upon the sea for the first time.

When the journey was resumed Wulf was struck with surprise and almost awe by the mighty cliffs that rose up from the water's edge. Neither he nor Beorn had seen anything like this, for although both their estates bordered the sea, the shores were flat, and vessels, if needs be, could be hauled up on shore.

"What would happen if a gale were to burst upon us here?" Wulf said to his companion. "If the waves were to dash us against those white rocks the ships would be broken up like egg-shells."

"Your question is answered," Beorn said, as a bay suddenly opened to their sight. "You see we are going in here, and shall anchor snugly somewhere up this river in front of us, which is truly the best haven we have seen since we left Bosham." Half an hour later the vessels were moored to the bank, close to a wooden bridge which spanned the little river.



Chapter IV.


A Storm.

After hunting for two days in the forests lying behind Newhaven, and in the valley in which Lewes lies, they again embarked. The master of Harold's ship had expressed some doubts as to the weather, but as he stated that it was but some eight miles round the great cliff that they saw to the east, and that beyond this the rocks ceased and there was a bay in which they could ride at anchor, or if necessary beach their vessels, it was determined to proceed, as Harold had the day before been visited by a thane whose house lay but two miles from the shore, and had accepted his invitation for the party to take up their abode there for a few days, as he promised them good sport in the forest. The cliffs rose higher as they proceeded. They kept closer inshore, and although they could see that the clouds were flying rapidly overhead they felt no breeze whatever, being protected from the wind by the lofty cliffs. The master was evidently uneasy, for he urged the rowers to exert themselves to the utmost. Wulf and Beorn stood looking with amazement at the cliffs towering up beside them.

"Is it not strange that they should rise like this -- like a wall from the water?" Wulf said. "Had they been built up by human hands they could scarcely have been more erect and regular. I have never seen anything at all like it on land."

"Then it must be something formed by the sea, Wulf. Do you see those caverns at the foot of the cliff, and in some places you see there is a mound of rocks as if newly formed? It may be that this white stone is soft, and that the sea beating against the foot wears it away in time, and then the rock overhead gives way by its weight and so leaves an upright wall. Perhaps, long back, these hills were like other hills, sloping gradually down into the sea; but in time, perhaps many, many years before the Romans landed here, the sea began to eat them away, and has continued to do so ever since, until they are as we see them."

"That may be so, Beorn. My father has told me that he could remember when our estates stretched a good half-mile farther seaward, but had since been eaten away by the waves, and he says that his father had told him the same thing; therefore, as you say, in many hundreds of years even hills, if the stone were soft, might also be worn away. There we are rounding the point, and beyond there are no more cliffs; doubtless it is in this bay that the Shipmaster Edred thinks to anchor."

At that moment their conversation was cut short by a tremendous gust of wind rushing down the sloping hill into the bay striking them with such terrible force that the ship heeled over until the water rushed above the bulwark. The men were thrown against each other, and several fell down to leeward. The confusion was heightened by the fact that the great sail, which was but loosely furled to its yard, burst the ropes, and the wind catching it buried the craft still further, and she would have filled and sunk had not the ship-master seized the tiller, and aided by the two sailors there pushed it up, and so the boat's head payed off from the wind and ran before it.

The master shouted to the men to lower the sail, which was bellying and flapping violently, but before his orders could be obeyed there was a crash. The mast snapped off at the slings of the yard, and the wreck fell over the bow of the boat. All hands were employed for some minutes in getting the sail on board and furling it to its yard, which was laid lengthways along the thwarts. It was found that three men standing in the bows had been killed, and several others badly hurt. The vessel was by this time some distance from shore. Nothing could be done until she was freed of the water, with which she was nigh half-full, and all hands were employed in bailing it out.

The squall had increased rather than lessened in fury, and by the time the water was cleared out they were two miles from the headland. Orders were then given to man the oars again but it was found that several of these had been lost, having been washed away when the men leapt up, believing that the boat would capsize, or had slipped from the rowlocks unnoticed while they were engaged in getting in the sail. This was a serious misfortune, for every oar was needed to force her through the water in the teeth of the wind, which was blowing directly off shore. The remaining oars were all double-banked, Harold himself and his thanes taking their places among the rowers.

For an hour they laboured their hardest, but at the end of that time they were farther from shore than when they began, the force of the wind acting on the poop and broad hull driving her seaward faster than the rowers could force her shoreward. The sea, too, was now getting up, and the motion of the vessel rendered it increasingly difficult to row. Edred left his place at the tiller and went forward to Harold.

"My lord," he said, "it is useless. In spite of your efforts we are drifting farther and farther out, and from the look of the sky I fear that we are going to have a great gale, and there is nothing to do but to set a little sail and to run before it. Maybe there will presently be a shift of wind, which may enable us to make for shore. At present you are but exhausting yourselves in vain, and the sea will soon get up so much that it will be impossible to use the oars."

"So be it," Harold replied; and at the master's orders the oars were laid in, and the men prepared to get sail upon her. A sailor climbed up the mast and fastened the stays close to the point which was broken off. Then another joined him, and a block was lashed to the mast just below the stays, and the halliards were rove through it; then Edred brought out a small sail, and this was hoisted, and the vessel, which had before been rolling heavily, began to glide swiftly through the water. They had had the satisfaction of seeing that their consorts, although like themselves nearly capsized by the squall, had suffered no damage, but after lowering their sails and yards to the deck, had succeeded in rowing into the bay, their lighter hull and draught enabling the oars to drive them through the water in the teeth of the wind.

"She is going along finely now," Wulf said.

"Yes," Beorn agreed; "but before night there is like to be a sea that will try her."

Harold held a consultation with the master, and presently all the men were called to work. The great sail was unrolled from its yard and a portion cut off, somewhat wider than the beam of the boat, and in length reaching from the bow to the mast. Nails and hammers were brought up from the little cabin, and the canvas was stretched from bulwark to bulwark and strongly nailed to the wood on either side, oars being first lashed across at short intervals to support it.

"I suppose that is for us to lie under, Master Wulf?" Osgod said. "It is a pity it was not erected before, for there is not a man on board who is not drenched to the skin."

"It is not put there to keep you dry, Osgod, but to keep the waves from coming into the ship. But she goes over them well. The wind is getting up, Osgod, and we shall have a great sea presently."

"Then why don't we turn and sail back again? It seems to me to be folly to be running away from the land if such is going to be the weather."

"How can we sail back again? Do you not see that it is the wind that is blowing us off, and the vessel must go as the wind takes her. One can go a little this way or that, but no man ever yet sailed in the teeth of the wind."

"This is the first time I have ever been to sea," Osgod said, "and I trust it will be the last. The tossing of the ship makes me strangely giddy, and many of the servants are downright ill with it. Why men should go on the water when they can walk upon the land is more than I can say. I think I will go and lie down under the shelter of the sail, for indeed I feel as if I were about to die."

Wulf himself was feeling strangely uncomfortable. As long as they had been at work he had not felt unwell, for the necessity of holding on to the bulwarks or ropes, and the excitement of their strange position, had saved him from experiencing many qualms; but both he and Beorn were soon glad to follow Osgod's example, and to lie down on the boards under the rowers' benches. Fiercer and fiercer blew the wind, more and more violent became the motion of the ship; masses of water fell on the canvas forward, as she plunged into the waves, and would have soon beaten it in had it not been for the support of the oars. By evening most of the men were lying under the shelter, while Harold's brother and friends had retired to the little cabin in the stern. The earl himself remained by the side of the ship-master, who had taken his place close to the tiller, which was worked by four men.

"Think you that she will weather it, Edred?"

"I have little fear about that, my lord. She is a staunch boat, and I have been aboard her in seas as heavy as this. Besides, that thought of yours of stretching the canvas across her bow has greatly improved her chances. The water runs off as fast as it falls on it, and none comes on board. Had it not been for this every man would have had to bail all night. No, I have no fear of her weathering the gale. What I am afraid of is, that if this wind continues to blow we shall assuredly be lost on the coast of Normandy."

"That would be an ill fortune, indeed, for I know that the Normans count all that are cast on their shores as lawful prey; and even if we reach the land in safety and escape murder at the hands of the lord of the soil and his people, I may fall into the hands of Duke William, who is assuredly no friend of mine, seeing that I stand in the way of his designs upon the throne of England. Truly it was an evil moment when the thought of taking to the sea occurred to me, and I would give a broad slice of my earldom to be back at Bosham."

Hour by hour the waves increased in size and violence, and often poured in over the sides. The number of men on board was too great for all to work effectively. They therefore were divided into two parties, one being engaged in bailing while the other lay under cover, the change being made every hour. Wulf preferred working to lying still, for as the craft rolled the water washed over them, while the din of the waves striking the ship's side, and the cataracts of spray falling on to the canvas above were deafening, and it was impossible to get a moment's sleep. All were glad when morning broke, although the scene that met their eyes was the reverse of comforting. Small as was the amount of sail the vessel tore through the water under the pressure of the following wind. Great waves with white crests pursued her, and as they neared her stern it seemed to Wulf that they must inevitably fall over and crush her. The spray torn from the crest by the wind filled the air. The wind shrieked in the cordage, and the vessel creaked and groaned as she rolled from side to side.

"I would not have believed if I had not seen it, that the sea could be so violent and ill-behaved," Wulf shouted to Osgod, who was then standing beside him.

"If my clothes were but dry and my stomach full I would not mind so much," Osgod replied; "but to be drenched in water all night and to have nought to eat in the morning, takes the courage out of one mightily. How long, think you, will this go on?"

"That no one can say. It may last two or three days."

"And no food all that time!" Osgod exclaimed in dismay.

"We could stand that well enough, Osgod; but I do not think there is much chance of our being called upon to do so, for I heard one of the sailors say that unless the storm abates marvellously we are likely to be cast upon the French coast before nightfall."

"I should be glad to be cast anywhere so it were out of this. At least, whether it be France or England, there must be food to be had on shore."

"You do not understand, Osgod. Unless we happen to be cast upon a shelving coast with sand or gravel the craft may be dashed to pieces, and all lose their lives; for assuredly none could swim long in such a sea as this."

"Well, we must hope that we shall find a shore such as you speak of," Osgod said tranquilly; "but for my part, I am content to take the risk rather than wait another three days before getting anything to eat."

"And I would rather fast for a week than run the risk of the ship being broken up on the rocks," Wulf replied. "I can swim but little even in calm water, and I am sure that I could do nothing among those waves."

"I can swim, and will look after you," Osgod said confidently. "I used to swim every day in the Thames."

Wulf shook his head. "I daresay you might look after me if I fell into the Thames, Osgod, but it is a very different thing in a sea like this. These waves would dash a swimmer hither and thither as if he were but a chip of wood; besides, the spray would smother him. Even at this height above the water it is difficult to breathe when one turns round and faces the wind. I think that our only hope lies in running upon a flat shore, where the waves will wash the vessel up so high that we may be able to leap out from the bow on to the land beyond the reach of their fury."

Late in the afternoon one of the sailors on the poop astern shouted out that land was visible, and it was not long before it could be seen from the deck. All eyes were directed anxiously towards it.

"It is a rocky coast," Edred said, "but the rocks are not high, and if we can manage to direct the vessel between two of them we may escape. At present it is needful that most of the crew should keep in the stern, but when we are about to strike they must all run suddenly forward, so as to leap out as soon as she touches the ground. There will be but little time given to them, for assuredly the seas will batter her to pieces the moment she falls among the rocks."

Harold issued the order. All were to remain at their posts until he gave the word, and were then to run forward. The master scanned the shore anxiously.

"See you, my lord, that opening right ahead of us? It seems to me barely the width of the ship, but if I can direct her truly between the rocks methinks that most of the crew will gain the land. I shall myself take the helm. That is my duty and my right, and should I not succeed in making the shore, I shall at least die well contented with the thought that you who are the hope of England will be saved."

"I would fain stay with you, Edred."

"That cannot be, my lord. As it is my duty to stay by the ship to the last, so it is your first duty to save your life for England. I need no aid, for the vessel steers well, and by the help of a rope round the tiller I can manage her alone. Farewell, my lord, if we are not to meet again on earth. A very few minutes will decide our fate."

"Swimming will be of no use there, Osgod," Wulf said. "Look how the spray dashes itself against the black rocks."

"I thought not that it would be so bad," Osgod replied. "I wonder the master does not cast anchor."

"The ropes would not hold for a moment," Wulf said, "and when they broke we might drift broadside on to the rocks, which would mean destruction for all. The master is steering for that narrow opening between these two great rocks ahead. It will be but two or three minutes now before our fate is decided."

At this moment Harold shouted:

"Let each man make his peace with God." And baring his head he stood silently for a minute or two, imitated by all on board. Then Harold again raised his voice in a shout that was heard above the storm:

"Move forward now all of you, but not further forward than the mast; for if her head were too far down the master could not hold her straight. Moreover, the mast will assuredly fall forward and crush those in front of it. Therefore, let no man go forward of it until the ship strikes."

The sailors had already cut away the canvas stretched across the bow, and all on board clustered just aft the mast. Wulf looked back, and saw the master standing alone on the poop, with his eyes fixed in front of him and a look of grim resolve on his face. Then he turned again to look ahead. The scene was terrible. On either side extended a long line of white foam. Great masses of water were hurled against the rocks with a thundering crash, and the spray flew high up into the air, and then, caught by the wind, was carried far inland. The rocks were now but a few lengths ahead, and the passage between them looked terribly narrow, so narrow that he doubted if the ship could possibly pass through them. Not a word was spoken on board as the ship neared the opening. Now she swerved a little to one side, now a little to the other, as the waves lifted her stern and swept her along, but the hand of the master checked her immediately, and brought her head back to the line.

She was but a length away from the passage when there was a crash that shook her from stem to stern; then another great wave lifted her, and Wulf saw a black wall of rock gleaming with the water that streamed down it. The wall of rock flashed past the bulwarks so closely that he could have touched it. A moment later the ship struck again, this time with a force that threw many off their feet, while the mast fell over the bow. Then once more she lifted, shot a few feet further, then struck with tremendous force and remained stationary.

There was a grinding and splintering of planks, as the men rushed forward, and then a wave swept over the vessel, carrying all on deck before it into the cove beyond the rock, rolling them over and over up a sandy shore behind. Some managed to dig their hands and feet into the sand and to scramble out; more were sucked back again by the receding waters. As Wulf found himself in the water he felt his arm clutched, and Osgod shouted in his ear: "Do not struggle, I can keep you up!"

When thrown up on the sand Wulf tried in vain to resist the backward rush of the water; he and Osgod were borne out again. When the next wave again swept them up Wulf saw the earl standing knee-deep in the water, and as he was swept past, Harold seized him and Osgod, and with tremendous strength lifted them right out of the water. "Keep still!" he shouted; "your weight will help me to keep my feet." Wulf felt his supporter quiver as the water rushed out, for he was waist-deep now; but directly afterwards he set them both down on their feet, saying, "Run before the next wave comes." Ten yards farther and they were beyond the reach of the sea. Harold was with them, and directed those who had got ashore to form lines, taking hold of each other's hands, and so to advance far into the surf and grasp their comrades as they were swept up. Many were saved in this way, although some of the rescuers were badly hurt by floating pieces of wreckage, for the vessel had entirely broken up immediately after her course had been arrested.

As soon as all who could be seen were brought ashore it was found that ten men were missing, among whom was the master of the ship, most of them having probably been struck by floating timbers. As soon as it was certain that no more would come ashore alive Harold called the men together. Rough litters were made of oars and pieces of sail, for the conveyance of those who had broken limbs or were too much injured to walk, and the party prepared for a start. By this time several men, apparently of the fishing class, had approached, but stood a short distance away, evidently waiting for the departure of the party before beginning the work of collecting whatever the sea might cast up. Harold went over to them, and asked in the Norman tongue:

"What shore is this, and how far is it to the nearest town where we can obtain shelter and assistance?"

"You are in Ponthieu, in the territories of Count Conrad. The town of St. Valery is but two miles along the coast. There you can obtain all you need."

Returning to his men, Harold ordered the wounded to be raised, and the party at once set out. Harold had already taken off his gold chain and rings, and had told his companions to do the same, in order that the cupidity of the natives might not be excited nor their rank guessed at. As soon as they started Wulf went up to him.

"My lord," he said, "I fear that you have already been recognized by one of the fishermen. I saw him looking earnestly at you, and then whisper to one of his companions. After doing so he hurried away."

"That is bad news, Wulf; but I could hardly expect that I should be long unrecognized. There are many vessels come and go between the northern ports and our own, and in St. Valery there must be numbers of sailors and fishermen who have seen me in London. Besides, we are sure to be questioned by the count as to our rank and condition, and even could we conceal it for a while, the news is certain to be brought ere long from England of our having been blown off the coast, and when it was known it would be speedily guessed that we were the missing party. Hark you, Wulf; I have never heard aught good of Count Conrad, and one cannot say what steps he may take to force us to pay a heavy ransom, but it is like enough that he will do all he can to prevent the news of my being in his hands from reaching the ears of the duke. It is likely that you and Beorn, being but lads, will be watched less rigorously than the rest of us. Should this be so, try, if you find an opportunity, to send the news to the duke that we are all held prisoners here. I shall, of course, endeavour to communicate with him, but some chance may occur by which you can do so more readily than I can."

"I will try to do so, my lord; but I trust this Norman count will treat you with all due honour and courtesy."

Wulf then fell back to Beorn's side, and half an hour later the shipwrecked party entered the gates of St. Valery. The townspeople flocked round them, and as soon as they learned that they were a party of shipwrecked Saxons who had been blown by the gale from England, they were led to the house of the officer in command of the town. He asked them a few questions, saying, "I must refer the matter to the count. By the usages of our land all who are cast upon it become his prisoners, to be put to ransom or otherwise as he may decide. However, food shall be supplied you at once, but you must be content to remain under guard until his pleasure is known."

They were accordingly at once placed in a disused granary, under the charge of a strong guard. Food was brought to them, and as soon as they had consumed this, most of the men threw themselves on the ground, worn out by their long exertions.

"This is a sorry welcome, Wulf, after our escape from the sea," Beorn said. "Truly the land seems as inhospitable as the ocean."

"It is not pleasant, Beorn, but at present I feel so thankful for my escape from those terrible waves that even the thought that we are all prisoners to this petty noble does not greatly concern me. Doubtless William of Normandy, who is the liege lord of the land, will speedily take us out of his hands. Were we alone it may be that we should suffer a long stay in his dungeons, but Harold and his brother are far too important personages to be allowed to remain in the hands of one of the duke's vassals."

"It is shameful," Beorn said indignantly. "I do not say that those who are cast on our shores may not be often pillaged and ill-treated by the common folk, but surely none of gentle blood would fail to show them kindness and hospitality."

"That is so on our coast of Sussex, but I have heard that further west, and certainly among the Danes of Northumbria, vessels cast on the coast are considered as gifts from the sea, and even the lives of those who gain the shore are not often respected. I regret much that Harold should be with us. It is true that his being here will doubtless shorten the term of our imprisonment, but it is unfortunate that he should fall into the hands of William, who is as famous for craft and subtlety as he is for bravery and skill as a leader."

"But what can he gain from Harold?" Beorn asked. "Our earl is well-nigh as much known throughout Europe as William of Normandy, and all Christendom would cry out with shame were he treated with ought but courtesy by the duke."

"I doubt not that he will treat him with courtesy, Beorn, but he may well wring some concessions from him before he lets him depart. He may bargain that the Normans may be again allowed to hold land in England, and to build their castles, as they did before Godwin and his sons returned from exile, and the Normans had to fly the land, save those around the person of the king. He may beg so many bishoprics for Norman priests. There is no saying what concessions he may extort. Of all princes in Europe I had rather Harold had fallen into the hands of any other than into those of William of Normandy."

"Truly I have never troubled my head about such matters, Wulf, and thought that it would be time to do so when I became a thane, and had a vote at the Witan."

"I have heard much of them from the prior of Bramber, who is a true Englishman, and though a priest, learned in all matters that appertain to the history of times past and of our own; he impressed upon me that just as a boy must practise arms if he is to bear them worthily as a man, so he should study the story of our kings, and learn what is passing, not only in our own country but in others, if he is ever to raise his voice in council."

Harold and his thanes sat apart discussing the position, their conclusion being very similar to that arrived at by Wulf. Chivalry had but slight influence as yet in the West of Europe. Kings and princes cared little as to the means by which they attained an end. Rivals to a throne were put out of the way without scruple; the profession of arms was a business like any other, carried on for gain; a captured foe was valued chiefly for the amount of ransom that could be obtained for him; petty barons and powerful nobles alike levied exactions on those who might fall into their hands, unless previously provided with a safe-conduct. Years later, when King Richard was made a prisoner on his return from the Holy Land, it was only because of his great exploits for the recapture of the Holy Sepulchre that any feeling of reprobation was excited against his captors. Thus then, although Normandy was at peace with England, it did not seem an unnatural thing to Harold and his companions that the noble into whose hands they had fallen should demand a heavy ransom, or that the Duke of Normandy himself should utilize the opportunity for his advantage.

On the following morning they heard a large body of horsemen ride up. A minute later the governor accompanied by a Norman noble entered. They were followed by a number of men-at-arms, among whom was a fisherman.

"Now, fellow," the count said to this man, "which is the Saxon Harold?"

"I am," Harold said, advancing a step before his companions. "I am Harold, Earl of Wessex. I have with my companions been cast on your shores. I expect honourable treatment, and am willing to pay any reasonable ransom should you demand one."

"We will talk of that afterwards," the count said roughly; "for the present you go with me to my castle at Beaurain. But first do you and your men hand over all valuables that you may possess; they are forfeited to me, being cast up on my land."

Without a word Harold produced his chain of office and other ornaments, and dropped them into a helmet which a soldier at the orders of the count held out for them. His companions did the same, the thanes first and then the two lads.

"That will do," the count said to the soldiers. "That is my share, you can search the rest yourselves."

"I protest against this robbery," Harold said haughtily, "and will proclaim you in all the courts of Europe as one who is false to his station, and who condescends to pillage those whom fortune has cast on his shores."

"You can wait until you get an opportunity to do so," the count sneered; "it is not likely to come for some time. You can do as you like to the others," he went on to the governor, "I want not to be cumbered with them. You can doubtless find work for them on the fortifications, but if you can put them to no use or they are troublesome, cut their throats and throw them into the sea."

The Saxons fingered their knives, but Harold said in their own tongue, "Resistance would be folly, the time may come when we may turn the tables on this fellow." The soldiers now closed round Harold and the thanes and led them out of the house. Here they were ordered to mount each behind a soldier, and as soon as they had done so they rode out from St. Valery, and crossing the river Somme at Abbeville, and the Authie by a ford near Crecy, reached the fortress of Beaurain on the river Canche near the town of Hesdin before nightfall. On the road Wulf watched anxiously for a chance to escape, but none offered itself. Soldiers rode on both sides of the captives, and had he slipped from the horse he could not have hoped to make his escape across an open country. As soon as they entered the fortress Harold and the thanes were all consigned to dungeons, but the count, learning that the two lads had been Harold's pages, said they should wait on himself. "And see," he said to them, "that your service is good, if you do not wish to dangle over the moat at the end of a rope."

"It is a shame that such a man should be a nobleman," Beorn exclaimed indignantly to Wulf, as he saw that the soldiers were placing chains upon Harold before they led him away.

"He is a hateful-looking villain," Wulf said. "It is but lately that he revolted against William. I heard of it from the prior. His brother, the last Count of Ponthieu, joined France in an invasion of Normandy. He fell in an ambush at St. Aubin, and this man became count. For a time he was held prisoner by the duke, but afterwards he was freed, and received back his dominions as a vassal. His face is at once cruel and base. I told you the instructions Harold gave me, Beorn; the need for carrying them out has arrived, and I will try to make my escape without loss of time from this fortress to bear the tidings to the duke."

"I will escape with you, Wulf; two can get on better than one."

"That is so, Beorn, and I would gladly have you with me, but maybe I shall be detected in attempting to escape and be slain, or I may fall into the hands of peasants and be brought back here, and if we were together all hope of letting the duke know of our lord's captivity would be at an end. Therefore it were best that I made the attempt first. If I fail, which is like enough, then do you in turn try to get away and bear the news to the duke."

Beorn did not like to stay behind, but he saw that Wulf's plan was best, and accordingly fell in with it.

"Will you go at once?" he asked.

"No; I will stay for a day or two to lull suspicion. They may watch us just at first, but if they see that we do as we are ordered with good-will they will cease to regard us so narrowly; moreover, it will be needful to know the place well before I devise a plan of escape."



Chapter V.


Rouen.

For the next two days the lives of the two young Saxons were well-nigh unbearable. At meals the count by turns abused and jeered at them, and his companions, following his example, lost no opportunity of insulting them in every way.

"If this goes on, Wulf," Beorn said as they threw themselves down on the ground late that night, when the carousal was ended, "I shall snatch the count's dagger from his belt and bury it in his heart, though they put me to death by torture afterwards."

"I thought of doing so myself, Beorn, to-night, when he threw a cup of wine over me. But I said to myself my life is not my own, Harold's rescue depends on it. We are bound as his men to suffer in patience whatever may befall us. In another hour I shall try to make my escape. When it was your turn to wait this evening I stole away for a time, and went to the shed where they keep the war-engines and took thence a coil of rope, which I have hidden in the courtyard. You know that we noticed last night where the sentries were placed, and decided where I might best drop from the wall unobserved. Fortunately the moat is dry at present, though they can turn water into it from the stream at will, so that once down I shall have no difficulty in getting away. Now I want you to go to sleep directly, I shall not stir until you do so, then when you are questioned in the morning you can say that I was by your side when you went to sleep, and that when you woke in the morning the place was vacant. You can say that I told you during the day that I could not suffer these insults much longer, and that you suppose that after you had gone to sleep I must have got up and either killed myself or in some way made my escape."

Beorn lay quiet for a time and then Wulf said suddenly, "I have changed my mind, Beorn; we will go together. I feel it is likely that in his wrath at my escape the count may slay you, and thus the object with which you remained behind would come to nothing, therefore it is best that you go with me."

"I was thinking so myself, Wulf, though I would not say it; but in truth I think the risks we may run in making our way to Rouen are small compared to those of staying here."

"We must lose no time, Beorn. The castle is quiet now, and we must be many miles away from here before morning, for you may be sure the count's horsemen will scour the country far and wide in pursuit of us."

They had that morning, before the count was up and their services were required, wandered about the fortress, apparently paying no attention to anything, but really closely observing the approaches to the walls and the general features of the country outside. They now stole out, keeping in the shadow of the building, until they reached the staircase leading up to the battlements, close to the point Wulf had fixed upon for making their descent. This had been chosen chiefly because no sentry was placed on that part of the wall, the watch generally being careless, as Normandy was at present at peace with its neighbours. When they reached the top of the steps they listened for a short time, but everything was silent. Then they stepped out on to the narrow pathway along the battlements, fastened one end of the rope round a piece of stonework and let the other end drop down into the fosse.

"Shall we both go down together, the rope is strong enough?" Beorn asked.

"It is strong enough, but we had better go separately, Beorn; we are neither of us accustomed to climb ropes, and if the upper one were to slip down too fast he might knock the other off the rope. It makes no matter who goes first. I will if you like, only mind if you hear a footstep approaching let yourself down at once whether I am off the rope or not. Be sure and twist your legs tightly round it, or it will run through your fingers."

Taking hold of the rope he at once swung himself over, and without much difficulty reached the bottom in safety. He had scarcely done so when Beorn came down beside him with a rush.

"What made you come down like that, you narrowly missed coming on my head?"

"I believe I have cut my fingers to the bone," Beorn groaned; "I feel as if I were holding a bar of hot iron. You had scarcely started before I heard voices; they were evidently those of men going their rounds, so I caught hold of the rope and swung myself off, but before I got my legs fairly round the rope I began to slip, and though I gripped it as hard as I could I could not stop myself, but slid down like lightning."

"Hush!" Wulf whispered, "they are coming along above." The voices came nearer until they sounded directly overhead Wulf knew that it was very unlikely they would notice the rope in the dark, but he felt much relieved as he heard them pass on. He waited until they could no longer be heard.

"Now, Beorn, we can safely be off."

It was muddy at the bottom of the fosse, but not so deep as they thought it would be, and they scrambled up the opposite side and then struck across the country south. Presently they came upon a road, which they followed, until after three hours' walking they reached the Authie river, at a spot where the bank was broken down.

"This must be a ford, we had best try to wade across. Anyhow there cannot be very many yards to swim, and we can both manage that."

They found that the bottom was pebbly, and that even in the middle the water was not much above their waists.

"That is something done, at any rate," Beorn said. "Now which way shall we go? This road we are on seems to lead south and we cannot do better than follow it, the stars give us light enough, now that our eyes are accustomed to the darkness."

"Yes, we can keep this road, which is no doubt that by which we travelled before, as far as the village which I heard them call Noyelle, then we shall have to strike off to the left, for that place was not far from Abbeville, and shall have to follow the Somme up some distance, unless we can find means of crossing it."

"I should think we had better leave the road before we get to the village, so as to be well away from it. If any peasant were going to work early and caught sight of us he would be sure to mention it to any horseman who might come along searching for us. I noticed that there were several woods on our right as we rode along."

"That would be the safest way, no doubt," Wulf agreed. "Fortunately we can do without food for to-morrow" -- for both had managed to get some supper after they had finished in the hall, -- "and having made up my mind to escape to-night I hid away a large piece of bread under my smock. We can manage very well on that."

Accordingly after an hour's walking they left the road and bore to the south-west. But little of the land was cultivated, and they were fortunate in not coming upon any woodland until light began to break in the sky. Then they made their way to the nearest wood, went in for some distance and then threw themselves down, and in a few minutes were fast asleep. Accustomed to judge time by the position of the sun, they saw when they awoke that it was already past noon, and after eating a few mouthfuls of bread they continued their journey. For the most part their course lay among woods, and they did not venture across an open piece of country until after a careful examination to see that no one was in sight.

Shortly after starting they caught sight of a village in the distance, which they afterwards learned was St. Riguier, but with these exceptions saw no human habitation. Late in the afternoon they came down on the bank of the Somme. This was thickly covered with long reeds and rushes, and among these they sat down and ate the rest of their bread, confident that however vigilant the search they would not be traced.

"This is a very different matter to the last crossing," Beorn said. "This is a wide river, and I fear that I could not swim across it."

"Nor should I like to try. But fortunately there is no occasion for us to trust to swimming; for we can pull up or break off a number of these great rushes and make them into two bunches; these will give us ample support for our passage."

"So they will, Wulf; I should never have thought of that."

Two large bundles were soon made, the reeds being tied together by a tough climber that wreathed itself everywhere among them, and as soon as it was quite dark they went down to the water's edge, and found to their satisfaction that the reeds possessed ample buoyancy for their purpose. Wading in they started swimming, resting their chests on the reeds and striking out with their legs, and in a few minutes were on the southern bank of the river.

"Now we must make to the east of south," Wulf said. "I should say if we walk steadily all night we shall be beyond the territory of this vile count. I hope before long we shall strike on some road leading in the right direction, for if we get among the woods again we shall be able to make no progress. But any road we may come upon going at all in the right direction is likely to lead to Rouen."

"How far is it, do you think?"

"I have a very vague idea. The prior had a map of Normandy, and on this he pointed out to me how the duchy had grown since William came as a boy to be its duke. I can remember the general position of the town, but not more than that. I should think from the Somme to Rouen must be over seventy miles and less than a hundred, but more closely than that I cannot guess."

They came upon no road before morning, but as the country was open they made good progress, and when they lay down in a thicket as the day was breaking they calculated that they must be nearly thirty miles south of the Somme.

"I feel that I want sleep," Beorn said, "but still more that I want food. If it is another sixty miles to Rouen I know not how we are going to travel the distance fasting."

"No, we must get some food to morrow or rather to day, Beorn. We have nothing of any value to offer for it. They searched us too closely for anything to escape them. We dare not go into any town or village until we are quite sure that we are beyond the count's territories, but we might enter some solitary hut and pray for a piece of bread for charity, or we can walk all day, by which time we shall surely be well beyond the Count of Ponthieu's territory, and could boldly go into a town. If we are seized, we can demand to be sent to Rouen, saying we are bearers of an important message to Duke William, and even if they do not send us straight on, they would hardly keep us without food."

After sleeping for four or five hours they again started, and after walking some miles came upon a herdsman's cottage The man was out, and his wife looked with surprise at the two lads, whose garments, though stained by sea water and travel, were evidently those of youths of a class above the common. Beorn addressed her in her own language, and told her that they were wayfarers who had lost their road and were grievously in need of food. She at once invited them to come in, and set before them some black bread and some cheese made from goats' milk. They learned to their satisfaction that they had long passed the limits of Ponthieu, and that Rouen was distant about fifty miles.

"The road from Amiens lies five miles to the east," she said; "but it would be shorter for you to keep due south, for it inclines in that direction. You will strike it after seven miles' walking, and after that you cannot miss your way."

After warmly thanking the woman for her hospitality the lads again started, feeling greatly strengthened and refreshed by their meal; but want of sleep told upon them, and when they got within sight of the road they again lay down, and slept until the sun was setting. Resuming their journey they followed the road, and before morning crossed over a range of hills, and presently arrived at a small hamlet close to which was a monastery. Towards this they directed their steps, and seating themselves on the ground near the door, waited until it was unbarred.

"You are early wayfarers, my sons," the monk who opened the gates said as they went up, "and you seem to have travelled far."

"That have we, father, and are sorely in need of food."

The hospitality of the monasteries was unbounded, and the monk at once led them into the kitchen, where bread, meat, and wine were placed before them.

"Truly you were hungry," the monk said smilingly as he watched their onslaught upon the joint.

"We were well-nigh starving, father. For two days we have had nought to eat save a crust of bread we had brought with us, and some that a shepherd's wife bestowed upon us out of charity, and we have walked from near Hesdin."

"I do not ask out of curiosity, my sons," the monk said after a pause, "and you know it is not our custom to question wayfarers who come in to ask our hospitality; but it is strange to see two youths, who by their dress and manner seem to belong to a superior station, in so pitiable a state as you are, and wandering alone, as it would seem, penniless through the country. I ask not your confidence, but if you chose to give it maybe we might aid or advise you. Our prior is a kindly man and very gentle with the faults of others."

"We are Saxons, father. We were wrecked four days since near St. Valery, and are now bound on an errand of high importance to Duke William, to whom it is urgent we should arrive as soon as possible. We have run sore peril on the way, and have been stripped of our money and valuables."

"Is your mission of importance to the duke as well as to yourselves?" the monk asked gravely.

"It is of great importance to him. I am sure that he would consider that any one who assisted us on our way had done him good service."

The monk look earnestly at them. "I will speak to the prior," he said. He returned in a few minutes and bade them follow him.

The prior was a tall, gentle old man. "I have heard your story from brother Gregory," he said, "and I wished to see you that I might judge for myself whether so strange a tale, as that two shipwrecked boys should have important business with our duke, could be believed, before I did aught to help you forward. You look to me honest of purpose and of gentle blood, and not, I am sure, belonging to the class of wayfarer who will trump up any story for the purpose of gaining alms. Whether your errand with the duke is of the importance you deem it I cannot say, but if you give me your word that you consider it an urgent matter, I will aid you to proceed at once."

"We do indeed consider it most urgent, father, and we are sure that the duke will so regard it. We should not have walked well-nigh a hundred miles in two days and nights, and that almost without food, had we not deemed it so."

"Brother Gregory," the prior said, "bid lay-brother Philip at once prepare three palfreys, and tell him he is to ride himself with these two Saxon youths to Rouen. The distance is thirty miles," he went on as the monk left the room. "It is not yet six o'clock, and though our palfreys are not accustomed to travel at rapid speed, you will be there this afternoon in time to have audience with the duke."

The lads returned their warm thanks to the prior. "We would gladly tell you the purport of our mission," Beorn said, "but we are only the bearers of news, and the duke might be displeased did he know that we had confided to any before it reached his own ear."

"I wish not to learn it, my son. It is sufficient for me that you have a mission to our duke, and that I am possibly furthering his interest by aiding you to reach him. But, in sooth, I am more moved by the desire to aid two stranger youths, whom the sea and man alike seem to have treated hardly. Is it long since you left England?"

"We have well-nigh lost account of time, father, so much has taken place in a few days. 'Tis but a week since we were sailing along the English coast with a large company in three ships, when a sudden tempest arose, carried away our sail, blew us off the shore, and then increasing in fury drove us before it until we were wrecked on the coast of Ponthieu, near St. Valery. Since then we have been prisoners, have escaped, and have journeyed here on foot."

"Truly a bad week's work for you," the prior said. "Were all your ships wrecked?"

"No; our two consorts, being lighter and more easily rowed, regained the land when we were blown off it."

"Conrad of Ponthieu is an evil man," the prior said. "Had you come ashore twenty miles farther south you would have been beyond his jurisdiction. I fear that all the seacoast people view the goods obtained from vessels cast ashore as a lawful prey, but your company would assuredly have received fair hospitality if cast on the shores of Normandy itself. But now methinks I hear the patter of the palfreys' hoofs. Farewell, my sons, and may God who has protected you through these dangers give you his blessing."

The lads knelt before him as he placed his hands on their heads and gave them his benediction. As they rose brother Gregory entered to say that the horses were ready, and with renewed thanks to the prior they followed him to the courtyard, mounted, and rode off with the lay-brother, glad indeed to find their journey on foot thus abridged. Impatient as they were to reach Rouen, the gentle pace at which the palfreys ambled along fretted them very much. Brother Philip kept up a constant string of talk on the monastery, its estates, the kindness of the prior, the strictness of the subprior, and other matters of great interest to himself, but of none to the boys, whose thoughts were with Harold, chained and in prison. The palfreys, however, made very fair progress, and it was but three o'clock when they rode into the streets of Rouen, whose size and grandeur would at any other time have impressed them much, for it was an incomparably finer city than London.

"That is the duke's palace," brother Philip said, as they approached a stately building. "I will put up the horses at the convent at the farther corner of this square, and will then go with you to the palace, as I have orders to tell any officer who may make a difficulty about you entering, that I am bid by the prior of Forges to say that you are here on urgent business with the duke, and to pray that you may have immediate audience with him."

In those days great men were easy accessible, and one of the ushers, on receiving the message from the prior, at once led the boys to an apartment in which the duke was sitting. He looked up in some surprise on seeing the two lads standing bareheaded at the door, while the usher repeated the message he had received.

"Advance," he said. "What is this business of which the prior of Forges has sent me word?"

The two boys advanced and knelt before the duke. He was a man of about the same age as Harold, with dark hair and complexion, less tall than the earl, but of a powerful figure, and a stern, resolute face. The boys had discussed among themselves which should be the speaker. Wulf had desired that Beorn, being the elder, should deliver the message, but Beorn insisted that as Wulf himself had received it from Harold, it was he who should be the one to deliver it to the duke.

"My Lord Duke," Wulf said, "we are Saxons, pages of Earl Harold, and we bring you by his orders the news that the vessel in which he was sailing along his coast had been blown off by a tempest and cast on the shore of Ponthieu, near St. Valery, and that he and his companions have been villainously ill-treated by Conrad, Count of Ponthieu, who has seized them and cast them into dungeons in his fortress of Beaurain, Harold and his companions being fettered like malefactors."

The duke was astounded at the news. No greater piece of good fortune could have befallen him, for he had it in his power to lay his great rival under an obligation to him, to show himself a generous prince, and at the same time to obtain substantial benefits. He rose at once to his feet.

"By the Host," he exclaimed, "but this is foul treatment indeed of the noble earl, and brings disgrace alike upon the Count of Ponthieu and upon me, his liege lord. This wrong shall be remedied, and speedily. You shall see that I waste no moment in rescuing your lord from this unmannerly count." He struck his hand on the table, and an attendant entered, "Pray the knights Fitz-Osberne and Warren to come hither at once. And how is it, boys," he went on, as the attendant hurried away, "that you were enabled to bear this message to me?"

"While Harold and his thanes were cast into prison," Wulf said, "the count kept us to wait upon him; not for our services, but that he might flout and ill-treat us. We obtained possession of a rope, and let ourselves down at night from the battlements, and made our way on foot as far as Forges, where the good prior, learning from us that we had a message of importance to you, though nothing of its import, sent us forward on palfreys, so that no time might be lost."

"When did you leave Beaurain?"

"It will be three days come midnight," Wulf said.

"And how did you live by the way?"

"We took a piece of bread with us, and once obtained food at a shepherd's hut, and this morning we were well entertained at the convent of Forges."

"You have proved yourselves good and trusty messengers," the duke said. "Would I were always as well served. As you are the earl's pages you are of course of gentle blood?"

"We are both his wards, my lord, and shall be thanes when we come of age."

"And how is it that you, young sir, who seem to be younger than your companion, are the spokesman?"

"It happened thus," Wulf said modestly. "Some fishermen came up just after we had gained the shore with the loss of many of our company. I marked that one of them started on seeing Earl Harold, and whispered to a companion, and feeling sure that he had recognized my lord, I told the earl of it as we walked towards St. Valery. He then charged me if he was taken prisoner by the count to endeavour to bear the news to you, and to give the same orders to my comrade Beorn, saying it was likely that we might not be so strictly watched as the men of the company, and might therefore succeed in slipping away, as indeed turned out to be the case. I was desirous that Beorn should tell you the tale, being older and more accustomed to the speech of the court than I was, but he held that the message, being first given to me, it was I who should deliver it."

"He judged rightly," the duke said, "and deserves credit for thus standing aside."

At this moment two knights entered. "Fitz-Osberne, Warren," the duke said, "a foul wrong has been done by Conrad of Ponthieu to Earl Harold of Wessex, the foremost of Englishmen next to the king himself, who has, with a company of his thanes, been cast ashore near St. Valery. Instead of receiving honourable treatment, as was his due, he has been most foully seized, chained, and with his friends thrown into prison by the count, who has sent no intimation of what has taken place to me, his lord, and had it not been for these two brave and faithful youths, who effected their escape over the battlements of Beaurain in order to bring me the news, the earl might have lingered in shameful captivity. I pray you take horse at once, with twenty chosen spears, and ride at the top of your speed to Beaurain. There express in fitting terms to Conrad my indignation at his foul treatment of one who should have been received as a most honoured guest. Say that the earl and his company must at once be released, and be accorded the treatment due not only to themselves, but to them as my guests, and bid the count mount with them and ride to my fortress of Eu, to which I myself will at once journey to receive them. Tell Conrad that I will account to him for any fair ransom he may claim, and if he demur to obey my orders warn him that the whole force of Normandy shall at once be set on foot against him. After having been for two years my prisoner, methinks he will not care to run the risk of again being shut up within my walls."

"We will use all haste," Fitz-Osberne said. "Conrad's conduct is a disgrace to every Norman noble, for all Europe will cry shame when the news of the earl's treatment gets abroad. That Conrad should hold him to ransom is only in accordance with his strict rights, but that he should imprison and chain him is, by the saints, almost beyond belief."

As soon as the knights had left, the duke sent for his chamberlain, and ordered him to conduct Beorn and Wulf to an apartment and to see that they were at once furnished with garments befitting young nobles, together with a purse of money for their immediate wants. Then taking a long and heavy gold chain from his neck he placed it on the table, and with a blow with his dagger cut it in sunder, and handed half to each of the lads.

"Take this," he said, "in token of my thanks for having brought me this news, and remember, that if at any time you should have a boon to ask that it is within my power to grant, I swear to you upon my ducal honour that it shall be yours. Never have I received more joyful news than that the great Earl of Wessex will shortly be my guest."

The lads bowed deeply, and then followed the chamberlain from the apartment.

"Well, what think you of it, Beorn?" Wulf said, when they found themselves alone in a handsome chamber.

"So far as rescuing Harold from the power of the Count of Ponthieu we have surely succeeded even beyond our hopes. As to the rest, I know not. As you were speaking I marked the satisfaction and joy on the duke's face, and I said to myself that it was greater than need have been caused by the thought that Earl Harold was to be his guest."

"So I thought myself, Beorn. There can be no doubt that, as he said, he deemed it the best news he had ever received, and I fear greatly that Harold will but exchange one captivity for another. It will doubtless be a more pleasant one, but methinks Harold will find himself as much a prisoner, although treated as an honoured guest by William, as he was while lying in the dungeon of Conrad. It is a bad business, and I greatly fear indeed that Harold will long rue the unfortunate scheme of hunting along the coast that has brought him to this pass."

In a short time an attendant arrived with ewers, water, and four suits of handsome garments, belts embroidered with gold thread, and daggers, together with two plumed caps and purses, each containing ten gold pieces; he informed them that two horses had been provided for their use, and that they were to take their meals with the duke's household, and to consider themselves in all respects as his guests.

"We look finer birds than we did when we rode in with brother Philip," Beorn laughed when they had attired themselves in their new garments. "The more sober of these suits are a good deal gayer than those we wore at home even at court ceremonies."

"King Edward objects to show," Wulf said, "and his own pages are so sober in their attire that the earl likes not that we should outshine them, and we usually cut a poor figure beside those of William of London and the other Normans of his court."

In a short time the chamberlain came in and informed them that supper was served, and conducted them to the hall, where he presented them to the duke's gentlemen and pages as William's guests, and wards and pages of the Earl of Wessex. The news of Harold's shipwreck and imprisonment travelled quickly, for orders had already been issued for the court to prepare to start early the next morning to accompany the duke to Eu, in order to receive with due honour William's guest and friend, Harold of England; and while the meal went on many questions were asked as to the shipwreck and prisonment of the earl, and the liveliest indignation was expressed at the conduct of Conrad of Ponthieu.

"Truly all Normans will be reckoned churls," one of the gentlemen exclaimed indignantly. "The fame of Harold's bravery, wisdom, and courtesy to all men is known in every court in Europe, and that the duke's vassal should have dared to imprison and chain him will excite universal indignation. Why, the rudest of our own Norse ancestors would not have so foully treated one so noble whom fate had cast into his hands. Had we been at war with England it would be shameful, but being at peace there are no words that can fitly describe the outrage."

When the meal was over, one of the duke's pages who was about the same age as Beorn asked him what they were going to do with themselves.

"If you have nothing better," he said, "will you ride with me to my father's castle, it is but five miles away? My name is De Burg. I can promise you a hearty welcome. My father was one of the knights who accompanied the duke when he paid his visit to England some fifteen years ago, and he liked the country much, and has ever since spoken of the princely hospitality with which they were received by your king. He did not meet Earl Harold then."

"No, the earl with his father and brothers was away in exile," Wulf said rather shortly, for that visit had been a most unpleasant one to Englishmen. It had happened when the Norman influence was altogether in the ascendant. The king was filling the chief places at court and in the church with Normans, had bestowed wide domains upon them, and their castles were everywhere rising to dominate the land. Englishmen then regarded with hostility this visit of the young Norman duke with his great train of knights, and although at the return of Godwin and his sons the greater portion of the intruders had been driven out, their influence still remained at court, and it was even said that Edward had promised the duke that he should be his successor.

It was true that Englishmen laughed at the promise. The King of England was chosen by the nation, and Edward had no shadow of right to bequeath the throne even to one of his sons much less to a foreign prince, who, although related to himself by marriage, had no drop of English blood in his veins. Still, that the promise should ever have been made rankled in the minds of the English people, the more so as the power of Normandy increased, and the ambition as well as the valour of its duke became more and more manifest According to English law the promise was but an empty breath, absolutely without effect or value. According to Norman law it constituted a powerful claim, and Duke William was assuredly not a man to let such a claim drop unpressed.

Wulf had heard all this again and again, and the prior of Bramber had explained it to him in all its bearings, showing him that little as Englishmen might think of the promise given by Edward so long ago, it would be likely to bring grievous trouble on the land at his death. He might perhaps have said more in reference to William's visit had not Beorn at once accepted the invitation to ride with young De Burg to his father's castle.



Chapter VI


Release Of The Earl

In a few minutes the three horses were brought out. Wulf and Beorn were much pleased with the animals that had been placed at their service. They were powerful horses, which could carry a knight in his full armour with ease, and seemed full of spirit and fire. They were handsomely caparisoned, and the lads felt as they sprang on to their backs that they had never been so well mounted before.

"You would have made the journey more quickly and easily if you had had these horses three days ago," young De Burg laughed.

"Yes, indeed. There would have been no occasion to hide in the woods then. With our light weight on their backs they would have made nothing of the journey."

"You must not expect to see a castle," De Burg said presently, "though I call it one. In his early days the duke set himself to destroy the great majority of castles throughout Normandy, for as you know he had no little trouble with his nobles, and held that while the strength of these fortresses disposes men to engage either in civil war or in private feuds with each other, they were of no avail against the enemies of the country. My father, who is just the age of the duke, was his loyal follower from the first, and of his free will levelled his walls as did many others of the duke's friends, in the first place because it gave the duke pleasure, and in the second because, had only the castles of those opposed to the duke been destroyed, there would have been such jealousy and animosity on the part of their owners that matters would never have quieted down in the country. Thus it is that throughout the land you will find but few castles remaining. The nobles felt it strange at first to be thus dwelling in houses undefended against attack, but they soon learnt that it was far more convenient than to be shut up within massive walls, and the present dwellings are much larger and more comfortable than those of former days. The duke said rightly that the abolition of fortresses well-nigh doubled his fighting power, for that so many men were required to garrison them as to greatly diminish the number their lords could take with them into the field. You do not have castles in England, do you?"

"No, we live in open houses, and hold that it is far better and more pleasant to do so. There is no fighting between neighbours with us. The great earls may quarrel and lead their forces into the field, or may gather them against Danish and Norwegian pirates, but except on these occasions, which are rare, all dwell peaceably in their homes."

The horses were fresh, and the five miles quickly passed over.

"There is the house," De Burg said, pointing to a large building standing on an eminence. It was castellated in form, and much of the old building had been incorporated with the additions, but the outer wall had been pulled down and the moat filled up. Broad casements had replaced the narrow loopholes, and though the flag of the De Burgs still waved over the keep, which stood a little apart from the rest, the family no longer dwelt in it.

"It is chiefly used as a storehouse now," Guy De Burg explained; "but there, as you see, the old loopholes still remain, and in case of trouble it might be held for a time. But of that, however, there is little chance; the duke's hand is a heavy one, and he has shown himself a great leader. He has raised Normandy well-nigh level with France, and so long as he lives and reigns there is no fear of domestic trouble."

The gate stood open and they rode into a courtyard, when several men came out and took the horses. Guy de Burg ran up a broad staircase to the entrance of the house itself, and passed beneath a noble entrance with a lofty pointed arch supported by clustered pillars. Inside was a spacious hall paved with stone, and from this De Burg turned into an apartment whose walls were covered with rich hangings. Here a lady was at work embroidering, surrounded by several of her maids similarly engaged. A girl some fourteen years old was reading a missal, while the master of the castle was sitting in a chair with low arms, and was playing with the ears of a hound whose head was lying on his knee.

"Well, Guy, what is your news?" he asked as his son entered. "Half an hour since I received a message from the duke desiring me to appear with ten men-at-arms in their best trappings to ride with him to Eu. Is Conrad of Ponthieu giving trouble again, and who are these young gentlemen with you?"

Guy went down on one knee to kiss his father's hand, and then did the same to his mother, then he said, "I will with your permission answer the last question first, father. My friends are young Saxon thanes, pages to Earl Harold, and at present guests of the duke."

"You are bearers, doubtless, of some message from the king to our duke?"

"No, my lord," Beorn said, "we were bearers of a message from Earl Harold."

"It is to meet him, father, that we are to ride to Eu to-morrow. He has been wrecked on the shores of Ponthieu, and has been foully imprisoned and even fettered by Count Conrad. Beorn and Wulf escaped from the prison and brought the news to the duke, who this afternoon dispatched Fitz-Osberne and Warren at full speed to bid the count at once free his prisoners, and deliver them over to him at Eu under pain of his direst displeasure."

"Harold in Normandy and a prisoner! This is strange news indeed. We shall surely make him welcome, for he is in all respects a great man, and save our own duke has a reputation second to none in Europe."

Wulf thought as he looked at the speaker that at least he had no second thought in his mind. It was a frank honest face, martial in its outline, but softened by a pleasant smile.

He had spoken in a genial tone of affection to his son, and Wulf thought, that although no doubt he was ready to take the field at the summons of his lord, he preferred a quiet life in this stately home.

"This is news for you, wife," he went on. "You will have to furbish up your gayest attire, for we shall be having grand doings in honour of this great English earl, and our dames will have to look their best in order that he may carry home a fair report of them to the Saxon ladies. And how did you manage to escape, young sirs, and when did you arrive with the news?"

Beorn, who as the elder was specially addressed, shortly related the story of their escape and journey.

"You have done well," the baron said when he had concluded. "Guy, you may learn from these young Saxons that even pages may be called upon to do work of more importance than handing wine-cups and standing behind their lord on state occasions. Had it not been for their readiness and courage Harold might have lain weeks in prison, maybe months, while the count was striving to wring the utmost ransom from him. The lads would doubtless have been slain had they been detected in making their escape or overtaken on the way, and the attempt was therefore one that required courage as well as devotion to their lord. I doubt not that you would exhibit both qualities did opportunity offer, but I question whether you could have walked the distance they did, and that on such scanty fare. We Normans are too apt to trust wholly to our horses' legs to the neglect of our own, and although I have no doubt that you could ride as far as a horse could carry you, I warrant that you could hardly have performed on foot the journey from Beaurain in twice the time in which they did it. They must have exercised their legs as well as their arms, and although in a campaign a Norman noble depends upon his war horse both on the march and on the day of battle, there may often be times when it is well that a knight should be able to march as far as any of the footmen in the army. Well, Agnes, and what have you to say to these Saxon youths? Methinks your eyes are paying more attention to them than to your missal."

"I can read my missal at any hour, father, but this is the first time that I have seen young Saxon nobles. I thought there would have been more difference between them and us. Their hair is fairer and more golden and their eyes bluer, but their dress differs in no way from our own." She spoke in a matter-of-fact and serious air, as if it were a horse or a dog that she was commenting upon, and both Beorn and Wulf smiled, while Guy laughed outright.

"It is little wonder that their attire is like ours, Agnes," he said, "seeing that they were furnished with it by the duke's orders. You do not suppose that after being tossed about on the sea and well-nigh drowned in landing, and being made prisoners, and then travelling through the country and sleeping in the woods, Beorn and Wulf would arrive here with their garments new and spotless. That would indeed have been a miracle."

"But, indeed," Beorn said, "our garments differ not greatly from those we now have on, for Norman fashions are prevalent at King Edward's court, and we had no choice but to conform to them. Your language is always spoken there, and methinks that were you to visit Westminster you would see but little difference between King Edward's court and that of your own duke."

"And your sisters, do they too dress like us?"

"Queen Edith's ladies dress like her in Norman fashion, but away from the court the attire is different and more simple. Sisters, Wulf and I have none; we are orphans both, and wards of Earl Harold, who holds our estates until we are of age to take the oaths to him and to lead our men in battle."

"And will you be barons like my father, or counts, or simple knights?"

"We shall be none of these things, Lady Agnes. We have our great earls as in France you have your great dukes, but below that we have no titles. We are thanes, that is land owners, who hold their land direct from our earls. Some have wider lands than others, but as free thanes we are all equal. As to knights, we have not in England the titles and ceremonies which are so much thought of in France and in other courts."

"That is a pity," the girl said gravely, "for the vows of knighthood make a knight courteous and gentle to enemies and friends alike."

"Or rather, Agnes," her mother put in, "they should do so; but in truth, looking round at the cruel wars we have had in Normandy, I do not see that men have been more gentle or courteous than they would have been had they never taken the vows or had knightly spurs buckled on; and in truth it seems to me from the news of what has taken place beyond the sea, that in the civil troubles they have had in England men are much more gentle with each other, and foes are far more easily reconciled than with us in Normandy, who are supposed to be bound by the laws of chivalry. Had our duke been cast upon the shores of England as Harold has been cast upon that of Ponthieu, I think that he would not have been so dishonourably treated by one of the English thanes as Harold has been by Count Conrad. When Godwin and his sons returned from the exile into which they had been driven, and again became all powerful, there was not, as I have heard from your father, a single drop of blood shed, nor any vengeance taken upon the men who had brought about their exile. It would have been very different had such things happened here."

"You speak rightly, wife. The English are of a more gentle disposition than we are, though nowise backward in battle. But now, Guy, it is time that you were returning. You have already made a longer stay than usual. I shall see you again to-morrow when we start for Eu. Young sirs, I hope that on your return you will often ride over here when your lord does not require you. We shall always be pleased to see you, and although the forest lies some miles away, Guy can show you good hunting, though not so good as that which, as I hear, you can get in England, where the population is not so thick as it is in this part of Normandy."

The horses were brought round, and the three lads rode into Rouen just as night was falling.

Long before daybreak there was a stir in the streets of the city, as parties of knights and nobles rode in with bodies of their retainers in obedience to the orders of the duke. All in the palace were awake early. A hasty breakfast was eaten, while just as the sun rose the duke mounted his horse, and at the head of an array, composed of some twenty barons and knights and four hundred men-at-arms, rode out of the city.

"There is a good deal more pomp and show here than there was when we rode with Harold from London," Wulf said. "In truth these Norman nobles make a far braver appearance in their armour and robes, and with their banners carried behind them, than we do. Were the king himself to ride in state through London he would scarce be so gaily attended."

"Duke William does not look as if he cared for show," Beorn said.

"Nor does he," Guy, who was riding beside them, put in. "For himself he is simple in his tastes, but he knows that the people are impressed by pomp, and love to see a brave cavalcade, therefore he insists on the observance of outward forms; and his court here on state occasions vies, as they tell me, with that of Henry of France."

"Where shall we rest tonight?" Wulf asked. "Methinks from the appearance of the sky that we shall have rain, and unless we sleep under shelter, many of these fine robes that we see are like to be as much dabbled in mud as were those in which we arrived."

"We shall sleep in no town, for there is no place on the road between this and Eu that could receive so large a party; but soon after we rode out yesterday a train of waggons with tents and all else needful started from Rouen, and half-way to Eu we shall find the camp erected and everything in readiness for our reception."

This was indeed the case. The camp had been erected in a sheltered valley, through which ran a stream that supplied the needs of man and horses. The tents were placed in regular order, that of the duke in the centre, those of his chief nobles in order of rank on either side. Behind was a line for the use of the court officials, pages, and knights of less degree, while the soldiers would sleep in the open. As the party rode up a chamberlain with three or four assistants met them. Each was provided with lists containing the names of all the duke's following, and these were at once conducted to the tents alloted to them, so that in a few minutes all were housed without the slightest confusion or trouble. The squires of the knights and nobles and the attendants of the officers and pages at once took the horses and picketed them in lines behind the tents, rubbing them down and cleaning them with the greatest care, and then supplying them with forage from the piles that had that morning been brought in from the neighbouring farms. Fuel in abundance had also been stacked. A number of cooks had come on with the tent equipage, and supper was already prepared for the duke and his party, while animals had been slaughtered and cut up, and the men-at-arms soon had the joints hanging over their bivouac fires.

"This is all wonderfully well managed, Beorn," Wulf said. "I doubt whether it could be done so well and orderly with us at home."

"What does it matter?" Beorn said contemptuously. "It makes no difference whether one sups five minutes after arrival or an hour."

"It matters nothing, Beorn; but what is but a question of an hour's waiting in a small party is one of going altogether supperless to bed when it is a large one. The Normans have been constantly fighting for the last twenty years, and you see they have learned how important it is that everything should be regular and orderly. If they manage matters with a large force as well as they do with a small one, as it is probable that they do, see what an advantage it gives to them. Were two armies to arrive near each other with the intention of fighting in the morning, and one knew exactly what to do, and could get their food in comfort and then lie down to rest, while the other was all in confusion, no one knowing where he should go or where to bestow himself, and, being unable to obtain food, forced to lie down supperless, the first army would obtain a great advantage when they met the next morning, especially if it had breakfasted well while the other went into the fight still fasting. Look at ourselves how weak we were that morning when we had lain down hungry and got up fasting, while on the morning when the woman gave us that food, simple as it was, we stepped out boldly and in spirits."

"That is true enough, Wulf, but you know that among us it is said that Earl Harold is always most careful for the comfort of his soldiers."

"Yes, the earl always thinks of those around him. As I have never been in the field I know not what the arrangements are, but I cannot think they would be so well ordered in a great gathering of Englishmen, or that we should manage matters as well as the Normans with all their experience have learnt to do."

"Well, Wulf," Beorn laughed, "you had best study the matter, and then ask the earl to appoint you to take charge of the arrangements when he takes the field."

"One could hardly have a more useful office," Wulf said earnestly; "but it would need a man of experience and of high rank and position, for our Saxon thanes are not accustomed to discipline as are these Norman barons, and only one of great authority could induce them to observe regulations and carry out any plan in due order."

Beorn nodded. "That is true enough, Wulf, and it is therefore clear that a good many years must pass before you can properly fill the post of chief chamberlain to the army. For myself, I shall be well content to do what fighting is required, and to leave all these matters in your hands."

"Yes; but it can't be left in the hands of one officer," Wulf said warmly, "unless all give their aid willingly to carry out his plans."

"Well, you need not be angry about it, Wulf. There will be time enough for that when you get to be grand chamberlain. You know what the Saxon thanes are -- how ease-loving, and averse to trouble themselves with aught save the chase. I would as soon marshal a flock of sheep in military order and teach each to keep its place as get the thanes to conform to strict orders and regulations."

"And yet, Beorn," said Baron De Burg, who had just entered the tent unnoticed by them in order to speak to his son, who with another page shared it with them, "unless all will conform to strict orders and regulations an army is but a mere gathering of armed men, animated not by one will, but by as many wills as it contains men. Such an army may be valiant; every man may be a hero, and yet it may be shattered to pieces by another which gives itself up wholly to the direction of one will. That is why we Normans have so badly beaten the French. Every mail has his place in battle. He charges when he is ordered to charge, or he is held in reserve the whole day, and the battle ended without his ever striking a blow. We may fret under inaction, we may see what we think chances of falling upon the enemy wasted, but we know that our duke is a great leader, that he has a plan for the battle and will carry it through, and that disobedience to his orders would be an offence as great as that of riding from the field. Hence we have learned to obey, and consequently we have always been victorious against men as brave as ourselves, but each obeying his own feudal lord, and so fighting in detached bodies rather than as a whole. Your young companion is in the right. In a duel between two men strength and skill is everything; in a struggle between two armies obedience to orders is a virtue even higher than bravery and skill at arms. Where is Guy?"

"He is in attendance on the duke, my lord," Beorn said. "We presented ourselves also at his tent, but he told us that he required no duty from us."

"Let him come to my tent when he returns," the baron said; "that is as soon as he has finished supper. I shall be glad if you will also come, unless the duke sends for you, which methinks he is not likely to do. He is in thoughtful mood to-day, and will probably be alone."

Two or three other knights were assembled in Baron de Burg's tent when the three lads went in. De Burg said a few words to his companions, explaining who they were, and then continued his conversation with the others. Beorn and Wulf, as they stood behind the chairs and listened to the talk, could not help being struck with the difference between it and the conversations they had heard at the houses of Saxon thanes.

With Harold they had been accustomed to hear matters of state touched on. The church and the struggle going on between the Norman prelates and monks on the one hand and the English clergy on the other was one that was frequently talked over, as were also the projects Harold had at heart for encouraging the spread of education and raising the condition of people generally. At the houses of the thanes, however, the evenings were passed in feasting and song, and it was seldom that there was anything like discussion upon general affairs. Indeed, between men heated with wine and accustomed to state their opinions bluntly anything like friendly argument was well nigh impossible. De Burg and his companions made no allusion at all to public affairs, but discussed gravely and calmly, and with a courteous respect for each other's opinions, questions connected with the art of war, hunting, the changed conditions brought about by the demolition of castles, the improvements gradually being introduced in armour, and other kindred topics. The other nobles were men of about the same age as De Burg, and although the latter's page from time to time carried round wine the goblets were rarely emptied.

Certain topics were touched upon only to be dropped at once, and Wulf saw that subjects upon which there was any disagreement among them were carefully avoided.

When the boys returned to their tent Wulf said, "Their talk reminds me of the evenings I spent with the prior, his almoner, and two or three other monks, rather than of those at the houses of Saxon thanes."

Beorn nodded. "I am not so much against our customs of feasting and merriment as you are, Wulf, and should not care to spend my evenings often in listening to such grave talk, but truly these Norman barons and knights are far more courteous in their speech than our own thanes, and seem to care but little for the wine cup. I admit that such men must be far wiser advisers for a king than are our Saxons, saving of course Harold and his brothers."

"The Normans are not all so abstemious as my father and those you saw with him," Guy laughed. "Listen. You can hear songs and loud laughter from many of the tents, ay, and might hear quarrels too did you listen long enough. But those you saw were all men high in the confidence of the duke. They have fought together under his banner in many a field, and are all powerful barons. They are content to hold their own, and have nothing to gain at the expense of others. Their value is well established, and I believe that all of them would be well pleased were they never called upon to set lance in rest again. Methinks this evening they avoided all public questions chiefly because we were present; and you see no word was spoken of the unexpected accident that has thrown Harold on our shores, although it must have been in all their minds; and doubtless they talked it over as they rode hither to-day. I should not be surprised if my father had us in his tent for the very reason that your being there would prevent more being said about it. I do not suppose any of them know exactly what is in the duke's mind -- possibly he has not even made it up himself; and it is assuredly wise here in Normandy to express no strong opinion until the duke's own mind is manifest."

"I daresay you are right, Guy. I rather wondered why your father had asked us as well as you to his tent when he had others with him; but it is like enough that he thought our presence would prevent any discussion on delicate topics."

The next morning the cavalcade mounted early, and in the afternoon rode into the fortress of Eu. It stood upon the river Bresle, and had, previous to the conquest of Ponthieu, been the frontier guard of Normandy on the north. It lay only some ten miles from the spot where the Saxon galley had been wrecked. A messenger had arrived there early in the day from Fitz-Osberne saying that Conrad of Ponthieu had assented to the demand of the duke for the surrender of his captives, that these had been at once released from their confinement, and were now honourably entertained. They would start on the following morning from Beaurain, and would be accompanied by Conrad, who desired to come to Eu to pay his respects to the duke.

Although it had been certain that Conrad would not venture to refuse the command of his powerful over-lord, Wulf and Beorn were greatly delighted to hear that Harold and his companions had at once been released from their imprisonment, and that they would so speedily arrive at Eu. In the afternoon of the following day a messenger arrived stating that the cavalcade was but an hour's ride away, and preparations were at once made to receive it with all honour. The garrison of the castle in their bravest attire lined the courtyard, hangings brought from Rouen were disposed round the walls of the great hall, two chairs of state were placed on the dais, the men-at-arms who had come from Rouen were drawn up on either side of the great entrance, and here William with his nobles assembled when the cavalcade approached the castle.

The procession was headed by the Norman men-at-arms of Fitz-Osberne and Warren. After them rode Conrad of Ponthieu with Harold by his side. Both carried hawks on their wrists, and were, apparently, on the most amiable terms. Behind them rode Harold's brother and nephew and the two Norman barons; they were followed by the Saxon thanes and the officers of the count's household. Behind these came on foot the Saxons of inferior degree who had been left at St. Valery, and who had by Conrad's orders been sent to join the cavalcade where it crossed the Somme at Abbeville; the procession was closed by a strong body of the count's men-at-arms. They rode through the double line of spearmen until they reached the entrance. Then as Harold dismounted, the duke descended the steps and embraced him with the warmest expressions of satisfaction at thus meeting the most illustrious of Englishmen.

Harold replied in suitable terms, and the duke then turned to Conrad and thanked him warmly for having acceded to his request.

Ponthieu was but newly conquered, and might yet be a thorn in the side of Normandy in the event of a renewal of war with France. It was therefore to William's interest to treat Conrad's obedience to his orders as if it had been a voluntary submission, and to ignore his discourteous treatment of his captives. In order to eradicate all sense of injury on the part of his vassal, he not only paid him the ransom for Harold but gave him a considerable grant of territory. The duke now presented his nobles and principal officers to Harold, and then with his arm placed familiarly on his guest's shoulder led him into the hall, and placed him in the chair of state beside his own, other seats being placed for Wulfnoth and Hakon and for some of the principal Norman barons, while the rest mingled with the Saxon thanes in the body of the hall. As soon as the reception was over Wulf hurried out into the courtyard to speak to Osgod.

"Right glad am I to see you again, Osgod; I have been troubled as to how you were faring."

"In truth we have fared badly enough, master; we have been working like beasts of burden, without having food that would suffice for an ass. However, it was not for long, and will do us no harm, though there are more than one of those fellows at St. Valery with whom I would gladly have ten minutes play with cudgel or quarter-staff. You may guess how surprised we were yesterday evening when we were suddenly called out from the shed where we were sleeping, and with many professions of regret and apology for our treatment conducted to better quarters, where a good honest meal was set before us, and we were then told that the duke himself had just arrived at Eu, and that Harold and all his following were there to be given up to him. We had fresh rushes for our beds, and a hearty breakfast this morning, and were then placed in boats and taken up to Abbeville. We had been there but an hour when the earl arrived with the thanes, and glad were we, as you may imagine, to see his face again. They stopped there for an hour to rest their steeds and to dine, and then we marched hither as you saw. I had missed you and Beorn from Harold's party, and made shift to approach the earl and humbly ask him what had become of you. 'No harm has befallen your master and his friend, good fellow,' the earl said. 'They have indeed done me good service, for they made their escape from Beaurain and carried the news of our detention to Duke William, and it is thus that we have all obtained our liberty.' You seem to have fared bravely, Wulf, judging from your attire."

"Yes, we were in sore plight when we arrived at Rouen, but the duke saw that we were provided with clothes and with horses for our journey here."

At this moment an attendant came out from the hall and informed Wulf that the duke desired speech with him. Beorn was already at the entrance, and they were conducted on to the dais.

"Here are your two pages," the duke said to Harold. "I hold myself to be greatly their debtor for having carried me the news that has brought about this meeting, and given me the pleasure of having you as my guest. They are faithful lads and quick-witted, for no men could have carried out the mission better or more promptly than they did."

"Still more am I indebted to them," Harold said as he held out his hand to the two lads, who bent on one knee while they kissed it. "I knew not of their going until I learnt from your barons that they had reached Rouen with the news. They are wards of mine, and although at one time my pages they have ceased to be so for more than a year, and have both been down upon their estates learning the duties of their station, which I deemed better for them than wasting their time and getting into mischief at court."

The duke nodded. "The result shows that your course was a wise one. At court youths learn but little good. The atmosphere is not healthy for men still less for boys, and these youths will shortly be of an age when they will be fit to render men's service, as indeed they have already done." The lads now retired from the dais.

"It has been a fortunate week's work for us," Beorn said. "We have obtained the freedom of our lord and have gained his approbation and that of Duke William; though, indeed, it matters not greatly as to the duke."

"I don't know, Beorn; one cannot look into the future, and there is no saying what may happen. Anyhow, even now it may be of advantage to us. Honourably as the duke is treating Harold, the earl is still wholly in his power, and until we hear something of his intentions we are all just as much prisoners as we were to Conrad, although I admit the captivity is a very much more pleasant one."



Chapter VII.


The Oath.

From Eu the party travelled back to Rouen where there were feastings and entertainments in honour of Harold. Nothing could be more courteous than the duke's manner to his guest. He professed an almost fraternal affection for him, and handsome lodgings were assigned in the town to his thanes. A solemn court was held, at which Harold was knighted by William himself with much state and ceremonial, according to the rites of chivalry, which had then been but recently introduced, and had not as yet extended into England. There were great hunting parties in the forest, and to all outward appearance the friendship between William and Harold was of the warmest and most sincere nature. Harold himself was really gratified at the pains that William took to show the esteem in which he held him, and his thanes were all well satisfied with the attentions bestowed upon them by the Norman barons.

Beorn and Wulf had nothing to do save to make friends with young Normans of their own age, to visit their castles and to join in the hunting parties. The duke lost no opportunity of showing the sincerity of the feelings of gratitude he had expressed to them for bringing him the news of Harold's presence in his dominions, and they were always specially invited to all court ceremonials, enjoying themselves exceedingly. Wulf occasionally expressed his surprise to his companion that no word was said as to their return to England, but Beorn's answer always silenced him.

"The earl himself seems well satisfied, Wulf. Why should you be more anxious for him than he is for himself?"

Once indeed he replied, "Harold is of so open and generous nature, Beorn, that he would be the last person to suspect another of dishonourable motives. Moreover, it is not because he is apparently well content here that we must judge him to be without uneasiness. Whatever he felt it would be impolitic to show it, and we see but little of him now save when in company of the Normans. He cannot but know that his presence is required in England."

It was a matter of satisfaction to Wulf that Walter Fitz-Urse was not at the court, he having a few weeks before returned to England, where he was again in the suite of the Norman bishop of London. He himself had become firm friends with Guy de Burg, and often rode over with him to his father's residence, where they hunted in the forest together or rode out with falcons on their wrists, Agnes de Burg often accompanying them on her pony.

Three weeks after their arrival at Rouen the Bretons broke out in insurrection, and the duke invited Harold to accompany him on an expedition to subdue them, courteously saying that he should obtain great advantage from the military experience of his guest.

Harold accepted the invitation, and with his thanes set out with the duke. Against the disciplined forces of Normandy the Breton peasants had no chance whatever in the open field, but their wild and broken country, well-nigh covered with forest, afforded them an opportunity for the display of their own method of fighting by sudden surprises and attacks, and they defended their rough but formidable intrenchments with desperate valour. Harold's experience gained in his warfare with the Welsh was of much utility, and the duke committed to his hands the formal command of the troops engaged, averring that he himself knew comparatively little of warfare such as this.

Harold conducted the operations with equal vigour and prudence. Stronghold after stronghold was attacked and captured, a small portion of the force only being engaged in active operations, whilst the rest were posted so as to repel the attempts of the Bretons to aid the besieged. By his advice clemency was always shown to the garrisons when the fortresses were stormed, and they were permitted to return unharmed to their people, bearing the news that the duke bore no ill-will towards them, and was ready to show mercy to all who laid down their arms. Wulf and Beorn were permitted to share in the assaults, and with the Saxon thanes followed Harold, as he led the way on foot up to the intrenchments at one point, while the duke with a party of his barons attacked at another. More than once the English banner was carried into the heart of the Breton fortress before the Normans had fought their way in, and on each of these occasions the duke warmly expressed his admiration for the courage of his English allies. At last there remained but one formidable stronghold to be captured, and so strong was this by nature, and so desperately defended, that for some time the efforts of the besiegers were fruitless.

One evening Guy de Burg had been with Wulf in his tent. Beorn was out spending the evening with some of his Norman friends. When Guy rose to go Wulf said that he would walk with him to his father's tent, which was situated some little distance away. As there had been strict regulations that none were to move about without arms, he buckled on his sword and put on his helmet before starting. Osgod, who was lying outside the tent, rose when they issued out and followed them at a short distance. They went along at the rear of the tents, when Wulf suddenly said:

"It seems to me that I hear sounds in the forest, Guy."

"De Launey's men are posted behind us," Guy said carelessly; "there is no fear of an attack."

"Not if they are vigilant," Wulf agreed. "But the Bretons have for some time abstained from night surprises, and De Launey's men may be keeping a poor watch."

Suddenly there was a loud cry, followed immediately by the Breton war-shout, and by a confusion of shouts, cries, and the sound of the clashing of arms.

The lads drew their swords and ran towards the scene of conflict, when, from some bushes a short distance from them, a number of wild figures sprung out. It was a party of the enemy who had made their way through De Launey's sleeping men unobserved, and who now, knowing that further concealment was useless, were rushing forward towards the tents. Wulf's first impulse was to turn back, but young de Burg, shouting his father's battle-cry, ran forward, and without hesitation Wulf followed him. A moment later they were engaged with the Bretons.

"Back to back, Guy!" Wulf exclaimed, as he ran his sword through the first man who attacked him.

He had scarcely spoken when Osgod ran up and joined them, and wielding the heavy axe he carried as if it had been a featherweight, struck down several of the Bretons who ventured within its swing.

Wulf defended himself as firmly, but had to shift his ground continually to avoid the blows of the heavy spiked clubs with which his assailants were armed. Presently he heard his name shouted, and an instant later a crash, as Guy de Burg was struck down.

"Stand over him, Osgod!" he shouted, and with a bound was beside his companion, cutting down a Breton who was about to thrust his spear into him. At the same moment a club descended on his helmet, bringing him for a moment to his knee. He sprang up again, Osgod striking his opponent to the ground before he could repeat his blow.

For two or three minutes the fight went on. Wulf received more than one stab from the Breton knives, as two or three of them often rushed in upon him at once, but each time when he was hard pressed Osgod's axe freed him from his assailants, for so terrible were the blows dealt by the tall Saxon that the Bretons shrank from assailing him, and thus left him free at times to render assistance to Wulf. But the combat was too unequal to last long. A pike-thrust disabled Wulf for a moment, and as his arm fell a blow from a club stretched him beside Guy. Osgod had also received several wounds, but furious at his master's fall he still defended himself with such vigour that the Bretons again fell back. They were on the point of attacking him anew, when there was a shout, and William and Harold, bareheaded as they had leapt from the table, and followed by a score or two of Norman barons and soldiers, fell upon the Bretons. The latter with cries of alarm at once fled.

By this time the Norman trumpets were everywhere sounding, and the troops hastening out to repel the attack, which a few minutes later ceased as suddenly as it began, the Bretons flying into the forest, where pursuit by the heavily-armed Normans was hopeless. Returning to the tents, the duke and Harold paused where Osgod, who had sunk to the ground as soon as the Breton attack had ceased, was sitting by the side of his master.

"Whom have we here?" the duke asked. "Whoever they are we owe our safety to them, Harold, for had it not been for the resistance they made, the Bretons would have been among our tents before we had time to catch up our arms. Bring a torch here!" he shouted; and two or three soldiers came running up from the tents with lights.

"Methinks it is one of my men," Harold said, and repeated the duke's question in Saxon.

"I am Osgod, my lord, the servant of Wulf of Steyning, who with his friend, Guy de Burg, lies here beside me, I fear done to death."

"I trust not, indeed," Harold said, stooping over the bodies.

At this moment the men came up with the lights. "By the rood," William exclaimed, "but they fought stoutly, whoever they are. The ground round them is covered with the bodies of these Breton rascals. There must be at least a score of them, while so far as I can see there are but three of our men. Who are they, Harold?"

"One is Guy, son of the Baron de Burg," Harold replied. "Another is young Wulf, and this stout fellow is his man."

"Right gallantly have they done," the duke exclaimed, "and I trust that their lives are not spent. Let someone summon De Burg here quickly. Carry his son to his tent, and bid my leech attend at once to his wounds and to those of these brave Saxons."

"I will carry Wulf to his tent myself," Harold said, raising the lad and carrying him off, while four soldiers followed bearing Osgod. They were laid down together in Wulf's tent. As the young thane's helmet was removed, he opened his eyes and looked round in bewilderment as he saw, by the light of the torches, Harold and several others standing beside him.

"What has happened?" he asked faintly.

"The best thing that has happened is that you have come to yourself and are able to speak, Wulf," Harold said. "But do not try to talk, lad, until the leech comes and examines your wounds. You have done us all a rare service to-night, for thanks to the carelessness of De Launey's men, most of whom have paid for their error with their lives, we should all have been taken by surprise had it not been for the brave stand you made. Now we will take off your garments and see where you are wounded. They seem to be soaked everywhere with blood."

"I received three or four gashes with their knives," Wulf said feebly, "and I think a spear wound. How are the others?"

"I know not about Guy," Harold said, "but your man is able to speak, and has not, I hope, received mortal injuries."

"Don't trouble yourself about me, Master Wulf," Osgod put in. "I have got a few pricks with the knaves' knives, and a spear-thrust or two, but as I was able to keep on my feet until the earl arrived with help, I think the wounds are of no great consequence."

"If aught happens to me," Wulf said to Harold, "I pray you to see to him, my lord, and to take him as one of your own men. Had it not been for him the Bretons would have made short work of us."

He could barely utter the words, and again became insensible from loss of blood.

When he recovered the leech was kneeling beside him, pouring oil into his wounds and applying bandages.

"Do not try to talk," he said quietly, as Wulf opened his eyes. "Lie quite still, the least movement might cause your wounds to break out afresh. They are serious, but I think not of a mortal nature."

"Guy?" Wulf whispered.

"He is in a more perilous condition than you are, but it is possible that he too may live. As for your man here, I have as yet but glanced at his wounds; but though cut sorely, I have no fear for his life. Now drink this potion, and then go off to sleep if you can."

Wulf drank off the contents of the goblet placed to his lips, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. When he woke it was broad daylight, and Beorn was sitting by his side. The latter put his finger to his lips.

"You are not to talk, Wulf. The leech gave me the strictest orders when he was here a short time since, and said that you seemed to be doing well. Osgod he says will surely recover, and be none the worse for the letting out of some of his blood. The Bretons were too hasty with their strokes, and although he has a dozen wounds none of them are serious. Guy de Burg is alive, but as yet the leech can say nothing. It has been a bad business. It seems that De Launey's men were most of them killed whilst they were asleep. The bodies of the sentries were found at their posts, but whether they were asleep, or whether, as is thought more likely, their foes stole up and killed them before they had time to utter a cry, we know not. The Bretons attacked at two or three other points, but nowhere with such success, though many Normans have fallen. Everyone says that the party which passed through De Launey's men would have reached the tents and probably killed most of those in them had they not stopped while some of their number attacked you and Guy de Burg. The duke and Harold have both said that your bravery saved us from a great disaster. I would that I had been with you, but the tent I was in was the farthest along the line, and the Bretons were in full flight before we came upon the scene."

Presently the Baron de Burg came to the side of the pallet on which Wulf was lying. "I cannot say that I owe you the life of my son," he said, laying his hand gently upon Wulf's, "for I know not as yet whether he will live, but he was sensible when we brought him to my tent, and he told me that you had stood over him and defended him from the Bretons until you too fell. He was sensible all the time, though unable to move."

"It was Osgod who did most of the fighting, my lord," Wulf said.

"He did much, Wulf, and it will be my pleasure to reward him, but the duke, who is full of admiration at the slaughter done by three alone, has caused the bodies to be examined. Twelve of them were killed with axe wounds, nine by sword wounds. Guy tells me that he knows that only two fell to his sword, therefore you must have slain seven. Truly a feat that any man might be proud of, to say nothing of a lad of your age. Guy is anxious to have you with him, and the leech said that if you keep quiet to-day, and none of your wounds break out afresh, it will do you no harm to be carried to my tent."

Accordingly the next day Wulf was carried across to Lord de Burg's, and his pallet set down by the side of Guy's. The latter was a little better, and the leech had faint hopes of his recovery. His right arm had been broken by a blow with a club, and so badly fractured that it had already been taken off near the shoulder. His most dangerous wound was a pike-thrust on the left side, which had penetrated his lungs. He smiled faintly as Wulf was placed by his side. Wulf tried to smile back again, but he was too much shocked at the change in his friend's appearance. His cheeks had fallen in, and his face was deadly pale. His lips were almost colourless, and his eyes seemed unnaturally large. Wulf made an effort to speak cheerfully.

"We did not expect to come to this so soon, Guy," he said. "We have often talked about fighting, but we never thought that our first serious fight would end like this."

"You have nothing to regret," Baron de Burg said. "You have both done your duty nobly, and one of gentle blood can wish for no better end than to die doing his duty against great odds. God grant that you may both be spared, but if it be otherwise, death could not come to you more gloriously than in giving your lives to save your lords from surprise."

Wulf's recovery was comparatively rapid. He was greatly pleased when, a week after his removal, Osgod was brought into the tent by Harold. He was still pale and feeble, but was able to walk, and assured his young lord that he should soon be ready for another fight with the Bretons.

"There will be no more fighting," Harold said. "Yesterday their chiefs came in to make their submission and ask for mercy, and on this being granted their fortress has surrendered this morning. They will pay a heavy fine in cattle, and their two strongest fortresses are to be garrisoned by Norman troops. A considerable slice of their territory is to be taken from them. In a week I hope we shall all be on our way back to Rouen."

Guy was mending very slowly. Even yet the leech could not say with certainty that his life would be saved, and warned his father that in any case he would for a very long time be an invalid. In another week the camp was broken up. Wulf declared that he was well enough to sit a horse, but the leech insisted that he should be carried on a litter.

"In another fortnight," he said, "you may be able to ride, but it would not be safe to attempt to do so now. You are going on as well as could be wished, and it would be madness to risk everything by haste."

Accordingly he and Guy were transported in litters to the baron's residence, where Wulf steadily recovered his health and strength. Osgod, who had received a heavy purse of gold from the baron, had at the end of that time entirely recovered; Guy still lay pale and feeble on his couch.

"I scarcely wish to live," he said one day to his father. "I can never be a warrior now. What have I got to live for?"

"You have much to live for, Guy," his father said, "even if you never bestride a war-horse. You have made a name for yourself for bravery, and will always be held in respect. It is not as if you had been from your birth weak and feeble. You will in time, I hope, come to be lord of our estates and to look after our people, and be beloved by them; and, if you cannot yourself lead them in the field, you can see that they go well equipped, and do honour to your banner. There are other things besides fighting to live for."

"I would that you had had another son, father, and that Wulf had been my brother. I should not so much have minded then that I could not myself carry the banner of De Burg into the field."

"Had he been one of ourselves, Guy, that might have come about," his father said, "for if I have no other son I have a daughter. But this young Saxon has his own estates in his own country. He would not settle down here as a Norman baron, and I would not lose Agnes nor be willing that she should go from us to dwell in a foreign land. But no one can say what the future will bring about. The duke has promised one of his daughters to Harold, and should the marriage come off it will bind the two peoples more closely together. Besides, you know, Edward of England has promised to Duke William that he should succeed him."

"I was speaking to Wulf about that one day, father, and he said that Edward had no power to make the gift, for that the people of England chose their king themselves, and that Edward's promise would go for nothing with them. It is not with them as it is with us, where a prince can name his successor."

"That may be Saxon opinion, Guy, but it is not Norman, and assuredly it is not the duke's; and friendly as are the relations between him and Harold, it is clear that until this question is settled no permanent friendship can be looked for between the two nations."

Wulf was sorry when the time came that he could no longer linger at Baron de Burg's chateau. The earl had more than once sent over to say that his presence was looked for at court as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to attend there, but he stayed on until he felt so thoroughly strong and well that he could not make his health any longer an excuse. On leaving, De Burg and his wife both pressed him to come over whenever he could spare time.

"You know, Wulf," the former said, "how warm is the affection Guy has for you, and he will look very eagerly for your visits. Just at present he has very few pleasures in life, and chief among them will be your comings. We are all dull here, lad, and Agnes will miss you sorely."

"I will ride over whenever I can. I should be ungrateful indeed did I not do so, after the great kindness you and Lady de Burg have shown me; but even putting this aside I will come every day if I can, if only for half an hour's talk with Guy."

"I am glad to see you back again, Wulf," Earl Harold said as the lad entered his room. "You look strong and well again, and might, methinks, have come to us before now."

"I could have done so, doubtless, my lord, but it pained me to leave Guy, who is still on his couch, and will, I fear, never be strong and well again."

"We heard but a poor account of him from the duke's leech," Harold said. "It is a sad thing; for one, who as a lad has shown such bravery, would have turned out a gallant knight. I should have let you linger there for some time yet, but the duke has frequently asked after you, and I thought it were best that you came over; though, in truth, there will be little for you to do here, and you will be able to ride and see your friend when you will."

"Are we likely to go back to England soon, my lord?"

"I trust it will not be long. I have spoken of it more than once to the duke, but he chides me for being weary of his company; which indeed I am not, for no man could have treated another better than he has done me. Still," he said, walking up and down the room, "I am impatient to be off, but I am no more free to choose my time here that I was at Beaurain. It is a velvet glove that is placed on my shoulder, but there is an iron hand in it, I know right well."

"Is there no possibility of escaping, my lord?"

Harold looked keenly at the boy. "No, Wulf, treated as I am as a guest I cannot fly without incurring the reproach of the basest ingratitude, nor even if I wished it could I escape. Under the excuse of doing me honour, there are Norman soldiers at the gate, and a Norman sentry stands at my door. I must go through with it now, and if need be promise all that William asks. This time there is nowhere to send you to fetch aid for me. You have heard, I suppose, that William has promised me his daughter in marriage?"

"Yes, my lord, I have heard it. Is the marriage to take place soon?"

Harold smiled. "The duke will not wish it to take place until he sees that he can secure my services by the marriage. If that time should never come I shall probably hear no more of it. Engagements have been broken off before now many a time, and absolution for a broken promise of that kind is not hard to obtain. You must attend the court this evening, Wulf."

Wulf bowed and withdrew, and in the evening attended the court in the suite of Harold. As soon as the duke's eye fell upon him he called him up.

"Messieurs," he said to the barons present, "this lad is Wulf, Thane of Steyning, and a follower of Earl Harold. He it was who, with the young Guy de Burg, and aided only by a Saxon man-at-arms, withstood the first rush of the Bretons, and so gained time by which I myself and my barons were able to prepare ourselves to resist the attack. Had it not been for them we should all have been taken by surprise, and maybe slain. The Saxon and the two lads, Wulf and De Burg, all fell wounded well-nigh to death, but not before twenty-one Bretons lay dead around them. This was indeed a feat of arms that any of you, valiant knights and barons as you are, might have been proud to perform.

"Already I had promised him any boon that in reason he may ask for having borne to me the news that Earl Harold, my honoured guest and brother-in-arms, had been cast on our shores, and I promise him now, that should at any time it happen that I have any power or influence in England, his estates shall remain to him and to his heirs free from all service or dues, even though he has withstood me in arms; -- nay, more, that they shall be largely added to. Should such issue never arise, and aught occur to render him desirous of crossing the seas hither, I promise him a baron's feu as a token of my gratitude for the great service he rendered me; and I am well assured that, whether to a King of England or to a Duke of Normandy, he will prove himself a true and faithful follower. I call on you all here to witness this promise that I have made, and should there be need, to recall it to my memory."

The Normans above all things admired valour, and when Wulf, after kneeling and kissing the duke's hand, retired shamefacedly to a corner of the room, where he was joined by Beorn, one after another came up to him and said a few words of approbation.

"You have done well, young sir," Fitz-Osberne, one of the duke's most trusted councillors said to him. "The duke is not given to overpraise, and assuredly no one of your age has ever won such commendation from his lips. After making so fair a commencement, it will be your own fault indeed if you do not make a great name for yourself in the future. There is not one of us who was in the duke's camp that evening but feels that he owes you much for the few minutes' delay that saved us from being taken altogether by surprise. You are young, and may think but little of the promise the duke has given you this evening, but the day may come when you will find it stand you in good stead."

Harold said nearly the same thing to Wulf when he saw him the next morning.

"But there is no chance of the duke ever having power in England, my lord," Wulf said.

"I trust not, Wulf, but there is no doubt that his whole mind is bent upon obtaining the throne of England. He has spoken to me openly about it, and has more than hinted to me that I, if married to his daughter, would still, as Earl of Wessex, be the foremost man in the land next to its sovereign should he ever gain the kingdom."

"And what said you, my lord, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"I said but little, lad. I am a prisoner, and I am well assured that I shall never return to England until William thinks that he can depend upon me. It is needful that I should return, and that quickly, for I hear that there is fresh trouble in Wales, and I have received an urgent message from the king to hasten to his side. It is hard to see what it is best to do."

Four days later a grand ceremony was announced to take place, but few knew what its nature was to be. That it was something beyond the ordinary was certain by the number of barons and knights that were bidden to attend. A dais was erected in the courtyard of the palace, and on this a table covered with a cloth was placed.

"I don't like this business," Wulf said to Beorn, as with the other Saxons they took their place near the dais. "There is something very mysterious about it, and I believe that at last we are going to see what William's full intentions are."

A religious ceremony was first held, and then the duke rose to his feet and addressed the barons. He first recalled to them the promise that Edward of England had made to him, and then went on: "The saints have worked in my favour," he said, "by sending here as my guest my well-beloved brother-in-arms, the great Earl of Wessex. Between us there is the closest friendship, and to cement and make even closer the bonds between us, he has become betrothed to my daughter, and through the lands I shall bestow upon her he will become a baron of Normandy. Relying upon his affection and friendship, I have called you here together to hear him swear in public that which he has already told me privately -- that he will be my faithful feudatory, and will in all ways aid me to gain my lawful rights."

Harold changed colour. The matter had come upon him as a surprise. Doubtless he had in a vague way when discussing his future relations as son-in-law to the duke, expressed his warm friendship and a general willingness to be of service to him, but to be called upon to take an oath publicly was a different matter. Most of those present had taken oaths of allegiance to William and had broken them again and again, and William himself had not less frequently broken his feudal oaths to his suzerain, the King of France. But Harold was a man with a deep sense of religion, and did not esteem as lightly as these Norman barons an oath thus sworn; but he felt that he had fallen into a trap, and that resistance would but consign him to a prison, if not a grave.

He at once understood how hollow had been the pretended friendship of his host; but he was in William's power, and unless as a friend the duke would never permit so formidable a rival to quit his shores. As he hesitated he saw a movement on the part of the Norman knights near the dais, and understood that they had been previously informed of William's intentions, and were there to enforce them. Their brows were bent on him angrily as he hesitated, and more than one hand went to the hilt of the wearer's sword. There was no drawing back, and placing his hand on the table he swore the oath William had dictated. When he concluded William snatched the cloth from the table, and below it were seen a number of bones and sacred relics that had been brought from the cathedral.

Enlightened as Harold was, he was not altogether free from the superstitions of the age. For a moment he shuddered slightly and grew paler than before, then he drew himself up to his full height, and looked calmly into the exulting face of William.

"I call you all to witness," the duke said in a loud voice, "that Harold, Earl of Wessex, has taken a solemn oath upon the holy relics to be my faithful feudatory."

The shout that answered him was by no means universal, for there were many among the Norman nobles who were shocked at the base trick that the duke had played upon a guest for whom he had professed the warmest friendship. The Saxon thanes could scarce contain their expressions of indignation, but Harold as he sat down among them made a gesture commanding silence.

"We sail for England to-morrow night," he said in low tones. "The duke told me so as we came hither. The two ships will be in readiness for us to embark in the morning. I did not understand then the price I was to pay. Restrain yourselves now; when we are free men we can talk this over."

An hour later they returned to the palace, where there was a brief and formal interview between Harold and the duke. Both dissembled their real feelings. The duke said that he regretted that the King of England's wishes forced his guest to start so suddenly, and that he much regretted his departure. Harold thanked him for the hospitality he had shown him, but neither made any allusion whatever to the scene that had taken place in the courtyard. Wulf rode over to say good-bye to Guy and his father. The latter was walking up and down the hall with a gloomy face.

"I blush for what has taken place to-day, Wulf," he said. "Tell the earl that had we known what was going to occur there are few indeed who would have attended at the ceremony, and that I for one shall hold him in no way dishonoured if he breaks the vow that has thus been dishonourably extorted from him. It was a trick and a base one, and I would tell Duke William so to his face. What will men think of Norman faith when guests are thus tricked to their disadvantage?"

For an hour Wulf remained talking with the baron and his family.

"I hope to see you again, Wulf," De Burg said, as the lad rose to take leave. "Guy regards you as a brother, and though assuredly no Saxon will set foot on Norman soil after to-day's doings, we may yet meet again."

"I shall come over to England to see you, Wulf, if you come not here," Guy said. "I begin to think that I shall get over this, although I may never be really strong again. We shall often think and talk of you, Agnes and I; and I should like, of all things, to come and stay in your Saxon home."

"No one would be so welcome, Guy. If we are never to be brothers-in-arms as we once talked of, we shall surely be brothers in heart, whether absent or present."

A few more words and Wulf took leave of them all and rode back to Rouen. In the morning the duke accompanied Harold to the river bank and there took a courteous farewell of him. It is not probable that he thought for a moment that Harold would observe the oath, but he saw that its breach would be almost as useful to him as its fulfilment, for it would enable him to denounce his rival as a perjured and faithless man, and to represent any expedition against England as being a sort of crusade to punish one who had broken the most solemn vows made on the holy relics. Harold himself preserved his usual calmness of demeanour, and stood talking quietly to the duke while the latter's presents of hawks and hounds were taken on board the ship, and the Saxons, silent and sullen, had passed over the gangway. Then an apparently affectionate embrace was exchanged between the two rivals. Harold crossed on to the ship, the great sails were hoisted, and the two vessels proceeded down the river.



Chapter VIII.


Trouble With Wales.

Harold took his place on the poop as the vessel started, and remained looking fixedly at the duke, until the latter with the group of barons turned and entered the town.

"Farewell, William of Normandy," he said; "false friend and dishonoured host. How shall we meet next time, I wonder, and where?"

Hitherto the presence of the Norman attendants had prevented any private converse between Harold and his followers, but having the poop to themselves they now broke out into angry exclamations against the duke.

"It was an unworthy and unknightly trick," Harold said calmly; "but let us not talk of it now; it will be for the English people to decide the question some day, and for English bishops to determine whether I am bound by a vow thus extorted. Better at all events that I should be held for all time to have been false and perjured, than that the English people should fall under the Norman yoke. But maybe there will be no occasion for the oath ever to come in question, William of Normandy or I may die before the king, and then there will be an end of it. Let us talk of other things. Thank God we are free men again, and our faces are set towards England, where, from what I hear, we may have to meet open foes instead of false friends, and may have to teach the Welsh, once and for all, that they and their king cannot with impunity continually rise in rebellion against England.

"Well, Wulf, you are the only one among us who has brought back aught from Normandy, at least you and Beorn, for you have your horses and chains, and the promise of the duke to grant you a boon. But these are small things. You have gained great credit, and have shown yourself a gallant fighter, and have further promises from the duke."

"I care not for his promises," Wulf said hotly. "I hold him to be a dishonoured noble, and I would take naught from his hands."

"You are young yet, Wulf," Harold smiled, "and the duke's promise, made before his nobles, will be held binding by him if ever the time should come for you to claim it. Do not refuse benefits, lad, because you do not like the hands that grant them. You rendered him a service, and need feel no shame at receiving the reward for it. As soon as we return I shall take steps to raise you and Beorn to the full dignity of thanes, with all rights and privileges. My brother and my friends here can all testify to the service you rendered to us, for much as I may have to complain of the ending of my visit, it has at least been vastly better than our lot would have been had we remained in the hands of Conrad of Ponthieu. You are both very young to be placed in the position of rulers of your people, and in ordinary cases you would not have been sworn to thane's services for some years to come; but, as Earl of Wessex, I see good reason for departing from the rule on this occasion, and I think that my thanes here will all be of that opinion." There was a warm expression of approval from the Saxons. "Then as soon as we set foot on English soil we will hold a court, and invest you with your full rank."

They started from the mouth of the Seine, and as there was no nearer port than that from which they had sailed, Harold directed the masters of the ships to make for Bosham.

"It is like to be a fairer voyage than the last," he said, as with a light breeze blowing behind them they sailed out from the mouth of the Seine. "It will be longer, but assuredly more pleasant."

No incident whatever marked the voyage. The Saxons gave a shout of joy when they first made out the outline of the hills of the Isle of Wight, some twelve hours after leaving the mouth of the river; but it was not until eight hours afterwards that they entered the harbour of Bosham. As soon as the two Norman vessels were seen sailing up the quiet sheet of water, everywhere fringed with forest, boats put out to meet them, to ascertain the reason of their coming and to inquire for news of Harold and his companions. As soon as his figure was made out standing on the poop, one of the boats rowed off with the news, and by the time the vessels dropped anchor off Bosham the whole of the inhabitants had gathered on the shore, with loud shouts of joy and welcome.

As soon as they landed Harold and his companions proceeded at once to the church, where a solemn service of thanksgiving was held for their preservation from the dangers of the sea and for their safe return to England. As soon as the service was over Harold sent off two horsemen to bear to the king the news of his return, and to state that he himself would ride to London on the following day. Then the earl bestowed handsome presents upon the masters and crews of the ships that had brought them over, and gave into their charge hawks and hounds, rich armour, and other presents for the Duke of Normandy, and jewelled cups and other gifts to the principal barons of his court.

The gifts were indeed of royal magnificence; but Harold's wealth was vast, and, as he said to his brother, "We will at least show these Normans, that in point of generosity an English earl is not to be outdone by a Norman duke." As soon as these matters were attended to Harold held a court in the great hall of Bosham, and there received the oaths of fealty from Wulf and Beorn, and confirmed to them the possessions held by their fathers, and invested them with the gold chains worn by thanes as the sign of their rank. He afterwards bestowed a purse of gold upon Osgod, equal in value to the one he had received from the Duke of Normandy.

"Should aught ever happen to your master," he said, "come you to me and you shall be one of my own men, and shall not lack advancement in my service."

"In faith, Master Wulf," Osgod said after the ceremony, "my father warned me that the trade of a soldier was but a poor one, and that a good handicraftsman could gain far more money. He will open his eyes when I jingle these purses before him, for I might have hammered armour for years before I gained as much as I have done in the three months since I left England. I have enough to buy a farm and settle down did it so please me, and I have clothes enough to last me well-nigh a lifetime, and rings enough to set up a goldsmith's shop. For scarce one of the duke's barons and knights but followed his example, and gave me a present for my share in that little fight with the Bretons."

"As for the clothes, they will always be useful, Osgod; but were I you I would get a stout leathern bag and put the purses and rings into it, and bury them in some place known only to yourself, and where none are ever likely to light upon them. You have no occasion for money now, and we may hope that ere long all occasion for fighting will be over, and then, as you say, you can buy a farm and marry."

"I am going always to remain your man," Osgod said in an aggrieved tone.

"Certainly, Osgod, I should wish for nothing else. You will always be my friend, and shall have any post on the estates or in the house that you may prefer. There will be no occasion for you to farm your land yourself, you can let it, receiving the value of half the produce, and so taking rank as a landowner, for which you yourself may care nothing, but which will enable your wife to hold her head higher."

"I am not thinking of wives, my lord."

"Nonsense, Osgod, I want not to be called my lord."

"But you are a thane now and must be called so," Osgod said sternly; "and it would be ill-becoming indeed if I your man did not so address you. But I will take your advice about the gold, and when I get down to Steyning will bury it deeply under the roots of a tree. It will be safer there than if I buried it in my father's forge, for London is ever the centre of troubles, and might be sacked and burnt down should there ever be war between Mercia or Northumbria and Wessex."

"Heaven forbid that we should have more civil wars, Osgod."

"Amen to that, but there is never any saying. Assuredly Edwin and Morcar love not our earl, and as to Tostig, though he is his brother, he is hot-headed and passionate enough to play any part. And then there are the Normans, and there is no doubt the duke will have to be reckoned with. Altogether methinks my money will be safer under an oak-tree down at Steyning than at Westminster."

"You are right enough there, Osgod; by all means carry out your ideas. But there is the bell for supper, and I must go."

The next morning the party started at daybreak, and late that night arrived at Westminster. There were great rejoicings in London and throughout the south of England when it was known that the great earl had returned from Normandy. Much uneasiness had been felt at his long absence, and although accounts had come from time to time of the honour with which he had been treated by Duke William, many felt that his prolonged stay was an enforced one, and that he was a prisoner rather than a guest of the duke.

The king himself was as rejoiced as his subjects at Harold's return. Although in the early years of his reign he had been bitterly opposed to the powerful family of Earl Godwin, to whom he owed his throne, he had of late years learnt to appreciate the wisdom of Harold; and although still Norman in his tastes as in his language, he had become much more English at heart, and bitterly regretted the promise that he had years before rashly given to the Duke of Normandy.

Harold too had relieved him of all the cares of government, which he hated, and had enabled him to give his whole time and thought to religious exercises, and to the rearing of the splendid abbey which was his chief pleasure and pride. In his absence Edward had been obliged to attend to state business. He was worried with the jealousies and demands of the Earl of Mercia, with the constant complaints of the Northumbrians against their harsh and imperious master Tostig, and by the fact that the Welsh were taking advantage of the absence of Harold to cause fresh troubles. It was just Christmas when Harold returned, and the snow fell heavily on the night of his arrival at Westminster.

"It was lucky it did not come a few hours earlier, Beorn," Wulf said, as he looked out of the casement. "We had a long and heavy ride yesterday, and we could not have done it in one day had the snow been on the ground. I suppose there will be a number of court festivities over Harold's return. We have had enough of that sort of thing in Normandy, and I hope that Harold will let us return at once to our estates."

"Speak for yourself, Wulf; for myself I love the court, and now that I am a thane I shall enjoy it all the more."

"And I all the less," Wulf said. "Fifteen months ago we were but pages and could at least have some fun, now we shall have to bear ourselves as men, and the ladies of the court will be laughing at us and calling us the little thanes, and there will be no getting away and going round to the smithy to watch Osgod's father and men forging weapons. It will be all very stupid."

In a short time an attendant summoned them to breakfast, and here they sat down with the other thanes, Harold's wing of the palace being distinct from that of the king. The earl sat at the head of the table, and talked in undertones to his brother Gurth and two or three of his principal thanes. The personal retainers of the nobles stood behind their seats and served them with food, while Harold's pages waited on him and those sitting next to him.

"We were a merrier party in the pages' room," Beorn whispered to Wulf, for but few words were spoken as the meal went on.

"I think there is something in the air," Wulf said, "the earl looks more serious than usual. Generally the meals are cheerful enough."

As soon as it was finished Harold said, "The king will receive you all in half an hour, he desires to express to you his pleasure at your return home. After that I beg that you will again gather here, as I have occasion to speak to you."

The court was a more formal one than usual, the king's Norman functionaries were all present as were several ecclesiastics. Among them the Bishop of London, behind whom stood Wulf's old adversary, Walter Fitz-Urse. Earl Harold introduced his companions in captivity, the king receiving them very graciously.

"I am glad to see that you have all returned safely," he said. "The earl tells me that you have all borne yourselves well in the battles you have fought under the banner of my friend and ally Duke William of Normandy, and that you have proved to his countrymen that the English are in no whit inferior to themselves in courage. The earl specially recommended to me his newly-made thanes, Wulf of Steyning and Beorn of Fareham, who did him the greatest service by effecting their escape from the castle of Beaurain, and at great risk bearing the news of his imprisonment to Duke William. Wulf of Steyning, he tells me, gained the highest approval of the duke and his knights by a deed of bravery when their camp was surprised by the Bretons. The earl has informed me that in consideration of these services he has advanced them to the rank of thanes, and confirmed them in their father's possessions, and as service rendered to him is service rendered to me, I thus bestow upon them a token of my approval;" and beckoning to the young thanes to advance, he took two heavy gold bracelets from his arm, and himself fastened them on those of the kneeling lads.

When the ceremony was over, Harold's party returned to the room where they had breakfasted. It was an hour before the earl joined them.

"I have been in council with the king," he said, "and have thus been forced to keep you waiting. We heard when abroad that the Welsh were again becoming troublesome, but I find that matters are much worse than I had supposed. Griffith has broken out into open rebellion; he has ravaged all the borders, has entered the diocese of Wulfstan, the new Bishop of Worcester, and carried his arms beyond the Severn, laying waste part of my own earldom of Hereford. Edwin, who has just succeeded his father in the earldom of Worcester, is young and new to his government, and, moreover, his father was an ally of Griffith's. In any case, he needs far larger forces than those at his command to undertake a war with the Welsh. This time we must finish with them; treaties are of no avail they are ever broken on the first opportunity, and a blow must be dealt that will render them powerless for harm for generations to come.

"Therefore the king has commissioned me forthwith to act in the matter, not only as Lord of Hereford but as Earl of the West Saxons. Winter is upon us, and it will be impossible to undertake a regular campaign. Still a blow must be struck, and that quickly and heavily in order to stop the depredation and ruin they are spreading in the west counties. The preparations must be secret and the blow sudden. There is no time for calling out levies, that must be done in the spring. I must act only with mounted men. I have already sent off a messenger to Bosham to bid my housecarls mount and ride to Salisbury. They will number two hundred. I pray you all to leave at once for your estates, or to send an order by a swift messenger for your housecarls to ride to Salisbury, whither I myself shall proceed in three days. Will each of you give me the tale of the number of armed men who can take horse at an hour's notice."

Each of those present gave the number of housecarls in his service, and they all expressed their willingness to ride themselves, in order to get them ready the more speedily. The total mounted to three hundred and fifty men.

"That with my own two hundred will be well-nigh sufficient," Harold said; "but I will send off messengers at once to some of the thanes of Dorset and Somerset to join us at Gloucester with their men, so that we shall be fully a thousand strong, which will be ample for my purpose. I need not impress upon you all to preserve an absolute silence as to the object for which you are calling out your men. News spreads fast, and an incautious word might ruin our enterprise. There is no occasion for you all to accompany your men. Those of you who have been with me in Normandy will doubtless desire to stay for a while with your wives and families, and you may do equally good service by making preparations there for a more serious campaign in the spring. I beg these to send with their housecarls a trusted officer, and bid him place himself and his men under my orders."

The meeting at once broke up.

"I suppose you young warriors will bring your own men to Salisbury?" Harold said, as Wulf and Beorn came up to take their leave of him.

"Certainly, my lord," Beorn said. "We have neither family nor relations to keep us at home, and even if we had it would not suffice to keep us from following your banner."

"It will be a warfare like that in which you have been engaged across the sea," Harold said. "The Bretons you there fought with are kinsfolk of the Welsh, speaking the same language, and being alike in customs and in fighting. They trust to surprises, and to their speed of foot and knowledge of their wild country, rather than to hard fighting in the open plain. They have few towns to capture, and it is therefore hard to execute reprisals upon them. Like the Bretons they are brave, and fight savagely until the last, neither giving nor asking for quarter. They believe that their country, which is so wild and hilly as to be a great natural fortress, is unconquerable, and certainly neither Saxon nor Dane has ever succeeded in getting any foothold there. But when the spring comes I hope to teach them that even their wild hills are no defence, and that their habits of savage plundering must be abandoned or we will exterminate them altogether. But I have no thought of undertaking such a campaign now. Of course you will take that tall follower of yours with you, Wulf."

"I fear that he would not stay behind even if I ordered him to do so," Wulf laughed. "He will be overjoyed when I tell him there is a prospect of fighting again, and all the more if it is against kinsmen of the Bretons, against whom he feels a special grudge."

"The feeling would be more natural the other way," Harold said smiling, "seeing that he inflicted upon them far greater damage than he received. You will find fresh horses awaiting you. None of those that carried us from Bosham yesterday are fit for another such journey to-day."

Wulf had told Osgod the first thing in the morning that he could return to his family for a few days, only coming to the palace to serve his meals, and he now hurried away to the armourer's shop, where he found that but little work was going on, the men being absorbed in listening to Osgod's account of his adventures. Ulred and the men rose and saluted respectfully as Wulf entered.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Ulred," he said, "but I have come to fetch Osgod away again. That is if he would prefer riding with me to remaining quiet with you at home."

"If you are going, master, assuredly I am going with you," Osgod said. "I am dry with talking already, and father must wait for the rest of my story until I come back again. Are we going down to Steyning, my lord?"

"There first and afterwards elsewhere, but that is all I can tell you now. The horses are ready, and there is not a moment to lose. We must get as far on our way as possible before nightfall, for the matter is an urgent one."

"I am ready," Osgod said, girding on his sword and putting his cap on his head. "Good-bye, father. Tell mother I shall be back when I am back, and that is all I can say about it."

They reached Steyning at two o'clock on the following afternoon, and messengers were instantly sent round to the farms, bidding the men who were bound as housecarls to appear on horseback and armed, with two days' food in their wallets, an hour before daybreak next morning. Then a messenger was despatched with a letter to the prior of Bramber, telling him of Wulf's safe return, and begging him to excuse his coming over to see him, as he had ridden nigh a hundred and fifty miles in three days, and was forced to set out again at daybreak the next morning. As Wulf had hoped, the letter was answered by the prior in person, and to him Wulf related that evening the incidents of their stay in Normandy.

The prior shook his head.

"I have feared ever since I heard that Harold had fallen into the clutches of the duke, that he would never get off scot free, but would either have to pay a heavy ransom or make some concessions that would be even worse for England. It is a bad business, Wulf, a bad business. The church has ever been ready to grant absolution from oaths extracted by violence, but this affair of the relics makes it more serious, and you may be sure that William will make the most of the advantage he has gained. Harold is absolutely powerless to fulfil his oath. Neither he nor the king, nor any other man, can force a foreign monarch upon free England. And did Harold declare for the Duke of Normandy, powerful and beloved as he is, he would be driven into exile instantly. If he himself is elected king by the people, as there is no doubt whatever will be the case, he must needs obey their voice, and will have no choice between being King of England or an exile. Still it is unfortunate. He will be branded as a perjurer. William's influence may even induce the pope to excommunicate him, and although the ban would go for but little here, it would serve as an excuse for the other great earls to refuse to submit to his authority. Now tell me, how is it that you have to ride again so suddenly when but just arrived?"

"I can tell you, father, though I can tell no one else. Harold has ordered us to bring out our housecarls, and with them he means to deal a blow against the Welsh, who have been devastating our western counties. The expedition is to be secret and sudden, although against what point and in what manner the blow is to be struck Harold has kept his own counsel."

"The Welsh are ever a thorn in our side," the prior said, "and treaties with them are useless. I trust that Harold will succeed in thoroughly reducing them to obedience, for whenever there is trouble in the kingdom they take advantage of it, and are ready to form alliances with any ambitious earl who hoists the standard of revolt. And so you say Harold has already made you full thane? I am well pleased to hear it, if for no other reason than that it is good for people when they are ruled over by their own lord and not by a stranger; though I say nothing against Egbert, Harold's steward. Still no man can rule like the master himself."

At the first dawn of day Wulf mounted, and rode away from the palace followed by Osgod. He was clad now in the ringed armour, a suit of which he had had made of lighter material than usual. Only on the shoulders and over the chest was the leather of the usual thickness, elsewhere it was thin and extremely soft, and the rings did not overlap each other as much as usual. The weight, therefore, was much less than that ordinarily worn by thanes, although it differed but little from it in appearance. The helmet, also, was of stout leather, thickly covered with metal rings, and the flap fell down over the neck and ears, having a bar coming down in front to protect the nose.

Osgod's suit was thicker and heavier, and was similar to that of the forty men who were drawn up in two lines under the soldier whom Harold had sent down to train them. They were a stout set of young fellows, well mounted and armed, and as they broke into a cry of "Welcome to our thane," Wulf felt proud to command such a body.

"Thanks, my friends," he said heartily. "I am glad to see that not one is missing from your number, and feel sure that you will do credit to my banner."

They rode that day to Fareham, where they received a hearty welcome from Beorn, and starting in the morning with his troop of thirty men, reached Salisbury late that evening. They were met at the entrance to the town by one of Harold's officers, who conducted them to a large barn, where straw had been thickly strewn for the men to sleep on. The horses were fastened outside.

"Earl Harold arrived an hour since," the officer said, "and bade me tell you that he is lodged at the reeve's, where he expects you."

They found on arriving at the house that many of the thanes had already come in, and that some six hundred horsemen were bestowed in the town. On a great sideboard were pies, cold joints of meat, wine and ale, and each thane as he arrived helped himself to such food as he desired, and then joined the party gathered round Harold.

"We shall pick up another hundred or two as we march along to-morrow," Harold was saying when the two young thanes joined the group, "and shall have a good nine hundred men by the time we reach Gloucester, where I expect to find four or five hundred more awaiting us. I hear that our coming has made a great stir here in Salisbury, the citizens do not know what to make of so large a body of housecarls arriving in their midst. The reeve tells me that they were in some fear of being eaten out of house and home until they heard that we were to march on in the morning; after that they did their best for us, and have arranged that every man shall have his fill of meat and ale to-night, and again before starting."

Travelling as fast and as far as the horses could carry them, the force reached Gloucester. Here they received an even warmer welcome than had greeted them elsewhere, for the citizens had been greatly alarmed at the Welsh forays, and as soon as they knew that the great earl himself was with the troops they had no doubt that he had come to give them protection and to punish their enemies. The contingents from Somerset and Dorset had already arrived, and without the delay of a single day the troops again started.

The housecarls, although mounted, were not trained to fight on horseback. Their steeds were valuable only as enabling them to move with greater celerity across the country than they could do on foot, and to bring them fresh and in fighting condition to the scene of action. Once there they dismounted, and a portion being told off to look after the horses, the main body advanced on foot against the enemy.

There was yet a long ride before them. Following the Severn on its western side so as to avoid the passage of the Avon, they rode to Worcester, and then up through Dudley and Shrewsbury.

It would have been shorter to have passed through Hereford and Ludlow, but Harold feared that they might there come upon some marauding party of the Welsh, and any of these who escaped might carry the news across the border, when the fleet-footed mountaineers would quickly have conveyed it to the Welsh king at his castle at Rhuddlaw. Rhuddlaw, now a small village, is situated in Denbighshire, and was an important military position, situated as it was at no great distance from the sea, and commanding the Vale of Clwyd, the most important avenue into Wales from the north. From Shrewsbury they pushed forward as rapidly as possible to Rhuddlaw; but quickly as they had journeyed, the news of their coming was borne more rapidly. Griffith received the news an hour before their arrival, and mounting, rode down to the Avon and embarked on board ship.

Great was the disappointment of the earl and his followers when they found that the object of their long march across England had failed, and that the capture of the Welsh king, which would have put an end to the trouble, had been missed so narrowly. The castle was at once set on fire, the Welsh ships on the Avon were also given to the flames, and the very same day Harold led his troops away and by easy marches took them back to Gloucester. Here they halted. The housecarls from the south, who had never been in contact with the Welsh, were inclined to murmur among themselves at having been led back without striking a blow, but the contingents from the western counties, who had had experience of this wild warfare, told them that they might consider themselves fortunate.

"You know not what a war with these savages is," an old housecarl who had fought them again and again said to a listening group of Wulf's men. "You might as well fight with the evil spirits of the air as with them. Fight! there is no fighting in it, save when they have with them Danes from the North, or Norwegians. With these to bear the brunt of the battle the Welsh will fight valiantly in their fashion, but alone they know that they cannot withstand us for a moment. I have been after them a score of times, and it is a night-mare. You go up hills and through forests, you plunge into morasses, you scramble up precipices; you are wet, you are hungry, you are worn out, but never do you catch sight of one of them.

"Now and then, as you wind along the face of a hill, rocks will come thundering down; in the woods and swamps you hear their mocking yells and laughter. At the end of the day you drop down where you halt, and then just as you fall off to sleep there is a wild yell, and in a moment they are swarming among you, slashing and ripping with their long knives, crawling on the ground and springing upon you, getting among the horses and hamstringing or cutting them open. By the time those of you that are alive have got together they have gone, and all is so quiet that were it not for the scattered bodies you might believe that it was all a dream. Two or three times before morning the attack will be repeated, until you are forced to keep under arms in military array. As soon as it is light you recommence your march, and so it goes on day after day, until at last, worn-out and spent, and less in strength by half than when you started, you gather under the shelter of the walls of one of the border towns.

"I should have been glad indeed if we had caught their king, for if he had been held hostage in London we might have had peace; but well content am I that Harold has abstained from entering upon a campaign which, terrible as it is even in summer, would be beyond endurance of the strongest in winter."

"Well, for my part," Osgod, who was one of the listeners, remarked, "I would rather go on by myself and take the chance of getting a good blow at some of these wild men than ride all the way back to Steyning to be laughed at by the women there, as brave soldiers who have marched across England and back and never unsheathed their swords. Nor will I believe that Earl Harold can intend so to make a laughing-stock of us. The Bretons were just as active as are these Welshmen, but he brought them to reason there, and I warrant me he will do the same here. At any rate, he seems in no hurry to move. We have been here nigh a week already, and why should he keep us here if we are not to be employed?"

It was not very long before it became known that Harold had no intention of marching away and leaving the Welsh unpunished, and that in the spring a campaign on a great scale was to be undertaken against them. The thanes of all the western counties were ordered to hold themselves in readiness to join with their levies in the spring. The Somerset and Devon men were to gather at Bristol, and thence to be conveyed by ships to the southern coast of Wales; the troops at Gloucester were to march west, and Tostig was to bring down a body of Northumbrian horse, and to enter Wales from Chester. The housecarls, to their surprise, were ordered to lay aside their ringed armour and heavy helmets, in place of which leather jerkins and caps were served out to them; their heavy axes were to be left behind, and they were to trust to the sword alone. They were to abandon the tactics in which they had been trained of fighting shoulder to shoulder, with shield overlapping shield, and were to exercise themselves in running and climbing, in skirmishing with an imaginary foe, and rapidly gathering in close formation to resist anticipated attack. Harold himself gave them these instructions.

"You will have no foe to meet breast to breast," he said; "if we are to conquer and to root out these hornets it must be by showing ourselves even more active than they are. Speed and activity go for everything in a war like this, while our own methods of fighting are absolutely useless. Unless we make an end of this matter you may be called away from your homes once a year to repel these attacks, while if you conquer now there will be no Welsh foray again during your lifetime. Therefore it is worth while to make a great effort, and for once to lay aside our own method of fighting. Your commanders will see that all the exercises are well carried out, and will report to me regarding those who show most zeal and energy. Extra pay will be given to all, and I shall know how to reward those who are reported to me as most deserving of it."

The troops set to work with great energy, and soon recognized the advantage they gained by laying aside their heavy arms and armour. Swimming, running, and climbing were practised incessantly, and when May arrived, and with it the time for the commencement of the campaign, all felt confident of their ability to cope with the Welsh in their own methods of warfare.



Chapter IX.


In The Welsh Valleys.

Wulf and Beorn did not form part of the expedition which was to embark with Harold from Bristol, and to enter Wales by one of its southern valleys. It was necessary that the gathering of the levies at Gloucester should be strengthened by having as a nucleus three hundred trained soldiers. The levies were lightly armed, and accustomed to fight in the same irregular manner as their Welsh adversaries, whom they held in considerable dread, for the fierce hillmen had again and again proved themselves more than a match for the peaceable natives on the English side of the border. The addition then of three hundred housecarls was required to give them confidence. These had indeed abandoned for the time their armour, heavy weapons, and solid formation, but they could still were it necessary gather in a line, behind which the levies could rally, and which would be impregnable to the undisciplined attacks of the Welsh.

The young thanes were somewhat disappointed at finding that they were not to accompany the earl, but, as he told them, it was a mark of his confidence that he should post them with the force where the fighting was likely to be more severe and the risk greater than with that he himself led.

"I shall penetrate into the heart of Wales," he said. "I shall have horsemen with me, a strong force of trained soldiers and the levies, and the enemy will, I feel sure, be unable to oppose us successfully; but it is likely enough that when the Welsh find that my force from the south and Tostig's from the north cannot be withstood, they will pour out on their eastern frontier, and try to light such a flame in Worcester, Hereford, and Gloucester, that we should be obliged to abandon our work, and hurry back to stem the tide of their invasion. It is necessary therefore that from this side also there should be a forward movement. My brother, Gurth, will command here. I have strongly recommended you to him. Your experience in the Breton war will be of assistance to you, and I have told him that you can be far better trusted than many older than yourselves in carrying out expeditions among their hills and valleys.

"I do not anticipate there will be any pitched battles; the Welsh know that they cannot withstand our trained soldiers. It will be a war of skirmishes, of detached fighting, of surprises, long marches, and great fatigues. Every valley in the country is to be harried with fire and sword. They are to be made to feel that even in their mountains they are not safe from us, and as they never take prisoners nor give quarter in the forays on our side of the border, so we will hunt them down like wolves in their own forests. The work must be done so thoroughly that for a hundred years at least the lesson will not be forgotten."

In the last week of May Gurth moved forward, marching first to Hereford as a more central point of attack, and then crossing the border and entering Wales. The troops carried no heavy baggage. Meat they expected to find; flour was carried on two hundred pack-horses. The force was about 4000 strong. The housecarls marched in a body, keeping solid order. Behind them came the pack animals, each led separately, so that they could the more easily make their way through forests or over broken ground. They marched in lines, forty abreast. The light-armed levies, led by their respective thanes, moved as they chose on the flanks of the trained troops or followed in the rear.

When they halted on the first evening after crossing the frontier they lighted their fires and bivouacked. Wulf and Beorn walked together through the camp.

"In spite of the fact that they are all dressed somewhat alike in leather jerkins, it is easy to see which are the trained soldiers," Wulf said. "The housecarls are as merry over the food they have brought with them as if they were going upon a march of pleasure through the hills, while the border levies evidently regard the business as a serious one."

"That is no wonder," Beorn replied, "seeing how for years they have suffered at the hands of the Welsh. Look at those hills, Wulf, I can count a dozen beacons alight. Of course, they have heard of the preparations for attack, and they are flashing the news from hill to hill of the advance of our force. It will not be long before they gather to oppose us."

"It is like enough they may attack us to-night, Beorn. They may have had spies at Hereford, and will have known two days ago of our coming. They may reckon that we should anticipate no attack until farther among their hills, and that we shall in consequence be careless, as in truth we seem to be. I think it would be well to offer Gurth our housecarls to stand sentry to-night."

"He might laugh at us," Beorn said doubtfully.

"Well, let him laugh; he will laugh good-humouredly anyhow, for he is of a kindly and light-hearted disposition. At any rate there cannot be any harm in proposing it, and after the surprise we got from the Bretons we cannot be too cautious."

They walked to the fire where Gurth was sitting with four or five of his friends, all of whom had furnished bodies of housecarls. The border thanes had by his orders each remained with his own following, so that at all times they should be in readiness to give orders and lead them in case of surprise.

"Where have you been, young thanes?" Gurth asked. "You slipped away as soon as our meal was finished, as if you were afraid of the wine-cup."

"We care not much for drinking," Beorn said, "and have been going through the force to see how it was disposed. We have come to offer that our men shall to-night furnish guards for the camp."

"There is no occasion for it," Gurth said, "the Welshmen will not attack us until we are entangled among their hills."

"It depends upon how well they are led, my Lord Gurth," Wulf said. "If they are well led they may attack us to-night, for they must know of our approach, and will think it probable that we shall, being so near our own border, be at first careless. The Bretons gave us just such a lesson, and inflicted heavy loss upon the Norman army."

"Well, post your men as you like," Gurth said; "though it seems to me that it would be better for them to husband their strength for to-morrow's march."

"They shall have half a night's sleep each," Wulf said.

"If I had not known how stoutly you fought, and how your courage saved the Norman camp, I should have said you were over-cautious," Gurth laughed. "However I will not refuse your offer, young thanes, though methinks there is no chance whatever of the Welsh disturbing us here."

Having obtained the permission, Beorn and Wulf returned to the fires of their men.

"We are to have the honour of furnishing the guards to-night, Osgod. Tell the men that Gurth relies upon our watchfulness. We don't want a repetition of the surprise we had from the Bretons. It will be but a short night's watch. 'Tis nine now, and by four it will be broad daylight. Beorn's men and ours will march a hundred yards out from the camp. Half can lie down to sleep at once, the other half we can post as sentries and relieve them at half-past twelve. An attack if it comes will come from the front, therefore we will post the men twenty or thirty yards apart along there, and for some distance round the flanks. One of us will remain with the party that lies down, so as to be in readiness to lead them at once against any point attacked, the other will move round and round to see that the sentries are vigilant."

"That is good news to me," Osgod said. "Methinks that affair in the Breton wood has shaken my courage, for I have been looking at those trees in front of us, and wondering whether the Welsh are gathering there, and thinking how it would be with all these raw levies if they came down upon us to-night It went hard for a bit with the Normans, tried soldiers though they were, but I would not trust these levies to stand for a moment, for they hold the Welsh in mighty respect."

The men cheerfully took their arms and fell in. They considered it a compliment that they had been chosen to furnish the first guard. Beorn's men, with a portion of Wulf's, were to furnish the first line of sentries. The two young thanes, accompanied by Osgod, went round with them and posted them, after giving them strict injunctions to be watchful and vigilant.

"These savages," Beorn said, "will creep up through the grass as noiselessly as cats, so you must keep your ears as well as your eyes well open; and if you hear but the breaking of a twig challenge at once. Then, if they rise, shout the alarm at the top of your voice, and do the whole of you run back to us here if the cry comes from the front, if from either flank hurry to that spot, and we shall do the same from here; but be careful not to rouse the camp by a false alarm, for if you do, instead of gaining credit we shall become the jest of the whole force."

When the sentries were placed, Beorn, with the leader of his band, began to go the rounds, while Wulf and Osgod returned to their party.

"You can sleep, master, while I watch beside you," Osgod said. "I could not sleep if I lay down, for I have got the yells of those Bretons in my ears, and could not close an eye."

"Very well, Osgod; in that case I may as well take a nap."

He was soon sound asleep, and remained so until Osgod touched him. He sat up in a moment.

"By the stars it is past midnight, my lord, and it is time for us to relieve Beorn's party." The men were at once called to their feet, and the relief effected.

"If an attack comes," Wulf said, as with Osgod he proceeded to walk backwards and forwards along the line of sentries, "I fancy it will be just before daybreak. Many of them may come from long distances, and their leader would wait until the last moment in order to gather as large a force together as possible. Besides, men sleep heaviest at that time, and they would reckon that hour as best for a surprise." As they walked they frequently paused to listen intently, and though once or twice they thought they heard distant sounds, these might be caused by the passage of a wild animal through the bushes. The sentries were all vigilant. It was the first time that the Sussex lads had been in face of an enemy, and the stillness of the night, the sombre forest in front of them, and the possibility of a savage and unknown foe lurking there, kept them thoroughly on the alert. Once or twice Wulf and Osgod went forward to examine some bush that had seemed to the imagination of a sentry to have moved, but in each case the alarm was groundless.

"It must be nearly three o'clock now, Osgod," Wulf said at last. "Another half hour will decide it. I shall be glad when the morning comes, for this work is trying, and I keep on fancying I hear noises."

"I fancy so too," Osgod said. "It seems to me like a sort of whisper or rustling of leaves."

"That is just what it seems to me, Osgod. Let us stay where we are. We are just in the centre of the line now."

"There are certainly sounds, my lord. I thought it was fancy before, but I am sure now."

"I hear something," Wulf said. "It comes from the front. Run round to the right and bring the sentries from that flank and post them in the intervals of those in front, while I do the same on the left."

They had but just returned, when they heard a sharp sound like the cracking of a stick a short distance in front. A dozen of the sentries at once challenged. In an instant a number of figures sprang to their feet at a distance of some fifty yards in front of them. Then a wild yell was raised, and swarms of men came rushing towards them, while a volley of arrows and javelins whizzed through the air.

"Fall back on the others, men!" Wulf shouted at the top of his voice, and the line of sentries rushed back to Beorn's party, who leapt to their feet at the sound of the Welsh war-cry. They had scarce formed in line when the enemy were upon them. They received them with a volley of javelins, and then shield to shield they withstood the attack They were fighting in their own way now, and numerous as the Welsh were, they were unable, as they ran up in scattered order, to break through the line.

"Steady, men, steady!" Wulf shouted out from his post in the middle of the line. "Our friends will soon be up. Show a stout front. Do not give way a foot."

In vain the Welshmen, with wild yells, strove to beat back the Saxon line. Their very numbers were a hindrance to them. Those in front pressed forward, so that those behind were unable to use their javelins or arrows. Many creeping between the legs of the fighters of the front rank leapt with a cat-like spring upon the Saxons, and strove to rip them with their knives, but the light wicker-work shields covered with leather, which had taken the place of the solid and heavy ones generally carried by the housecarls, stood Wulf's followers in good stead; and although many of the shields were penetrated by the knives of the Welsh, they in most cases effectually screened the bodies of the soldiers.

The lightly-armed Welsh, on the other hand, were hewn down by the long swords of the Saxons in the front rank, while the javelins of those behind them flew with terrible effect among their assailants. There was, however, no pause in the fury of the attacks of the Welsh, until, with a great shout, the main body of the Saxons came up, and pressed forward in line with the little body who had hitherto borne the brunt of the battle, while on their flank the thane's levies poured in volley after volley of darts and arrows. The fight ceased as suddenly as it began. The sound of a deep-toned horn rose in the air, whereupon the Welsh instantly abandoned the struggle, and before the Saxons had time to realize that the fighting was over, they had disappeared in the forest.

"By St. Peter, young thanes!" Earl Gurth exclaimed as he came up to Wulf's band, who were panting from their exertions, "you have saved us from a grievous mishap this night. I take shame unto myself that I treated your suggestion so lightly; for, by the saints, we should have fared badly indeed had this wild foe taken us asleep. The thanks of the whole force are due to you, and I will take care that my brother Harold knows how narrow an escape we have had, and in telling the tale I shall not spare either myself or the older thanes, who were disposed to mock your proposal to keep guard over the camp, as showing an amount of caution altogether unnecessary. The attack has been a lesson to me that I shall not forget, and henceforth I shall select you and your force for any special service requiring watchfulness and valour."

In going among their men Wulf and Beorn found that but six had fallen, for the most part under the shower of javelins with which the Welsh had heralded their attack. Many of the others had received wounds more or less severe, but few of them were so badly hurt as to render it necessary to leave them behind. Gurth called the thanes at once to a council. Fresh wood was thrown on to his fire, and some twenty of the thanes took their places round it. Wulf and Beorn were specially asked by Gurth to attend. The attack of the Welsh had shown that they were by no means dismayed at the extent of the preparations for the invasion of their mountains, and that the advance must be conducted with the greatest caution and prudence.

"It is well," Gurth said, "that in the absence of Griffith they have many leaders, and will therefore fight without any general plan. Did their whole force fall upon one or other of our columns it might go very hard with it; but we may be sure that each chief will desire to keep his followers by him, in order to defend his own valleys. Nevertheless, they have shown to-night that they can gather rapidly and in considerable force, and we shall have to root them out piecemeal, and shall not be able to scatter our force too widely. I am told that the valley at whose mouth we now are contains a large number of villages, and to this we must confine ourselves until we have done the work there. I trust that they will oppose us stoutly. In that case we shall have the less trouble with them when we come to undertake the more difficult task of pursuing them among their hills."

The next morning the advance began, and they had proceeded but a short distance when the Welsh again poured down upon them. This time the force was prepared for the attack, and although the Welsh fought obstinately, they were driven back without much difficulty. As soon as the attack ceased Gurth gave the order for pursuit, and the housecarls held their course straight up the valley at full speed, while the levies swarmed up the hillsides to prevent the Welsh from rallying and attacking in flank. The troops now felt the benefit of the abandonment of their heavy armour and weapons, and pressed so hotly upon the flying Welsh that they entered the first village with them. For a time the natives turned and fought desperately in defence of their homes, but they were unable to withstand the skill and discipline of the Saxon troops, and the measure that they had so frequently dealt out to the Saxon villagers now fell on them. No quarter was given. Every man, woman, and child was slaughtered, and the houses given to the flames. Village after village was captured and burnt, but the resistance became fainter and fainter, and the last three villages at the head of the valley were found to be entirely deserted. Then, just as the sun set, the force bivouacked for the night, the horns calling in the scattered levies, who gradually rejoined them.

The next morning the force was broken up into five or six columns, each having a proportion of the regular soldiers and a body of the levies. These penetrated side valleys and climbed the hills. In many cases they encountered resistance, stones being rolled down upon them, and the Welsh defending strong barricades of felled trees. But everywhere the Saxons were successful, and day after day continued the work, until at the end of five days they were able to move where they would without encountering any resistance. The force now marched forward from the head of the valley, crossed a range of hills, and descended into another valley. They had now grown more confident in themselves, and while a third of the force proceeded to lay waste the valley, the rest, broken up into small columns, ascended the hills on either side, carrying fire and sword into every hamlet they came upon.

Several of the fortalices of the Welsh chiefs, perched on almost inaccessible eminences, gave great trouble, and were only taken after serious loss. One day Beorn and Wulf, with their own following and two hundred and fifty light-armed levies, were despatched by Gurth to Porthwyn, a stronghold belonging to a powerful chief named Llewellyn ap Rhys.

"It is, from all I hear," he said, "a very strong place, and will require all our force to capture it. Indeed it is reported to be so strong that it may be necessary to leave it unmolested until we form a junction with Harold, and can besiege it regularly. It would not do to make an unsuccessful attack, for that would raise the spirits of the Welsh. All that I wish of you is to obtain a view of the castle from all sides if possible, to bring me back an exact account of its defences, and to give me your opinion as to our chances of capturing it if we decide to lay siege to it."

Porthwyn was forty miles distant, and Beorn and Wulf determined to march some thirty of these, and then to push forward at daybreak so as to obtain a view of the fortress in the early morning. They took with them a Welsh boy as a guide. He had been spared in the last village captured, and had been told that his life depended upon his guiding them faithfully. The places of ten men who had fallen during the various fights had been filled up by an equal number of Gurth's own housecarls. The seventy soldiers kept with their leaders and the guide, the levies spreading out on either side.

Two of the irregulars who spoke a little Welsh accompanied the young thanes to question the guide if necessary. The march was a heavy one. At times they passed through thick forests in the valleys and on the lower hillsides, at times crossed over bare hills, on whose summits the ground was frequently so boggy that the men had to march with the greatest caution. The guide, a sullen lad with matted hair, whose only attire was a sheep-skin, was several times questioned sharply as to whether he was certain of the way. He answered in monosyllables, saying that he knew every foot of the road, and indeed he never hesitated for a moment.

"I suppose he is right," Wulf said, "although I thought it lay more to the west than we are going, but we have wound about so among these forests and hills that I am quite confused. There is one comfort, Beorn, if the guide proves treacherous and we lose ourselves altogether, we have but to set our faces to the rising sun and we shall find ourselves back on the border, for I am sure that we could not retrace our steps to Gurth's camp."

The sun was just setting when they found themselves on a bare plateau on the crest of a range of hills higher than any they had before crossed.

"Ask him how far we are from Porthwyn," Wulf said to the interpreter.

"He says twelve miles, my lord."

"Then when we get across this flat, which looks full two miles wide, we will camp in the first valley we come to."

As they advanced the ground became more and more boggy, and the troops had to move carefully, stepping from one tussock of coarse grass to another, the intervals being filled with black slimy mud.

"Ask him if this gets deeper," Beorn said angrily, "for if it does so we are like to be all swallowed up. I believe he must be leading us wrong."

Osgod had charge of the boy, and was walking close beside him. As the question was put by the interpreter the boy muttered that he knew the way. The man turned to translate his answer to Beorn, when there was a sudden shout. At the moment that Osgod was making a long step from one tuft to another the boy stooped and caught his foot, and with a roar of surprise and fury Osgod fell head-foremost into the morass. At the same moment the lad darted away with a yell of defiance, leaping from tuft to tuft with the agility of a hare. Several of the men started after him, but unaccustomed to the treacherous bog four or five were immersed in it to their waist before they had gone a dozen paces.

"Shoot! shoot!" Beorn shouted, and a dozen javelins were thrown, but the boy was almost beyond distance, and his rapid and irregular movements rendered it well-nigh impossible to take aim with any accuracy. Most of the javelins flew wide of him, and he was soon beyond reach. Osgod was well-nigh smothered before he could be rescued, and some of the other men were only hauled out with the greatest difficulty. Three or four of the most active men were sent forward, but presently returned with the news that the bog became worse.

"The sun has already set," Wulf said, "and if darkness catches us here our plight will be a bad one. Let us retrace our steps at once, Beorn."

It was with great difficulty that they made their way back to firm ground. By the time they did so darkness had fallen.

"This is a bad business altogether, Beorn," Wulf said. "In the first place we have lost our guide; in the second place we have no idea where we are, for we may for aught we know have been going in the wrong direction all the time; and, besides this, the boy will raise the country against us, and in the morning we may be attacked by an overwhelming force."

"What do you think we had better do, Wulf?"

"Well, I should say we had better, in the first place, retrace our steps to the valley, there we will light fires and cook the meat we have brought with us. Then I should say we had best march for some hours. It matters not in what direction so that we get as far as possible from here."

As Beorn could suggest nothing better, Wulf's counsel was carried out. Supper was cooked and eaten in the forest, and after two hours for rest, for the march had been a very fatiguing one, they started. The night was moonless, and in the shadow of the trees the darkness was intense. The housecarls kept together, moving as closely as possible to each other. The levies were ordered to follow them.

After proceeding for two hours, Wulf said, "Let us halt and see if we are all together." The housecarls halted, but when he went to the rear Wulf could see no signs of the irregulars.

"Let no man speak or move," he said, "I want to listen."

But no sound broke the stillness of the wood.

"How foolish of Oswald and Edred," he said to Beorn.

"We told them to follow with their levies close behind us, and they must have allowed them to fall to the rear. However, they can't be far behind."

They waited for half an hour, but the silence continued unbroken.

"Do you shout, Osgod," Wulf said; "they ought to hear miles away on a still night like this."

Osgod -- who had scarcely spoken since his fall, so furious was he at having been outwitted by a boy, and having not only allowed him to escape, but being himself rolled in the mire -- raised his voice in a tremendous shout. All listened intently, but no answering sound came back.

"They must have gone altogether wrong," Wulf said. "You know that we crossed a streamlet that ran into this brook soon after we started. They must have followed that up, thinking we had done so, and have gone up some other valley. What is to be done, Beorn?"

"We crossed that streamlet half an hour after starting," Beorn said, "and as we have spent half an hour here they must have by this time marched up it two-hours' journey, and if we retrace our steps to that point they will have got an hour and a half farther away; besides, they may have gone back when they missed us. There is no saying which way to look for them. I think we had better go on as before. In the morning we shall be able to see the nature of the country, but to look for people who may be miles and miles away, when one cannot see one's own hand, would be but lost time and labour, and methinks we shall have need to husband all our strength before we get out of the scrape into which we have fallen. If the two thanes had obeyed orders and kept closer this would not have happened. They have lost us by their own carelessness, and must manage as they can. We shall have all our work to do to look out for ourselves. Seventy men lost in the heart of these savage hills, which by to-morrow morning will swarm with Welsh, have but a poor chance of ever seeing the English border again."

"It is not so bad as that, Beorn. I do not say that we are not in an unpleasant position, but at any rate we are a great deal better off than we were when we were driving headlong on to the coast of Normandy, or when there were but three of us in the midst of the Bretons. They have to find us in the first place, and it will need a good many of them to overcome us when they do. I fancy that we are very near the head of this valley, the ground is rising rapidly. I propose that we push on now till the trees cease, and lie down there till morning breaks, and then cross the next hill so as to find shelter in some other valley before the sun is fairly up. From the top of the hill we may get a general view of the country, and shall have some idea as to the course to take. We must first of all try to find a native who can tell us which is the direction of Porthwyn and how far it lies away. Our orders are to reconnoitre it and that must be done before there is any question of return. Even if I were absolutely alone, I would carry out that order."

Beorn was silent for a minute, and then said doubtfully, "Perhaps you are right, Wulf; but when Gurth gave us the order he gave us more than three hundred men to carry it out, and we have now but seventy."

By this time they were on their way up the valley, followed by their men.

"The fact that two hundred and fifty men have left us really makes the matter easier than it would otherwise have been," Wulf said. "Of course our guide carried the news of our coming straight to Porthwyn, and it is like enough that fires are at present blazing on the hills. The larger division is more likely to be seen than ours, and to be attacked, and we shall have all the more chance of getting up unobserved. I sincerely trust that the thanes, when they discover that they have lost us, will at once lead their men back to Gurth's camp. In that case they may escape before the Welsh can assemble and attack them; and as it would naturally be supposed that as soon as we had lost our guide we retreated in a body, the Welsh will imagine that there is no occasion for further vigilance."

"You are always too full of arguments for me, Wulf," Beorn laughed; "and if you have made up your mind to go on, it is not of the least use my saying anything against it; so have your own way."

At last the forest became less dense, and when they reached its edge they lay down. Wulf slept for two or three hours, and then roused himself and waited for the first sign of dawn. It was a heavy responsibility, for though Beorn was of equal rank with himself he always gave way to his opinion. He thought over whether it would not be better that Beorn should march with all speed with the force to the east, and that he himself with Osgod and perhaps two other men should make their way to Porthwyn; already the Welsh might be out all over the mountains, and it was the larger body that would be likely to be discovered and attacked. The Welsh would know that on such a dark night, and in a strange country, they could not have got a very long distance from the bog where the guide had escaped from them, and the valley at whose head he now was would be the first place to be searched. However, he did not like severing himself from the men who had marched under his banner from Steyning, and he finally determined that the whole should stay together. It was about half-past two when he roused the band, and they at once started up the bare hillside.

"As it gets lighter," he said, "scatter and proceed singly. We shall be far less likely to be noticed by anyone at a distance than if we march together in a solid body. We must travel as fast as possible, so as to get under shelter again before the sun is really up."

The men were all by this time well accustomed to climbing and hardened by exercise, and at a rapid pace they breasted the hill, although it was in some places exceedingly steep. By the time they reached its crest there was light enough to permit of a view of the country round. In all directions hills rose around them, bare and brown, and the growing light in the sky showed that the east lay behind them. After waiting for a minute or two to recover breath, they proceeded at a brisk trot. They met with no bogs of importance, and after running for a mile the ground began to slope downwards again, and they saw below them a wooded valley, similar to that which they had left. By this time the hilltops were all lit up by the rising sun. The spot where they stood, however, was still in shadow, and in scattered order they ran rapidly down the hillside until they reached the cover of the trees.



Chapter X.


Porthwyn.

There was a short halt to enable the band to quench their thirst at a little rivulet that trickled down the centre of the valley; then they prepared to continue their march, Wulf impressing upon them the necessity for moving as silently as possible.

"If we come upon a village of any size," he said, "we must avoid it. The main point is to capture a native, and find out exactly where we are."

After walking for an hour they came suddenly upon a hut. It stood in a cleared patch of ground; a small herd of goats were browsing round, and some smoke curled up from a hole in the roof. Wulf halted his men.

"Beorn, you and I and Osgod and one of the interpreters had best go in alone; there are not likely to be more than one or two men within, and it will be well at any rate that our numbers should not be known."

Before advancing, however, he told the band to surround the clearing. "Let no one escape," he said; "it would cost us our lives did one get away to tell of our being here. See, too, that you bring down two or three of the goats. Our meat is nearly exhausted, and it is well to replenish our store."

After waiting until the men were in their places, Wulf ran forward across the open ground with his three companions. There was no door to the hut, and on entering it they saw that its only occupant was a decrepit old woman. She gave a cry of dismay at the entrance of the strangers.

"Tell her not to be alarmed," Wulf said to the interpreter.

"We do not desire to do her any harm. Now ask her if she lives here by herself," he went on, when the interpreter had spoken to the old woman.

"She lives here with her two sons," the man said; "they are away. There were beacon-fires on the hills last evening, and they went out. She does not know when they will return."

"Ask her how far it is to Porthwyn."

The answer was most satisfactory. "It is but three miles away, my lord. It lies in the valley of which this is a branch."

"That is good news indeed, Beorn," Wulf said. "The boy led us in the right direction, perhaps because he thought that if he did not do so we should perceive it and tax him with treachery. But it is more likely that he wished to lead us so close that he could, when he escaped, carry the news of our being in the neighbourhood, in time for the Welshmen to surround and cut us off before we could return. As she says that the beacon-fires were lighted in the evening he can have lost no time, and the country must be aroused. I wish we had the whole force here."

"What shall we do with this old crone?" Beorn said. "It would never do to risk her giving an alarm, and though she looks feeble she might be able to get down to Porthwyn."

"We will tie her securely, Beorn; we can't hurt the poor old creature. Her sons are no doubt out with the Welsh bands hunting for us; but they will return here sooner or later, so that no harm will come to her."

By his orders Osgod securely bound the old woman with a rope he found in the hut, and then leaving her they went outside and called upon the men to close in. Eight of the goats were killed, and were then cut up and divided among the men. After a consultation Wulf and Beorn agreed that instead of following the valley down, where they might meet with other huts, or even a good-sized village, they had best keep along on the hillside, just inside the line of trees, as in that way they would come out high up on the side of the main valley, and probably obtain a good view of the fortalice.

In single file they made their way among the trees, and in an hour the valley that they were in opened considerably, and through the trees they saw a large village at their feet. A quarter of a mile farther and they stood on the side of a wide valley. There were numerous flocks and herds to be seen grazing in it, and four or five villages could be made out; their attention, however, was chiefly directed to the object of their journey. Some three hundred feet below the spot where they stood a rock jutted out from the hillside, and extended some five or six hundred feet into the valley. Its sides were perpendicular save where it stood out from the hill. Here a strong wall some forty feet high ran across it; two square towers stood at the angles, but there was no gateway visible. The wall was continued right round the top of the rock, which was crossed by two other walls each defended by flanking towers. The castle itself stood at the extremity of the rock, and was a strong and massive-looking building. The men were all ordered to lie down as soon as the castle was visible between the trees, and among these Wulf and Beorn followed by Osgod moved cautiously, until they reached a spot whence they could obtain through the foliage a full view of the building.

"It is a formidable place," said Beorn. "The chief who first planted himself here knew what he was doing. Yes. I should fancy from the look of it the castle at the end was built first, then gradually the walls were added until the whole rock was inclosed. This bit nearest to us is evidently an addition during the last few years. You can see that by the colour of the stone. You see the other two walls have gateways in them while this has none. I should say until this was built the entrance to the castle was along the neck, but they must have got some other way now, and so shut it up altogether. How on earth can they get in?"

"Certainly not at the sides," Wulf said, "for they are as near perpendicular as possible. It must be at the other end of the rock, which we can't see. It may slope a little more gradually there, and they may have cut a zigzag road up. Suppose we climb the hill behind us, till we get high enough to see over the trees and get a complete view of the valley. There is no fear of our being noticed. We are a good five hundred feet above it now, and even if anyone did see us up there they would take us for two herdsmen. Of course we will leave our shields and weapons behind us."

On attaining a spot from which a clear view of the whole valley could be obtained, Wulf said:

"There, Beorn, do you see the hill juts out into the plain on the right, half a mile from the castle, and is wooded to its foot. I think if we were to make our way down there we should be able to obtain a view of the face of the rock below the castle without leaving the shelter of the trees." Beorn agreed that it was worth trying, and they returned to the men, rearmed themselves, and spoke to Osgod.

"We are going to reconnoitre, Osgod, and may be an hour away. As we shall not leave the forest there is no danger, and even were we seen we can climb the hill again as fast as any Welshman can follow us. Do you keep an eye on the castle, but do not stir until we return even if you hear shouts. I have no doubt that we shall be able to rejoin you, and it is most important that even if they do make us out they should have no reason for supposing that there is any force behind us." After half an hour's walking Beorn and Wulf found themselves at the edge of the wood in the valley.

"There is the road, you see," Wulf exclaimed. "It goes straight up that gradual slope to the bottom of the rock, then it makes two zigzags to the edge of that point that juts out a little, whence there is a bridge thrown across a gap to the point where there is a turret. I can't see it beyond that. I should think they must have driven a tunnel from there right up into the castle, for you see there are fifty feet of perpendicular rock above that turret. In case of attack, of course, they would cut away the bridge, and it would be next to impossible to throw another across. They could overwhelm any force attempting it with stones from above, besides sweeping the zigzag road below."

Beorn agreed that the place was absolutely impregnable on that side, and that it could only be attacked from the hillside, and by carrying the walls in succession.

"Well, there is nothing more to see," Wulf said, "so we may as well return. You see there is a large village nestling down there just at the foot of the rock. We could not see it from where we were before.

"Well, Osgod, have you seen anything going on in the castle?"

"No, my lord, everything has been very quiet It seems to me that there are very few men about for such a strong place."

"No doubt most of them are out in pursuit of us, Osgod; we know that the country was roused by the beacons, and that there must be a big force somewhere in the hills. I only hope they wont find Oswald and Edred, or I fear it will go hard with them. The levies fight well when they have the housecarls with them, but by themselves and in a strange country I am afraid they would lose heart. Now, Beorn, I am going down to the wall on this side. We can see that there is no sentry on it, and I want to find out if there is any other defence besides what we can see. It is very important to know that, as we agreed that this is the side from which the attack must be made."

Descending among the trees Wulf cautiously approached the wall. He found on nearing it that a perpendicular cut some thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep had been made across the rock. It stretched from the foot of one flanking tower to the foot of the other, the wall between them being some ten feet from its edge. Having ascertained this he returned to Beorn. Having told him what he had seen, he sat looking at the castle.

"What are you thinking of, Wulf?" Beorn asked. "I suppose we had better stop where we are till nightfall and then make eastward."

"I am thinking, in the first place, that it would cost a great number of lives to take that place by assault."

"That it would," Beorn agreed. "We have seen no place of anything like equal strength in Wales, or indeed anywhere else."

"There is no doubt about that," Wulf agreed. "If well defended it ought to hold out for weeks, for when we have taken that wall in front of us only a third of the work has been done. In the next place, I am thinking that Llewellyn and the greater part of his garrison are away in the hills."

Beorn nodded.

"And that being so, it seems to me that the best plan will be to take it ourselves."

Beorn looked at his friend to see if he were serious, but there was no smile on Wulf's face.

"Do you really mean it, Wulf?"

"Yes I mean it, certainly. What is to prevent our taking it? There may never be such a good opportunity again. We have not seen a dozen men on the walls, and I don't suppose there are fifty there altogether. But even if there are a hundred, they will have no chance with our men if we are once among them. You see the gates through those inner walls are open, and once over this first one the place will be all open to us."

"That is true enough, but how in the world are we to climb that wall?"

"That is what I am puzzling over, Beorn. You see there is no time to lose, for Llewellyn and his men may be back to-night. If they find Oswald's party this morning they will return at once, if they don't they may not be back till the morning. But we cannot count on that, what has to be done must be done at once."

He sat thinking a little longer. "We must cut down a couple of trees and make a ladder, Beorn. The pine-trees grew very close together where we passed through them a quarter of a mile before we got here, and were very slender for their height. We have no axes or we could fell a couple of them in a few minutes; but even if we had them, we should not dare use them, for the chances are that the villagers are forbidden to cut down trees anywhere near the castle, and the sound might bring people up from below to see who was chopping. I was thinking of burning two of them down, but in this dry weather the flames might run up them, and we should get a blaze that would bring all the villagers up here." He beckoned to Osgod, and when he came up told him that Beorn and he had agreed to try and take the place.

"That is good," Osgod said joyfully. "I have been thinking of it, but I did not see how you were to climb that wall."

"We must cut down two young pine-trees, but we must not chop them down."

"It would take a long time with our knives," Osgod said doubtfully. "It is easy enough to cut through a pole three inches thick, but when it comes to nine or ten it is a different matter."

"Then we must cut down small ones and tie them together. Bring twenty men at once with you, Osgod, let the rest lie quiet, the less movement there is the better."

As soon as the men were ready Wulf led them back to the point where the pine-trees grew, then he selected eight of the tallest and slightest. They were about three inches through at the foot, and were, he judged, at least an inch and a half at twenty feet from the ground. Two men were set to work at each tree, and in less than half an hour the eight trees were on the ground. The branches were then lopped off, and four of the stems were cut across five-and-twenty feet from the foot. The thin ends were then placed together so as to overlap five feet. There was no difficulty about lashings, as thongs were cut off the bottom of the men's leather jerkins. The joint was made stronger by a light pole fifteen feet long being firmly lashed across the junction. Thus the two poles for the ladder forty-five feet long were ready for use. It needed only to lash cross-pieces for steps, and in little over an hour from the time that work was begun the ladder was complete. From the other young trees two ladders, each twenty-five feet long, had been constructed in the meantime, and the whole were then raised and carried back to the place where the band was lying.

"Now, men," Wulf said, "we are going to take this castle at once. I should wait until nightfall were it not that I fear the return of the Welsh, but as they may come back at any time there is not a minute to be lost. Now let each understand his work. The short ladders are to enable us to cross a cut twenty feet deep they have made through the rock; when we get over this we can plant the long ladder against the wall. As soon as we gain the top every man must lie down and crawl along over those who have preceded him. If we are seen before a few of us are on the top of the wall we shall fail, because they will have time to give the alarm, and shut the inner gates.

"So far we have seen no one go in or out of the courts between these walls, and have every hope that we shall find no one there. I expect they are places where the cattle are kept in case of siege. Our great danger is in the chance of our being noticed by men on other parts of the walls or on the castle. However, as far as we can see their attention is entirely directed the other way, for they are no doubt on the look-out for news from their chief or for his return. My intention is that all shall gain the top of the wall before a movement is made, but if an alarm is given, those who have got to the top are at once to follow us down the staircase into the courtyard and run at full speed to the gate. Not a moment's halt is to be made there; we must run on to the next gate and there defend ourselves until the rest come to our aid. They will be taken so completely by surprise that, even if we are but four or five, we can hold the gate until the rest come up, and each man, as soon as he gains the top of the ladder, must run on at full speed to our aid. Cut down all with arms in their hands, but do not hurt women or children. Tell off six men, Osgod, to carry the ladder and place it against the wall, and to be the first to follow us. Let the others follow in the order in which they stand in rank."

They made their way down through the trees. As soon as they reached the cut one short ladder was lowered, and the other was handed down and placed against the opposite side of the cut. The end of the long ladder was then lowered, and it was swung over and the upper end placed against the wall. Six men then ascended the short ladder, and raised the long one until it stood on the rock at the foot of the castle-wall.

"Now, Beorn, do you mount first and I will follow you."

"You should go first," Beorn said, "but I will do as you tell me."

As soon as Beorn was half-way up Wulf began to follow him, saying to Osgod and the men, "Keep the same distance apart. Do not let more than two be on the ladder at once whatever happens inside, if it were to break it would be fatal to us all." As soon as he gained the top Wulf threw himself down by the side of Beorn, and lay there watching the men on the other walls and on the summit of the castle. Osgod and four men had joined them when Wulf noticed a sudden stir and heard a shout. He leapt to his feet.

"Follow quickly, but be careful of the ladder," he called to those below; then he dashed along the wall to the top of the staircase, and closely followed by the others ran down and on through the gate in the next wall. Here some five or six men were asleep in its shade, while some women were standing in front of some low huts which bordered the yard on either side. They gazed in astonishment for a moment at the seven men who appeared so suddenly from the outer yard, and then set up a shrill cry of alarm. Without heeding them Wulf ran on to the next gateway. Just as he reached it a number of men came running up from the other side. "Osgod, do you and Alfred cover our rear while we keep these men in front at bay."

The five men held the gate without difficulty against the Welsh who first arrived, for these, at the shout of one of their comrades that men were climbing the wall, had run down only with their knives, and could do nothing against the Saxon shields and long swords. Presently, others with spears and axes ran up, but the two young thanes and their three followers still kept them back, for in the narrow gateway they could not be attacked by more than their own number. Amid the yells of the Welsh Wulf could hear nothing of what was passing behind them, and he was delighted when he heard the voice of Osgod in his ear.

"There are eight here now, Wulf; we have finished with the Welshmen in the courtyard, so you are clear behind. Our men are coming down from the wall fast. In five minutes we shall have the whole band here. Now let me have a turn;" and he stepped forward and took the place of one of the Saxons who staggered back with a javelin in his shoulder.

Every moment added to the number of the Saxons.

"Let me know when they are all up," Wulf said to one of those behind him, as he cut down a Welshman who sprang at him with uplifted knife. The attack was growing weaker, as their assailants saw that instead of five men they had now to face a considerable number, and Wulf had difficulty in restraining his men.

"Keep back!" he shouted; "we must wait until we are all up, and then drive them headlong before us and follow them into the castle. If they have once time to shut the doors there we shall have a troublesome task." As he spoke he yielded his place in the front rank to one of his followers, and turned to see how matters stood behind. "Are they all up?" he asked.

"The last man told me that there were six more to come, my lord."

"Then we need wait no longer. Now, Beorn, all is ready -- charge!" and with a rush the Saxons swept through the gate, carrying the Welsh before them and hewing down the front ranks. In an instant the defenders turned and fled, but the Saxons pressed hard on their heels. Some of the Welsh ran up the staircases to the walls, and many of the Saxons would have followed them, but at Wulf's "To the castle, to the castle, we can deal with them afterwards!" they followed him at once. On the steps up to the gateway of the castle a desperate struggle was going on among the Welsh themselves.

Seeing the Saxons pressing on the rear of the fugitives, those within the castle strove to shut the door, but strove in vain, as the terror-stricken men outside tried to force their way in. The two young thanes, with Osgod and many of their followers, cut their way through the struggling mass and reached the door. Those trying to shut it had already seen the hopelessness of the endeavour, and had fled into the hall beyond, in which a number of terrified women were wailing and shrieking. As Wulf burst in he shouted to the Welsh, "Throw down your arms and surrender, and your lives shall be spared" but his words were not understood, and as the Welsh never gave quarter themselves they had no thought of quarter being offered to them.

The women ceased screaming and broke into a death chant, many of them seizing weapons from the walls, and joining the men in a last desperate effort to drive back the Saxons.

For a moment those who had entered had difficulty in resisting the desperate attack, but as others poured in they advanced, and although Wulf continued to shout, "Spare all who throw down their arms," his orders were of no avail, for the Welsh continued to fight desperately until the last fell under the Saxon swords, most of the women, who fought with even greater fury than the men, sharing their fate. As soon as the struggle was over Wulf ordered Osgod to take eight or ten men, to find the entrance to the tunnel leading down to the road on the face of the cliff, and to guard it against any attack from without. Then, through his interpreters, he called to the Welshmen on the walls that their lives should be spared if they would lay down their arms. He was answered by derisive shouts and a shower of javelins.

"We should lose a good many men in storming those two narrow staircases, Beorn. There are but twenty or thirty of them, but that is enough to defend such steep approaches. Let us take twenty men up to the top of the castle, from there they can hurl javelins down at them, and they will soon see that resistance is useless."

They ascended the stairs, but paused at the end of the room over the hall which had been the scene of the conflict. An aged woman, whose dress showed her high rank, was seated on a settle; beside her was a white-headed harper, while two little children, a boy and a girl, stood at her knee and looked fearlessly at the intruders.

Wulf despatched one of the men down to the hall to bring up the interpreter. As soon as he arrived Wulf doffed his helmet and stepped forward.

"Ask who this lady is and who are these children."

At a gesture from the old lady the harper answered:

"This is my mistress, Gweneth, the mother of Prince Llewellyn ap Rhys; these are his children. In his name she bids you defiance. You have taken his castle, but he will know how to avenge her and his children."

"I have no desire or intention of acting with any disrespect, still less of injuring either your mistress or the children of Llewellyn," Wulf replied, when this was translated to him. "My friend and I are Saxon thanes, who have been forced to leave our homes and to embark on this war in order to put a stop to the ravages committed across the border -- the burning of towns and villages, and the massacre of men, women, and children by your countrymen. Llewellyn ap Rhys has brought this misfortune upon himself, and did we render him motherless and childless, it would be but the fate that he and his followers have inflicted upon many an Englishman. But we do not make war upon women or children. Prisoners, of course, you must be, but be assured of honourable treatment. None shall enter this room save with your permission, and you can have your female attendants to serve you as usual."

While the interpreter was repeating his speech Wulf and Beorn left the room, and with the men ascended to the top of the castle, where they were joined by the interpreter, who addressed the Welsh on the walls. These replied with shouts of defiance, and a volley of javelins was poured down upon them. Three or four were struck, the rest, seeing that all hope was gone, rapidly gathered in a body at the head of the staircase leading from the wall.

"They are going to run down," Beorn exclaimed, and leaning over the parapet shouted to the Saxons in the courtyard below to stand on their guard.

A minute later the Welsh rushed down, each intent on killing at least one foe before he died. The Saxons' weapons and discipline were, however, too much for them; but they fought until the last, not one of them throwing down his weapon or asking for quarter.

"They are brave men. I would that we were not forced to slay them; but it is their choosing and not ours, Beorn, and if they would but leave us alone I am sure that nobody would wish to interfere with these wild countrymen."

"What is the next thing to be done, Wulf?"

"I should say let us turn all the women and children, save the old lady's attendants, out of the castle, they would only be a trouble to us. Then we must examine the store of provisions, plant sentries and cut away that bridge, or, at any rate, cut away so much of it that a blow or two with an axe will suffice to send it down. We must not forget to haul up our ladders. Llewellyn and his men may be back at any moment. Let us go down together to that turret we saw on the face of the rock."

Orders were at once given, and the women and children collected and told to leave the castle. They were allowed to carry away with them some eight or ten men who were found to be still living. They went for the most part in silence, but some of the elder women poured out voluble curses on the Saxons. Beorn and Wulf had already gone down to the turret. There was a very strong gateway in the courtyard, beyond this a tunnel sloping steeply down, eight feet high and four feet wide, had been cut in the solid rock. Following it they emerged upon a platform, principally occupied by the turret. The path led through a strong gateway under this on to the wooden bridge. Here Osgod with his ten men had taken their station.

"The women and children and a few wounded will be coming down directly, Osgod. As soon as they have passed do you set to work with your men and pull up the planking of the bridge, all save a single plank; loosen that, so that you can if necessary at once cast it down after the rest. If you see the Welshmen pouring up the road, throw it over at once without waiting for further orders, then close the gate and take your station in the turret."

"We are all getting very hungry, master. We have eaten nothing this morning, and fighting sharpens the appetite."

"I had forgotten all about it, Osgod. I will see that food is cooked at once, and will send down a portion for you and your men, and some tankards of whatever liquor we can find in the cellars. We are going to make an examination of them at once."

Returning to the courtyard, they told off a body of men to search the cellars and granaries, and were glad to find that there was an ample store of grain to last for months, together with large quantities of ale and a few casks of wine.

"So far all is well," Beorn said, "but would it not be prudent to send off at once to Gurth, to let him know that though we are masters of the castle at present, we may in a few hours be surrounded by a swarm of angry Welshmen?"

"That certainly is most desirable," Wulf agreed. "The question is, who are we to send? It would be a terribly dangerous enterprise. Even now there are a score of men from the village watching our movements from the wood above. At any rate we must wait until nightfall."

Four sentries were posted on the wall by which they had ascended, as after making a circuit of the place, this was they agreed the only point at which a surprise was possible, unless there existed some secret passage into the castle. They had just finished their inspection of the walls, when there was a shout from their look-out at the top of the castle.

"A great number of men are coming down the valley," he cried to the thanes in the courtyard below, and they at once mounted to the battlements. A mile away great numbers of men could be seen running at the top of their speed. There was neither order nor formation. Among them were a few horsemen riding in a knot together, and round these a number of the footmen were running in a close mass; but by far the greater proportion straggled across the valley, some being a considerable distance behind the rest.

"They are like a swarm of bees," Beorn said.

"Yes, and are just as angry. Of course, the news of what has happened here was sent off to them at once, and has brought them back again. I trust that it reached them before they came upon Oswald's party."

"They must have been on their return," Beorn said. "It was but two hours ago that we won the castle. Had a swift messenger started the moment the news reached the village, and had he known exactly the position where he would find Llewellyn, he could not have taken the news to him and brought them back here had they been some eight miles away. It must be farther than that to the spot where we lost Oswald, and as the thanes would surely be making their way either back to camp or eastward to the border, they must have been many miles from here an hour since. We know that the Welsh levies were summoned in the evening, and probably reached the spot where we were deserted by the guide, before daybreak, and took up the search at once. Therefore I think, Wulf, there can be no doubt that the messenger from here must have met them as they were returning; but whether they had overtaken and destroyed Oswald's command, or had failed in their search for them, we cannot tell."

Wulf shook his head. "I fear the former is most likely. The Welsh here must know every foot of their mountains, so that by scattering through the valleys they could scarcely fail to come upon the traces of Oswald's passage, and they would pursue him as hotly as wolves chase a deer. My only hope is that Oswald may have established himself at daybreak this morning in some strong position, and fortified himself there, in hopes that we might rejoin him, and that Llewellyn had not begun the attack upon it when the news reached him of the capture of his castle. How many, think you, are there in that approaching throng?"

"Some four or five thousand I should say."

"Yes, quite five thousand, Beorn."

At the call of the watchmen the men had, of their own accord, all mounted to the walls.

"We had better divide our commands," Beorn said. "Your force is double mine. For the present I will undertake the defence of the rear walls if you will take the front. Of course till an attack actually commences it will not be necessary to keep more than a strong guard on duty."

"Certainly not," Wulf agreed. "The danger will be far greater at night than by day, and we must give the men as much rest as possible. But I think that you with your men and half of mine ought to take the command in front, while I with the rest defend the rear."

"Not at all, Wulf, this is your affair altogether. I should never have thought of trying to take the castle. It was your idea, and has been carried out by you altogether. You are much fuller of plans than I am. I will do my best to second you, but you must continue to be the head in the matter."

"Very well, Beorn. I refuse to be considered in command, but we will apportion our forces as you suggest. We will take care that at any rate the Welsh shall not capture the castle as rapidly as we did, and so will put four men always on duty at each of the gates in the interior walls, so that if by any chance they manage to effect an entrance into one of the yards they will be able to get no farther until our whole force can assemble to oppose them."



Chapter XI.


The Secret Passage.

Beorn called his men together and distributed them along the rear wall, while Wulf made a fresh examination of the front. He had before noticed that great piles of stone in blocks from fifty to a hundred pounds in weight were piled along by the parapet, in readiness to hurl down upon any foe attempting to ascend the road, while in the courtyard below was an immense reserve of these missiles. He placed twenty of his men here, and posted the other ten as sentries on the side walls, and then went down through the passage to Osgod. The bridge was entirely demolished as he had directed, with the exception of a single plank, which could be thrown over in a moment. Osgod had closed the gate, and had fastened a rope from the top of the turret to the plank, so that this could be hauled up, without those engaged in the operation being exposed to missiles from the other side of the chasm.

"One feels almost ashamed at being so safe," Osgod said, as Wulf joined him on the turret. "It does not give one the chance of a fight."

"You have had one good fight to-day, Osgod, and can do without another. I should be glad if we did not have to strike a blow till we see Gurth's banner coming down the valley."

"We have done very well," Osgod agreed; "and I should be quite contented if I had but come across that rascal who nearly smothered me in the bog."

"You need not bear malice against him, Osgod; for if he had not deserted us and led Llewellyn's force away to the spot where he left us, we should not be masters of the place as at present, and it would have been a terrible business had we been obliged to take this stronghold by storm."

"That is true enough, master; except by hunger or by a surprise, such as we carried out, I don't see how the place is to be taken if stoutly defended. There is no reason why the Welsh should have been in such a hurry to return, for they must know as well as we do that there is but little chance of their getting in again. They have come to a halt now down there, and half of them have thrown themselves on the ground like a pack of tired hounds."

"I have no fear whatever of an open attack, Osgod. They can see for themselves that the bridge is destroyed, and I do not think they will dream of coming up that road, which, as they know, we can sweep with stones from above. If they attack openly at all, it will be by the wall we scaled. If they make twenty ladders such as we had they may think they might gain a footing, especially as their archers high among the trees would be able to fire down on the defenders of the wall. But what I am really afraid of is that there may be some secret passage."

"Do you think so?" Osgod said, startled. "Where could it come from?"

"Well, Osgod, you see they have cut this winding road up the rock and have made the tunnel hence to the courtyard, so the chiefs have had abundance of labour at their disposal. They would naturally wish to provide a means of escape if the castle were besieged, and like to fall by force or famine; moreover it would enable them to send out messengers or receive messages from without. A passage four feet high and two feet wide would suffice. They may have driven such a passage from some place in the wood behind and it may come up somewhere in the courtyard, perhaps in one of the little huts along the side. Of course the entrance would be covered here by a stone, and would be hidden among the bushes at the other end. Still I do not think that this is likely, for a hostile force would almost certainly take up its post in that wood, and attack the place in the rear. If there is such a passage I think that it must open somewhere on the face of the rock, on one side or the other. It looks to us almost perpendicular, but there may be inequalities by which active men might ascend at some point or other. For a considerable distance we could see there were tufts of shrubs growing here and there, and one of these may conceal a small opening. From this point a staircase may have been driven up into the castle."

"That would be very awkward, master, if it were so."

"It would indeed. To-night all the force except the sentries shall gather in the castle, where ten men by turns shall keep guard, one or two being placed in the lower chambers. In this way we shall be safe; for before more than three or four can enter we should be all on foot, and as they can but come up in single file, could repulse them without difficulty. Tomorrow we will lower men down with ropes from the walls, and examine every clump of bushes growing on the face of the rock If we find any signs of a path or entrance we shall have no difficulty in discovering where it enters into the castle, and can effectually block it up. I shall then feel much more comfortable than I do at present."

"I was looking forward to a good night's sleep," Osgod grumbled, "but your idea, master, has quite done away with that. If I went off I should dream that I had one of those Welsh wolves at my throat. However, it is a good thing that you thought of it."

"I think, my lord," one of the soldiers said, "there are a number of our men among the Welsh. I can make out helmets and shields, and I think many are clad in leather jerkins."

Wulf looked attentively.

"Yes, there are certainly shields and helmets," he said. "I fear there is no doubt they have overtaken Oswald's levies."

"And have made them prisoners?"

Wulf shook his head. "They never take prisoners, you know. I fear they have slain them all and possessed themselves of their arms and clothes. In no other way can there be Saxon shields and helmets among them."

"By St. Nicholas!" Osgod exclaimed, "it is too bad that we should be standing here doing nothing. Why doesn't Llewellyn attack us instead of keeping his men gaping there at the castle?"

"Because at present he can do nothing, and is not fool enough to throw away hundreds of lives; besides, he must know that his mother and children are in our hands."

Presently a white flag was raised among the Welsh. Wulf had expected this, and had ordered a white cloth to be held in readiness to raise in reply. As soon as this flew out to the wind three men were seen to advance with the flag towards the foot of the road up to the castle. Wulf at once sent for the two interpreters to join him.

"Shall you let them come up, master?" Osgod asked. "They are as treacherous as snakes. See how that boy led us astray in the bog."

"You cannot get that boy out of your head, Osgod," Wulf laughed. "There is no conceivable way by which three men could recapture this castle. There is nothing for them to learn. They know its strength and everything connected with it, and they can see for themselves that we have destroyed the bridge. I shall be glad to hear what they have to say. Llewellyn himself is, most likely, one of the number."

The little party mounted the road until they stood on the platform from which the bridge started. One of them was a tall figure, dressed in armour, and with long black hair flowing down from under his helmet over his shoulders. Wulf at once, from the descriptions he had heard of the chief's appearance, recognized him as Llewellyn ap Rhys.

"I would speak with the commander of the Saxons who have, in my absence, taken my castle by treachery."

"I am the commander," Wulf said.

The Welshman's fingers clenched, and he glanced furiously at the young Saxon. By a great effort, however, he restrained his passion, and said courteously: "I am Llewellyn ap Rhys. To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?"

"I am Wulf of Steyning, prince. I don't know altogether that I have taken your castle by treachery, indeed I claim to have won it by fair fighting. You went out with your force to attack me among the hills, and during your absence I attacked and captured your castle. I will do your garrison credit to say they fought bravely in spite of the surprise. I would gladly have given them quarter, but they refused my offers, and, save a few wounded, whom I allowed the women to carry off, died to a man fighting bravely. No women were hurt or insulted, save those who took up arms and fought among the men, and it was no fault of ours that they were killed. Methinks that in your incursions into England you have not always shown the same mercy."

Llewellyn was silent for a minute. He had indeed never shown any pity in his forays, but had never expected that his castle and family would be in the hands of the Saxons.

"I learn," he said at last, "from the women, that my mother and my children are alive in your hands, and I thank you for the honorable treatment I hear that they have received."

"They are safe and well," Wulf replied. "We Saxons do not massacre women and children in cold blood. They will be honourably treated until I can hand them over to the care of Earl Gurth, who will doubtless send them to England as hostages."

"I shall try to win back my castle," Llewellyn said. "May I be sure that whatever happens they will be safe?"

"You may. Even were you forcing your way into the castle I will guarantee that no hair of their heads shall be injured. And now, prince, it is my turn to question. I see Saxon helmets and shields among your followers. Whence come they?"

A cloud passed over Llewellyn's face. He had not reckoned on their being observed from the castle. Concealment was now out of question, and he said boldly: "I defeated a party of your countrymen this morning. They came with hostile intent into my territory, and they have been destroyed." Although he had expected the answer, Wulf was shocked at the confirmation of his fears. Llewellyn, indeed, had fallen on Oswald's levies and annihilated them soon after daybreak. Having no idea that a party had separated from them during the night, he was returning exulting in the idea that he had destroyed the whole of the invaders, when the news had reached him of the capture of his castle. Wulf was silent. "It is the fortune of war," he said gravely. "It is not to me that you have to reckon for the deed, but with Earl Gurth, for whom I hold this castle."

Llewellyn made no reply, but with a wave of his hand turned and went down the hill again.

"I am even more than before convinced, Osgod, that there is a secret passage. I was watching him closely when the interpreter told him that I should hand his mother and children over to Gurth. He pressed his lips together, and his face lighted up with exultation for a moment."

"What do you think he came here for, master?"

"He came here to assure himself if possible that their lives would not be sacrificed in the event of his attacking."

"It is a pity you told him they would be safe," Osgod said.

"But they will be safe, and even if we are surprised and slain I would not that Llewellyn should say that it was only the suddenness of his attack that saved their lives. I will place two of our best men at their door with orders that come what may they are to prevent anyone from entering. But I don't think it will come to that. Should the passage enter into the castle, as, if it exists, I have no doubt it does, we shall be prepared to deal with them, if it opens elsewhere we shall have all our force save a few sentries assembled, and though all the walls fall into their hands, we ought to be able to hold it successfully till Gurth arrives to our rescue."

Wulf returned to the castle, and then joined Beorn at his post on the wall facing the wood. He communicated to him his ideas as to the probable existence of a secret passage.

"We must provide a mode of retreat for your men on guard here, Beorn, in case the Welsh enter by either of these yards instead of by the castle. These flanking towers at the angles of the walls cut off all passage. We will construct bridges with two or three planks across these towers, so that your sentries can retreat from the rear wall to the next, and again on to the inner wall. The doors between the courtyards shall be closed, so that should they enter either of these outer courts they will be delayed, and your men will have plenty of time to join us in the defence of the last wall. However, I am convinced the castle itself will be the scene of action. Five sentries will be enough to place on this wall. I will put two on each of the cross walls, so that if your men give the alarm it will be passed along speedily. I shall remove the last plank of the bridge at nightfall, and have Osgod and four men in the turret and two on the wall above them. We shall therefore have fifty-five men in the castle, and that should be ample. They can keep watch and watch, so there will be over twenty-five men under arms, and ready to throw themselves upon the Welsh wherever they may enter."

These arrangements were carried out. At ten o'clock all lights were extinguished, save a torch burning in each room on the ground floor. The floors and walls had been carefully examined and sounded, but nothing suspicious had been discovered. Four men were told off to each room except the great hall, where twenty were gathered in reserve. Half were to keep watch, but all were to lie down. The orders to those who were to keep awake were strict If they heard a noise or saw a stone move they were to keep silent, until two or three men had stepped out, then they were to give the alarm, leap up, and throw themselves upon them.

"Were the alarm given," he said, "before they fairly issued out the stone might be moved back again, and it would give us immense trouble before we could demolish it or find the secret of the spring. Therefore, let them get a footing first."

From time to time either Beorn or Wulf got up and went noiselessly round to the different rooms to see that the watch was vigilant. As had been arranged, each of those on guard raised a hand as they entered a room, so as to show that they were awake. Wulf did not expect that any attempt would be made before midnight. After that hour he sat in a corner of the dais, leaning as if asleep, but with his eyes wandering round the room watching every stone, and his ears listening for the faintest sound. He had no feeling of sleepiness whatever, his senses being all strung up to the highest pitch.

From time to time he held up a hand, and ten others were at once elevated, showing that the watchers were as vigilant as himself. It was, he thought, about one o'clock when he heard a faint creaking sound. It did not seem to him to be in the hall itself, but in a room adjoining it, the doors having all been left open. He rose to his feet, touched Beorn, who lay a pace or two away, and stole noiselessly out, grasping his sword in his hand. He stopped before he got to the open door of the next room and listened. All seemed perfectly quiet. He stood motionless, until a minute later there was a sudden shout, followed almost instantly by a clash of arms.

With a shout to his followers Wulf ran into the room. The four Saxons were on their feet, and were attacking three men, who, as he entered, were joined by a fourth from behind. He and Beorn threw themselves into the fray just as one of the Saxons fell with his head cloven by a sweeping blow from the tall figure opposed to him. One after another in rapid succession the Welsh poured in from a narrow opening, but the Saxons rushed up in overwhelming numbers. There was a brief fierce fight, and the Welsh were slain or overpowered. The men who last emerged turned to fly, but meeting those crowding up from behind were unable to do so. Others ran in only to be cut down as soon as they appeared; a sound of fierce shouting and angry struggle came through the opening. When no more showed themselves, Wulf called for torches, and a dozen were soon at hand. Seizing one he passed through the narrow opening. A winding staircase met his view. With Beorn and some Saxons following close behind him, he descended for a considerable distance, then he found himself in a low and narrow passage, and following this for twenty yards stepped out into the open air.

"We need do no more to-night, Beorn," he said. "We will see where this comes out and block it up in the morning, though they are not likely to try again. We can sleep now without fear of interruption."

His first step was to examine the bodies of the fallen Welshmen. He had recognized in the tall man with whom he had crossed swords Llewellyn ap Rhys, and found him lying beneath four of his followers, who had stood over him and defended him to the last. He was glad to find that the Welsh prince still lived, and directed that he should be at once carried to a room and that every attention should be shown him. None of the other fourteen Welshmen who had fallen showed any signs of life.

Ordering their bodies to be carried out into the courtyard, Wulf placed four men on guard at the upper opening of the secret passage. They were to be relieved every hour. He then went out and saw to the relief of the sentries on the walls, and called down to Osgod that the attack had been made and repulsed. He then went back and slept soundly till daybreak. On going to the walls he learned that there had been a great commotion down in the valley. Fierce shouts, loud wailing cries, and a confused sound of running and talking had been heard. At daybreak the Welsh were still there, and their fires had been lighted: one party were seen to march away as soon as it was light, but others arrived, and their numbers appeared about the same as on the previous evening. There was no general movement, but it could be seen that they gathered in clusters, and listened to men who addressed them with animated gestures.

"They don't know what to do," Wulf said to Osgod, whom he had joined in the turret. "They believe their chief to be dead; they know that his mother and children are prisoners in our hands; they can have little hope of capturing this place, which they believe to be impregnable to open attack. At present they must be without a leader, and yet they must be so animated by a spirit of hate and revenge, and by the desire to wipe out their humiliation by retaking this place, that they will not stir from in front of it."

As he spoke a messenger came from Beorn, saying that the Welsh were pouring arrows and javelins from the hill upon his sentries on the walls, and that these were unable to show a head above the parapet. In one of the sheds a large quantity of hides had been found, and taking a party laden with them Wulf proceeded to the wall at the rear. Here he directed the ladders that were still lying there to be cut up into lengths of eight feet. These were fixed at intervals upon the parapet, and a cord fastened along the top, the men engaged in the operations being protected by the shields of their comrades from the rain of missiles from the trees. Hides were thrown over the ropes, and these hid those on the wall from the view of the enemy, while they themselves could peep out from time to time between the hides to see that no preparations were being made for an attack.

The secret passage was next investigated; it was found that the opening was about half-way down the rock, and that the assailants must have climbed up by a path that a goat could scarce traverse. Wulf set a party to work to carry down stones from the courtyard, and to block up the passage solidly for ten feet from the opening, a sentry being posted on the wall above. After the erection of the shelter of hides the Welsh only sent an occasional javelin from the trees, but by the loud yells that were from time to time raised, there was no doubt they were still there in force.

"It is evident that they are going to besiege us, Beorn," Wulf said when they sat down to breakfast together. "The question is, are we to remain here until rumour carries the report of our capture of the place to Gurth, or shall we despatch messengers to him?"

"As you yourself said yesterday, the messengers could never get away, Wulf. I would give a year's revenue if we could do so, for it may be a long time before news comes to Gurth's ears. He may possibly hear of the annihilation of Oswald's force, for any Welsh woman taken captive might mention that in triumph, but they would certainly say nothing of such a grievous blow to the Welsh cause as the capture of Porthwyn and the death of Llewellyn in an attempt to recapture it. Gurth, therefore, naturally supposing that we had been involved in Oswald's disaster, may abandon all idea of moving against this place until the greater part of the country was reduced to obedience."

"I see, Beorn, that the difficulty of a messenger getting through would be indeed enormous; the Welsh must know that we are but a small band, and that our first aim would be to communicate with Gurth. You may be sure, therefore, that they will keep a vigilant guard all round the place at night to see that no messenger makes his way out. Our two interpreters do not know anything like enough Welsh to pass as natives, none of our people know a word of the language, it would be sending anyone to almost certain death. I think we must be content to depend upon ourselves. Gurth is sure to learn the news sooner or later, for it will make a great stir all through the country. I have just seen Llewellyn, he is very sorely wounded. I think it would be a good thing to let the Welsh know that he is in our hands, it will render them more chary of attacking us. We might hang out a flag of truce, and when they come up in reply tell them that he is alive but sorely wounded, and that they may send up a leech, who would better attend to his wounds than we can do."

This was accordingly done. Two Welshmen of rank came up to the broken bridge and were informed that their prince was sorely wounded, and that a leech would be allowed to enter to attend upon him. An hour later a man with a boy carrying a large basket came up the hill and crossed the plank into the turret. The basket, which contained various herbs and medicaments, was taken from the boy, who was then sent back again, while the leech was taken up to the room where Llewellyn was lying, in the care of his mother and her maids.

Three days passed without any change. The force in the valley was seen to be considerably diminished, no hostile demonstration had taken place; but twenty men always remained in the courtyard in the rear, in readiness to run up to the wall in case the sentries gave an alarm.

On the fourth morning, just as day was breaking, a man ran into the castle with the news that the Welsh were attacking the wall. Beorn and Wulf sprung to their feet, and with every man except those on duty as sentries ran off to the scene of attack. That it was a serious assault was evident by the wild yells and shouts that were heard.

Wulf ran up the stairs to the wall. A storm of missiles was striking against the hides; many of them failed to penetrate, but others did so, and several of the men were lying wounded under shelter of the parapet, while the rest were hurling down javelins between the openings of the hides.

"What are they doing?" he asked the sub-officer in command of the party.

"They are preparing to scale the wall, my lord; they have numbers of ladders."

Wulf was about to look out between the hides, but the officer exclaimed, "Do not so risk your life, my lord; you can see down without danger;" and he pushed out the lower side of one of the skins from the wall, so that Wulf could look down without being seen by the Welsh archers. The fosse in the rock and the narrow platform at the foot of the wall were alike crowded with foes, who were planting a number of ladders side by side. These were strongly constructed, and were each wide enough for two men to mount abreast. Eight or ten of these ladders were already planted against the wall, and the enemy were climbing up them. Wulf turned, and waving his sword shouted to the men running into the courtyard from the walls and castle to hasten up. Already a dozen had joined him, and scarce had these placed themselves along the battlements when the heads of the Welshmen appeared above it.

For a minute or two it seemed that these would overmaster the defence. Several succeeded in crossing the parapet, but they were either cut down or cast headlong into the courtyard. By this time the whole of the Saxons, save the guard in the turret by the bridge, were on the wall, and were able to form a close line along the parapet against which the ladders were placed. The Welsh fought with an utter disregard of life; as fast as those at the top were cut down or hurled backwards others took their place. So closely did they swarm up the ladders that several of these broke with their weight, killing many of those clustered below as well as those on the rungs. But for an hour there was no pause. It was well for the defenders that they had the protection of the line of hides, and were therefore screened from the arrows of the bowmen on the hill; but these soon ceased to shoot, as many of their comrades were hit by their missiles, while they were unable to see whether the arrows had any effect whatever upon the hidden defenders. At length the leaders of the assailants saw that the task could not be achieved, and gave the signal by the blowing of cow-horns that the attack should cease; but so furious were their followers that many disregarded the summons, and continued their efforts to gain a footing upon the wall, or at least to kill one of its defenders, for some time after the main body had withdrawn. As soon as the last of these was killed the garrison hurled the ladders backwards and then gave a shout of triumph, which was answered by renewed yells of defiance by the Welsh.

"It has been a hard fight, Wulf," Beorn said, as he removed his helmet.

"It has indeed. It was a well-planned attack, and was nearly successful. We ought to have had a stronger guard there; but I did not think that they would venture to attack at daylight, nor that they could have so quickly run forward and placed their ladders. Had we been but a minute later in arriving here they would have gained this wall and the courtyard. They would, indeed, have got no farther, but their success would have so excited them that we should have had to fight night and day. What has been our loss?"

Five of the men were killed; many of the others had received severe wounds on the head and shoulders from the knives of their assailants, and had it not been for the protection afforded by the leathern helmets and jerkins the number of killed would have been very much larger.

"I would as lief fight with a troop of wild cats," exclaimed Osgod -- who, as soon as he saw that there was no movement down on the plain, had run up with half his little garrison to join in the defence of the wall, -- as he tried to staunch a deep wound that extended from his ear to his chin. "Over and over again I saw a shock head come up above the wall, and before I had time to take a fair blow at it the man would hurl himself over upon me like a wild animal. Three times was I knocked down, and I am no chicken either; if it had not been for my comrades on each side it would have gone hard with me. I was able to return the service several times, but had the Welsh been imps they could not have been more active or more fierce. There must be a hundred lying slain along here or in the courtyard. I do not wonder that Oswald's men were all killed by them, though after our previous fights I held them in but small respect."

"It is a different thing, Osgod," Beorn said. "In the field we have always had the advantage from our order and our discipline; but here it was man against man. We had the advantage of position and they of numbers; but discipline went for nothing on either side, and I doubt if we should have done as well as they did had we been the assailants."

"I am ready to own that," Osgod agreed. "I like to fight with my feet on firm ground, and should make but a poor figure balanced on the top of a ladder."

When the tumult in the wood had died away Wulf raised a white flag, and ordered one of the men who spoke Welsh to shout to the enemy that they might approach without molestation and remove their wounded and dead from the foot of the wall, and also said that the Saxon leaders desired to speak to an officer of rank.

Two of these came out from the trees. "Hitherto," the interpreter cried with a loud voice, "my lords, the noble thanes, Beorn of Fareham and Wulf of Steyning, have given the most honourable treatment to your chief, Llewellyn ap Rhys, wounded and a prisoner in their hands, and to his family. Nor have they altered that treatment while you were attacking our walls; but they bid me warn you and all others in arms against the authority of our sovereign lord the king, that henceforth they will hold them as hostages, and that their lives will be forfeited if any fresh attack be made upon the castle."

Three days passed without any further acts of hostility by the Welsh. At the end of that time Llewellyn was sufficiently recovered to sit up supported by pillows on his couch. He had already heard of the defeat, with terrible slaughter, of the attempt of his countrymen to recapture the castle, and of the warning that had been given the Welsh that if the attack was renewed the lives of himself and his family would be forfeited. Beorn and Wulf paid him a visit as soon as they heard that he was in a condition to talk to them.

"Prince," Wulf said through his interpreter, "it is, you must see, hopeless for your followers to attempt to recapture this castle. The bridge is destroyed, the secret passage by which you entered blocked up, and we can resist any attack upon the rear wall. We have shown you and yours a mercy such as you would certainly not have extended to English men and women under similar circumstances, and grieved as we should be to be obliged to proceed to extremities with prisoners, yet were the castle again attacked, and were we to see that there was a prospect of its being recaptured, we should not hesitate to slay you, as it would be treachery to the king to allow so formidable an enemy as yourself to regain his freedom.

"Your cause is hopeless. Harold, Tostig, and Gurth are carrying fire and sword through your valleys, and your people will have to choose between submission and death. Why should so hopeless a struggle continue? Gurth will be here shortly, and then the fate that has befallen the districts already subdued will light upon yours. Surely it will be better for yourself and your people that this should be averted. This can only be done by your sending orders to your followers to scatter to their homes and to lay down their arms. We will at once in that case send a messenger to the earl to tell him that the district has submitted. I must request that in order the message shall reach him you shall bid two officers of rank accompany our messenger to Gurth's camp; we giving them our undertaking that they shall be allowed to leave it unmolested."

"Your offer tallies with my own intentions," Llewellyn said. "Had I been free I would have resisted to the last, but as a prisoner, and with my mother and children in your hands, I am powerless. My harper tells me that fully four hundred of my followers fell in the attack, and with my stronghold in your power, my tribesmen without a leader, and your armies desolating the land, I see that further resistance here would but add to the misfortunes of my people. I am ready, therefore, to send down my harper and doctor to bid four of my chiefs come up here, under your safe conduct. I shall lay the matter before them, and tell them that I being a prisoner can no longer give them orders, but shall point out to them that in my opinion further resistance can but bring terrible disasters upon the district. This, on their return, they will lay before their men, and if, as I trust, these will agree to scatter to their homes, they will furnish the escort you desire for your messenger."

Two hours later three of the chiefs summoned arrived, the fourth having fallen in the assault. They had a private interview with Llewellyn and then left. A great meeting was held down in the valley, and in the afternoon the three chiefs and six others came up to the castle and formally made their submission before Beorn and Wulf, and besought them to send a messenger to the earl praying him to forgive past offences and to have mercy on the people. An hour later two of the Saxons bearing a letter from Beorn and Wulf to Gurth started under an escort provided by the chiefs.



Chapter XII.


Edith.

Two days after the departure of the messengers from the castle the look-out gave notice that he perceived a large body of horsemen and footmen coming down the valley, and half an hour later the banner of Gurth could be made out. The garrison at once set to work to replace the planking of the bridge, and this was accomplished by the time that the Saxon earl, accompanied by several thanes, and followed by a strong body of troops, reached the platform at the other end. As he did so Beorn and Wulf crossed the bridge to meet him.

"You have done well indeed, thanes!" Gurth exclaimed. "You have made a conquest to be proud of; for as we rode along this place seemed to us well-nigh impregnable. But your messengers have told me how you captured it, and how stoutly you have since defended it. It was a daring thought, indeed, to attempt the assault of such a place with a handful of men. You have rendered a splendid service to the king; for with the capture of this fortress, and of Llewellyn himself and his children, there is no fear that there will be trouble in this part of Wales for years to come. We, too, are specially indebted to you, for had we been forced to besiege this place it could only have been taken with a vast loss of life, and it might well have resisted all our efforts. That seventy men should have taken it, even if weakly defended, is wonderful indeed."

"It is to Wulf, my lord, that the credit is chiefly due," Beorn said. "It was he who proposed and planned the attack; and though I have done my best to support him, I have but acted as his second in command. He is quicker-witted than I am, and far more fitted to lead."

Wulf was about to speak, when Gurth stopped him with a gesture of the hand.

"At any rate, Beorn," he said, "you possess qualities that are by no means common. That you are a brave soldier I know well, but so I trust are all my thanes; still, it is not every one who has the wit to perceive that another has sharper wits than himself, still fewer who would have the generosity to stand aside and to give the major share in an exploit like this to another. What you may lose in credit by your avowal you will at least gain in the esteem of us all. Now, commandant," he said to Wulf with a smile, "show us the way into this capture of yours."

Before entering the castle itself Gurth made a detour of the walls, and upon seeing them was still more surprised than before at the manner in which the capture had been effected.

"You see, thanes," he said, "the matter hinged on the possession of these gates through the cross walls. That the rear walls should have been taken by surprise was a daring action, but it would have availed nothing had the garrison had time to close even the second of these gates; for though, as it seems, no more numerous than our men, they could have easily held it until reinforced from the village below, and would then have turned the tables on their assailants. The capture was due to the quickness and boldness with which Wulf and Beorn, with the few men who had obtained a footing on the wall when the alarm was given, rushed forward and held the inner gateway until the rest came up."

Gurth paused for a time on the wall above the point where the secret passage came out on the face of the rock, and having asked many questions as to how it was that they were so well prepared for Llewellyn and his followers when they made the attack, he commended Wulf very strongly for his conduct in this matter.

"Others might have taken the castle as you did, young thane," he said, "but assuredly most would have lost it again, for having set guards on the walls they would have given themselves up to feasting and sleep, without a thought that there might possibly exist a secret passage through this rock, which looks as if nothing short of a winged army could scale it. What say you, thanes?"

The Saxons cordially agreed with the earl. They were stout fighters, but better in the field than in council, and it was in no small degree to the Danish blood in their veins that the sons of Godwin owed the vigour and intellect that had raised the family to so lofty a position among their countrymen. On concluding his inspection of the walls Gurth entered the castle, and after first examining the entrance to the secret passage, sat down with the thanes to a banquet, the preparation of which had been begun as soon as their coming was perceived. After that Gurth paid a visit to Llewellyn.

"Your fate is not in my hands, prince," he said to him, "but in that of my brother Harold. As, however, you have used your influence to persuade your people to submit, I shall do my best to induce him to take a favourable view of your case."

The next day the main body of Gurth's force arrived, and encamped in the valley. Llewellyn's chiefs all came in and made their submission, but the people for the most part took to the hills. As, day after day, news came of the terrible retaliation dealt out by the troops of Harold and Tostig they lost heart altogether, and sent in messengers craving to be allowed to come in and lay down their arms. Gurth at once accepted their submission, and hundreds returned to their homes. In other parts of Wales the feeling that resistance was vain rapidly extended. Their most fertile valleys had all been turned into deserts, and even on their own hills and among their own forests, where they had hitherto deemed themselves safe from attack, they were pursued and hunted down by the now lightly-armed Saxons. From all parts, therefore, offers to submit were sent in, and as a proof of their submission and regret for past behaviour, they seized Griffith their king, killed him, and sent his head to Harold, who thereupon granted them terms, and ordered his forces to withdraw beyond the border.

The campaign had lasted less than three months, but so terrible had been the blow dealt to the Welsh that a hundred years passed before they again ventured to renew their incursions into England. Llewellyn was pardoned, but great breaches were made in the walls of the fortress facing the hill, and these he was forbidden ever to repair. His children were taken to England, to be brought up there, and to serve as hostages for his future good behaviour. Harold, when he learnt the particulars of the capture and defence of Porthwyn, expressed his approval in the warmest terms.

"You have performed the greatest and most important feat of the war, Wulf," he said. "Yes, it is right that you should give every credit Beorn for his share in the matter; but I know you both well, and am assured that Beorn would never have conceived and carried out the attack, and that had he done so successfully, he and his men would all have been slain by Llewellyn that night. Beorn is a good youth; he is brave and kind-hearted; he is no fool, and will make and excellent thane; will become a favourite at court, and be always loyal and staunch. But I shall look to see you more than this. You have a head quick to plan, readiness and decision in danger, and, as you have shown, a genius for war. Study the writings of the Romans, the greatest masters of war the world has ever seen, make yourself acquainted with the methods of Caesar and other great commanders, and do not neglect to ponder on their laws and customs.

"When matters are settled here, travel to the various courts of Europe and acquaint yourself with the ways of peoples who are far more advanced than we in civilization, and you may come to stand some day among the most trusted councillors of the king, and as one of the best leaders of his troops. I see that the success you have attained while as yet so young has not puffed you up in any way. Always remember, Wulf, that though success may be envied, those who are successful may yet be liked if only they themselves do not seem conscious of success. I should say you had best not make a long stay at court, but betake you, shortly, to your estate. It is a good school, and one who can rule his own people wisely has a sound preparation for posts of larger responsibility. You will always find in the prior of Bramber a wise adviser, who will direct your studies, and will aid you where your Latinity falls short.

"It will be time enough in another five years for you to go abroad; but, of course, I do not wish you to remain all that time away from court. It is never good to be forgotten; therefore, come up two or three times a year. I trust that there will be no fresh wars or troubles to hinder your studies or interfere with your life; but remember that there is always danger from Normandy, therefore always keep on foot your force of housecarls; and if, as I think, your estates can afford it, add to their number, so that if trouble does come you will be able to again play a prominent part in it."

Wulf's contingent marched with the rest of the troops from the east as far as Reading, and there struck off by the nearest road to Steyning. He and Beorn accompanied Harold to London, and after staying there for a short time, and taking part in the fetes with which the conquest of the Welsh was celebrated, Wulf returned to Steyning and took up the life he had previously led there. Before starting he asked Harold's advice as to whether he should fortify Steyning after the manner of the Norman castles.

"By no means, Wulf. Such castles are useful only against quarrelsome neighbours. Wars are decided by great battles, and if these are lost a castle does but bring ruin upon its possessor, for it must sooner or later be taken. The man who, when a cause is lost, returns quietly to his home and goes about his usual work may escape unnoticed, while one who shuts himself up in a castle is certain to suffer at last from the vengeance of the conquerors. Resistance maintained in forests and swamps, as was done by the Bretons and Welsh, may weary out a foe, but a conqueror can wish for nothing better than that the defeated may assemble themselves in towns and castles, where he can slowly, perhaps, but surely destroy them piecemeal."

The time passed quickly and pleasantly at Steyning. Wulf studied hard for three or four hours a day, looked after his tenants, hunted and hawked, doubled the number of his company of housecarls, and often rode over to the priory of an evening. He now took his place naturally among the thanes in that part of the country, the reputation he had gained in the two wars giving him a standing among them, to which, from his youth, he would not otherwise have been entitled. In accordance with Harold's advice he went three times during the year up to court, where he generally met Beorn, who spent the greater part of his time there.

"How you can like all this formality and ceremony is more than I can imagine, Beorn."

"I don't care either for the formality or the ceremony, but I like the amusement and the gaiety, and should ask with much more reason how can you like to spend your time studying parchments and reading the doings of those old Romans, when you might be enjoying yourself here. The matter is altogether beyond me."

"I like it for itself, and I like it because it may some day be of great service to me."

"You see you are ambitious, Wulf, and I am not. I don't want to be a great commander or a state-councillor, and if I did want it ever so much I know I should never be one or the other. I am content to be a thane, as my father was before me, and seek no greater change than that of a stay for a month at court. That brightens one up more than anything; and one cannot be all one's life hunting in the woods and seeing after the tenants. By the way, I had a quarrel the other day with your old Norman enemy, Fitz-Urse. Your name was mentioned, and he chose to sneer offensively. I told him that you had done more already than he would ever do if he lived to be an old man. We came to high words, and next day met in the forest and there settled it. He ran me through the arm, and I slashed his cheek. As quarrelling is strictly forbidden he made some excuse and went over to France, while I went down home till my arm was well again. I fancy we hurt each other about equally, but the scar on my arm won't show, while I fancy, from what the leech who dressed his wound told me, the scar is likely to spoil his beauty for life."

"I am sorry you quarrelled with him about me, Beorn. It would have been better to have said nothing, though I thank you for your championship."

"Nonsense, Wulf. I know very well you would not hear anyone speak ill of me without taking up the cudgels for me."

Wulf could not deny this. "Certainly not, Beorn; still it is a pity to make an enemy, and Fitz-Urse has shown in my case that he is not one who forgives."

The Welsh campaign had terminated at the end of August, and it was a month later that Wulf had returned to Steyning. Just a year afterwards he received a message from Harold to come up to London, and to order his housecarls to hold themselves in readiness to start immediately on receiving an order from him. Somewhat surprised, for no news had reached him of any trouble that could call for the employment of an armed force, Wulf rode for London alone, bidding Osgod follow with the housecarls as soon as he heard from him. When he reached the palace he heard news that explained the cause of his summons. Northumbria had risen in rebellion against Earl Tostig. He was accused of tyranny and oppression, and had been continually away from his earldom, leaving it to be governed in his absence by a thane.

The country north of the Humber had for a long period of years been independent, appointing their own rulers, who owed no allegiance whatever to the kings of the West Saxons. Although now incorporated in the kingdom of England the Northumbrians regretted their lost independence, and this all the more, that the population were for the most part Danish, and viewed with an intense feeling of jealousy the preponderance gained by the West Saxons. Tostig at the time the revolt declared itself was hunting with the king -- who had a great affection for him -- in the forests of Wiltshire, and had not arrived in town when Wulf reached the capital. It was not until the afternoon that Wulf had an interview with Harold. The earl had just come from a council and was alone.

"Thank you for coming up so speedily," he said as he shook the young thane by the hand. "You have heard the news, I suppose?"

"I have heard that Northumberland has risen in rebellion."

"Yes, that was the news that arrived four days since."

"Is it serious?"

"Yes, very serious; the rebellion grows each day. It is headed by several of the greatest landowners in the north, both Danish and Saxon, and the worst part of the news is that the trouble has, as I hear, been stirred up by Edwin of Mercia and his brother. It is the old rivalry between the House of Leofric and ours. They are jealous of our influence with the king, and would gladly rend England into two kingdoms again. We hear to-day that the Northumbrian nobles have summoned a Gemot to meet, which amounts in fact to a rebellion, not only against Tostig but against the king."

"If Mercia joins Northumbria it would be a more serious business than that in Wales."

"I think not that it will be so," Harold said. "Edwin has been always conspiring. He stirred up the Welsh, he has encouraged the Norwegians, he has intrigued in Northumbria. He and his brother have ever been a source of trouble, and yet he has never openly rebelled; he sets others to do the fighting for him, prepared if they are successful to reap the fruits of their victory. There is, of course, still hope that moderate councils may prevail, but I fear that the Northumbrians will consider that they have gone too far to turn back. At present, at any rate, no steps will be taken. As long as no armed forces are set in motion there are hopes that matters may be arranged, but the approach of an army would set all Northumbria on fire. The Gemot is summoned to meet this day week -- that is on the third of October -- and we shall wait to hear what steps they take. Messengers have already been sent to a large number of thanes to be prepared for service. I would that all kept a force of housecarls as you do. I am going down to-night to my house near Hampton. Do you come down with me, Wulf. Edith will be glad to see you."

Wulf had in the days of his pageship several times accompanied Harold to Hampton, and knew well the lady, who was known to the Saxons as Edith of the Swan-neck. She was by birth far inferior in position to Harold. The relation between them was similar to that known throughout the middle ages as left-hand marriages. These were marriages contracted between men of high rank and ladies of inferior position, and while they lasted were regarded as being lawful; but they could be, and frequently were, broken off, when for politic or other reasons the prince or noble had to seek another alliance. The lady was of great beauty and talent, and exercised a large influence over Harold. This was always employed for good, and she was much beloved by the Saxons.

The alliance had been formed while Harold was quite a young man, and he and Edith were fondly attached to each other. His rise, however, to the position of the foremost man in England, and the prospect of his accession to the throne, rendered it probable that ere long he would be obliged to marry one who would strengthen his position, and would from her high birth be fitted to share the crown with him. William of Normandy was perfectly well aware of the relation in which Edith stood to Harold, and had not regarded her as any obstacle to the earl's marriage with his daughter; and even Harold himself had not attempted to give it as a reason for declining the offer of the hand of the Norman princess.

As they rode down to Hampton the earl said, "I dare say you are somewhat surprised at my leaving the court at this crisis, Wulf, but in truth I want to keep my hands free. Tostig, you know, is rash and impetuous. I love him well, but am not blind to his faults; and I fear that the people of Northumbria have some just cause for complaint against him. He is constantly away from his earldom. He was absent for months when he went to Rome, and he spends a great part of his time either at the court here or with the king at his hunting-lodges. The Northumbrians are a proud people, and it is small wonder that they object to be governed by an absent earl. Tostig is furious at what he terms the insolence of the Northumbrians, and I would fain avoid all questions of dispute with him. It is not improbable that the king and his councillors may be called upon to hear the complaints of the Northumbrians, and to decide between them and Tostig. This will be bitter enough for my brother. He may return at any moment, and I greatly wish to avoid all argument with him before the matter is discussed in council."

The house at Hampton was a large one, and here Edith lived in considerable state. Grooms ran up and took the horses as Harold and Wulf dismounted. Six retainers in jerkins embroidered with the earl's cognizance appeared at the doors. As they entered the house, Edith came out from an inner room and fondly embraced Harold.

"Who is this you have with you, Harold?"

"What, have you forgotten Wulf of Steyning, who has, as I told you, turned out a great fighter, and was the captor of the castle of Porthwyn, and of its owner, Llewellyn ap Rhys?"

"I did not know you again, Wulf," Edith said holding out her hand to him, "but now that I hear who you are I recognize you. Why, it is four years since I saw you, and you were then a mischievous little page. Harold has often spoken to me about you, and your adventures in Normandy and Wales. I did not expect to see you, Harold," she went on turning to the earl, "after what you told me in the letter you sent me yesterday, about the troubles in the north. I feared that you would be kept at court."

"Tostig and the king are still away," he said, "and he will return so furious at this revolt against his authority, that, thinking as I do that he is in no small degree at fault -- for I have frequently remonstrated with him at spending so large a portion of his time away from his earldom, -- I thought it best to get away."

"It is strange how Tostig differs from the rest of you," Edith said. "You and Leofwyn, and Gurth are all gentle and courteous, while Tostig is fierce and impetuous."

"Tostig has his faults," Harold said; "but we love each other dearly, and from the time we were boys together we have never had a dispute. It will be hard indeed upon me if I am called upon to side against him. We have learnt, Edith, that Edwin and Morcar have been intriguing with the Northumbrians. These Mercian earls are ever bringing troubles upon the country, and I fear they will give even greater trouble in the future. If they stir up disturbances, as they have done, against the king, who is king by the will of the people, and also by right of birth, what will it be when -- " and he stopped.

"When you shall mount the throne, my Harold," Edith said proudly. "Oh, that this feud between Leofric's house and Godwin's were at an end. It bodes ill for England."

"It is natural," Harold said gently. "It is as gall and wormwood to the earls of Mercia to see the ascendancy of the West Saxons, and still more would it be so were I, Godwin's son, without a drop of royal blood in my veins, to come to be their king."

"The feud must be closed," Edith said firmly, though Wulf noticed that her face paled. "I have told you so before, Harold, and there is but one way."

"It shall never be closed in that way, Edith; rather would I lie in my grave."

"You have not to think of yourself, Harold, still less of me. It is of England you have to think -- this England that will assuredly choose you as its king, and who will have a right to expect that you will make any or every sacrifice for its sake."

"Any but that," Harold said.

She smiled faintly and shook her head. Wulf did not understand the conversation, but there was a look of earnest resolve in her face that deeply impressed him. He had moved a short distance away, and now turned and looked out of the window, while they exchanged a few more words, having been, as he saw, altogether oblivious of his presence in the earnestness with which they both spoke.

For a week Harold remained at Hampton. Wulf saw that he was much troubled in his mind, and concluded that the messengers who came and went every day were the bearers of bad tidings. It was seldom that he was away from the side of Edith. When they were together she was always bright, but once or twice when Wulf found her alone her features bore an expression of deep sadness.

"We must ride for London, Wulf," Harold said one morning after reading a letter brought by a royal messenger. "The king has laid his orders on me to proceed at once to town, and indeed the news is well-nigh as bad as can be. The Gemot has voted the deposition of Tostig, has even had the insolence to declare him an outlaw, and has elected Morcar in his place. It has also issued decrees declaring all partisans of Tostig outlaws, and confiscating their estates. Two of Tostig's Danish housecarls were slain on the first day of their meeting. Two hundred of Tostig's personal followers have since been massacred; his treasury has been broken open, and all its contents carried off. The election of Morcar shows but too plainly the designs of the earls of Mercia. They wish to divide England into two portions, and to reign supreme north of the Wellan. This will give them full half of England, and would assuredly, even did we not oppose them now, lead to a terrible war. The more terrible as William of Normandy will be watching from across the channel, ready to take instant advantage of our dissensions. God avert a war like this. Every sacrifice must be made rather than that the men of the north and south of England should fly at each other's throats."

The earl scarcely spoke a word during the ride to London, but rode absorbed in his thoughts with a sad and anxious countenance.

Day after day the news became more serious. Morcar accepted the earldom of Northumbria, hurried to York, and placing himself at the head of the Northumbrian forces, marched south, being joined on the way by the men of Lincoln, Nottingham, and Derby, in all of which shires the Danish element was very strong. At Northampton, which had formed part of the government of Tostig, Morcar was joined by his brother Edwin at the head of the forces of Mercia, together with a large body of Welsh. They found the people of Northampton less favourable to their cause than they had expected, and in revenge harried the whole country, killing and burning, and carrying off the cattle as booty and the men as slaves.

Harold bore the brunt of the trouble alone, for, regardless of the fact that half the kingdom was in a flame, King Edward and Tostig continued their hunting expeditions in Wiltshire, in spite of the urgent messages sent by Harold entreating them to return. In the meantime, still hoping that peace might in some way be preserved, Harold sent messages to all the thanes of importance in Wessex, ordering them to prepare to march to London with the whole of their retainers and levies, as soon as they received orders to get in motion. But while he still tarried in Wiltshire the king acceded to Harold's request that he might be empowered to go to Northampton to treat in Edward's name with the rebels.

As soon as he received this permission Harold hastened to Northampton, accompanied by only half a dozen of his thanes, among whom was Wulf. He was received with respect by the rebels, but when their leaders assembled, and in the king's name he called upon them to lay down their arms, to cease from ravaging, and to lay any complaints they might have to make against Tostig before the king or the National Gemot, he met with a flat refusal. They would not listen to any proposition that involved the possibility of the return of Tostig, and boldly said that if the king wished to retain Northumbria as part of his realm he must confirm the sentence of their Gemot upon Tostig, and must recognize their election of Morcar to the earldom.

In all this Harold perceived clearly enough that, although it was the Northumbrian leaders who were speaking, they were acting entirely under the influence of Edwin and Morcar. All that he could obtain was that some of the northern thanes should accompany him to lay their demands before the king himself. Edward, upon hearing, by a swift messenger sent by Harold, of the failure of his attempt to induce the Northumbrians to lay down their arms, reluctantly abandoned the pleasures of the chase, and proceeded to Bretford, near Salisbury, where there was a royal house, and summoned a Witenagemot. As, however, the occasion was urgent, it was attended only by the king's chief councillors, and by the thanes of that part of Wessex.

Between Tostig and Harold the quarrel that the latter had feared had already broken out. Harold was anxious above all things for peace, and although the blow to his own interests and to those of his family, by the transfer of Northumbria from his brother to one of the Mercian earls, was a most serious one, he preferred that even this should take place to embarking in a war that would involve the whole of England. Tostig was so furious at finding that Harold was not willing to push matters to the last extremity in his favour, that he accused him of being the secret instigator of the Northumbrian revolt. The absurdity of such an accusation was evident. It was as much to Harold's interest as to that of Tostig that the great northern earldom should remain in the hands of his family; but an angry man does not reason, and Tostig's fury was roused to the highest point by the outspoken utterances of many of the members of the Witenagemot. These boldly accused him of cruelty and avarice, and declared that many of his acts of severity were caused by his determination, under a show of justice, to possess himself of the wealth of those he condemned. Tostig then rose and declared before the assembly that the whole rising was the work of Harold.

The latter simply denied the charge on oath, and his word was accepted as sufficient. The Witan then turned to the question as to how the revolt was to be dealt with. The king was vehemently in favour of putting it down by force of arms. Tostig was of all the Saxons his favourite friend, and he considered the insult offered to him as dealt against himself. So determined was he, that he sent out orders for the whole of the forces of Wessex to march and join the royal standard. In vain Harold and Edward's wisest councillors endeavoured to dissuade him from a step that would deluge the country in blood, and might lead to terrible disaster. In vain they pointed out that while all the thanes would willingly put their forces at his disposal to resist a foreign foe, or even to repel an invasion from the north, they would not risk life and fortune in an endeavour to force a governor upon a people who hated him, and, as most thought, with good reason.

The king was immovable; but Harold and his councillors took steps quietly to inform the thanes that the Witan was opposed to the order, and that for the present no harm would be done by disregarding the royal mandate. The king, in his anger and mortification at finding himself unable to march against the rebels with an overwhelming force, fell ill, and the control of affairs passed into Harold's hands; and the king, whose fits of passion, though extreme while they lasted, were but short-lived gave him full power to deal with the matter as he thought best.

Harold had done all that he could for Tostig when he went to Northampton, but had failed. There was no alternative now between a great war, followed probably by a complete split of the kingdom, or acquiescence in the demands of the men of the North. He did not hesitate, but in the name of the king confirmed the decisions arrived at by the Gemot of York -- recognized Morcar as Earl of Northumbria, and granted a complete amnesty for all offences committed during the rising, on condition only that a general Witenagemot should be held at Oxford. At this meeting Northern and Southern England were again solemnly reconciled, as they had been forty-seven years before at an assembly held at the same place.



Chapter XIII.


Harold, The King.

The day before the great Witenagemot was to assemble, Wulf, as he came out from the house where Harold had taken up his abode, was approached by a man, who by his attire appeared to be a retainer of a thane; his face seemed familiar to him, as he placed a letter in his hand. Wulf was now very much in the confidence of Harold. It was a relief to the earl in the midst of his trials and heavy responsibilities to open his mind freely to one of whose faith and loyalty he was well assured, and he therefore was far more communicative to the young thane than to the older councillors by whom he was surrounded. Wulf opened the letter. It contained only the words: "I am here; the bearer of this will lead you to me. Edith."

Looking more closely at the man he recognized him at once as one of the servitors at Hampton, though his dress bore no signs of any cognizance. Greatly surprised to hear of Edith's presence in Oxford unknown to Harold, he at once followed the servant, who conducted him to a house on the outskirts of the town. Wulf was ushered into a room, and the servant then left him. A moment later Edith entered.

"My message must have surprised you, Wulf," she said, as he knelt on one knee to kiss the hand she held out to him.

"It did indeed, lady, for it was but yesterday that the earl received a letter from you written at Hampton. He said to me as he opened it, 'Would I were in peace at Hampton, free from all these troubles and intrigues.'"

"I have come down in a horse-litter," she said, "and save the two retainers who accompanied me none knew of my intentions. I know, Wulf, that you have the confidence of the earl and that you love him and would do your best for him."

"I would lay down my life for him, lady. Even did I not love and honour him as I do, I would die for him, for he is the hope of England, and he alone can guide the country through its troubles, both from within and without. The life of a single man is as nought in the scale."

"Nor the happiness of a single woman," she added. "Now, Wulf, I want to know from you exactly how matters stand here. My lord, when he writes to me always does so cheerfully, ever making the best of things; but it is most important that I should know his real mind. It is for that that I have travelled here. This Witenagemot that assembles to-morrow -- what will come of it?"

"The earl thinks it will doubtless pass the resolution reconciling the North and South, and declaring that there shall be oblivion for the past, and that all things shall go back to their former footing save as to the change of earls."

"It is easy to vote that," she said quietly; "but will it be held to? It depends not upon Northumbrians nor Saxons, but upon Edwin and Morcar. They have made a great step forward towards their end; they have united under their government the northern half of England, and have wrested Northumbria from Godwin's family. After making this great step, will they rest and abstain from taking the next? Northumbria and Mercia united are as strong as Wessex and East Anglia. Will they be content to remain under a West Saxon king? Above all, will they submit to the rule of one of Godwin's sons? I feel sure that they will not. What thinks the earl?"

"He thinks as you do, lady, although he considers that for the time the danger is averted. He himself said to me yesterday, 'If these Mercian earls are ready to defy the head of the royal line of England, think you that they will ever recognize the sway of a member of my father's house?'"

"And what said you, Wulf?"

"I said that I did not doubt the ill-will of the Mercian earls, but that I doubted whether Mercia would follow them if they strove to break up the kingdom. 'Mercia is following them now,' he said; 'and has with Northumbria stood in arms for some weeks past. There has ever been jealousy of the supremacy of the West Saxons since the days when the kingdom was united in one. These brothers will intrigue as their father did before them. They will bring down the Welsh from their hills to aid them, for though these people will not for generations try their strength alone against us, they would gladly take advantage of it should such an opportunity for revenge occur. Even now, when the blood is scarce dry on their hearthstones, there is a large force of them under Edwin's banner.'"

"It is a grievous look-out for England," Edith said. "It would seem that nothing can bring about peace and unity save the end of this terrible feud between the families of Godwin and Leofric."

"That would indeed be a blessing for the country," Wulf agreed; "but of all things that seems to me most hopeless."

"They must be reconciled!" Edith said, rising from her seat. "What is a woman's love or a woman's life that they should stand in the way of the peace of England? See you not, Wulf, there is but one way in which the feud can be healed? Were it not for me Harold could marry the sister of these earls, and if she were Queen of England the feud would be at an end. A daughter of the house of Leofric, and a son of the house of Godwin, would command the support of Mercia and Wessex alike, and as brothers of the queen, Edwin and Morcar might well be content to be friends with her husband and his brothers. I only stand in the way of this. I have already urged this upon Harold, but he will not hear of it. Until now the Mercian brothers might be a trouble, but they were not strong enough to be a danger to the kingdom. Now that they hold half of it in their hands this marriage has become a necessity. I must stand aside. What is my happiness and my life that I should be an obstacle alike to my lord's glory and the peace of England? Go to Harold; tell him that I am here, and pray that he will come to me. Give your message to him briefly; say naught of what I have said to you, though his heart will tell him at once what has brought me here."

Silent, and confounded by the immensity of the sacrifice she proposed, for he knew how deep and tender was her love for Harold, Wulf knelt on both knees and reverently placed her hand to his lips, and then without a word left the house, half blinded with tears, signing to the servant, who was waiting without, to follow him. When he reached Harold's house he found that the earl was with his brother Gurth and several of his councillors. He did not hesitate, however, but entering the room, said, "My Lord Harold, I pray to have speech of you for a minute upon an affair of urgent importance."

Somewhat surprised the earl followed him out.

"What is it, Wulf?" he asked as they entered Harold's private closet. "You look pale and strange, lad."

"I have a message to give you, my lord. The Lady Edith is here, and prays that you will go to her at once."

The earl started as if struck with a blow. "Edith here!" he exclaimed, and then with a troubled face he took several short turns up and down the room.

"Where is she?" he said at last in a low voice.

"Her servant is without, my lord, and will conduct you to her."

"Tell Gurth and the others I am called away for an hour on urgent business," he said. "Say nothing of Edith being here." Then he went out.

The man who was waiting doffed his hat, and at once led the way to the house where Edith was staying. She moved swiftly towards him as he entered the room and fell on his neck. Not a word was spoken for a minute or two, then he said:

"Why have you come, Edith? But I need not ask, I know. I will not have it, I will not have it! I have told you so before. Why is our happiness to be sacrificed? I have given my work and my life to England, but I will not give my happiness too, nor will I sacrifice yours."

"You would not be worthy of the trust England reposes in you, Harold," she said quietly, "were you not ready to give all. As to my happiness, it is at an end, for I should deem myself as a guilty wretch, as the cause of countless woes to Englishmen, did I remain as I am. I have been happy, dear, most happy, many long years. To my last day it will be a joy and a pride, that nothing can take away, that I have been loved by the greatest of Englishmen, and my sacrifice will seem light to me under the feeling that it has purchased the happiness of England."

"But is my happiness to go for nothing?" Harold exclaimed passionately.

"You too, Harold, will have the knowledge that you have sacrificed yourself, that as you have often risked your life, so have you for England's sake given up your love. I have seen that it must be so for years. As Earl of Wessex I might always have stood by your side, but as soon as I saw that the people of England looked to you as their future monarch, I knew that I could not share your throne. A king's heart is not his own, as is that of a private man. As he must lead his people in battle, and if needs be give his life for them, so must he give his hand where it will most advantage them."

"I cannot do it," Harold said. "I will not sacrifice you even for England. I will remain Earl of Wessex, and Edwin may reign as king if he so chooses."

"That cannot be, Harold. If the people of England call you to the throne, it is your duty to accept the summons. You know that none other could guide them as you can, for already for years you have been their ruler. They love you, they trust in you, and it were a shame indeed if the love we bear each other should stand in the way of what is above all things needful for the good of England. You know well enough that when the national council meets to choose a king the South will declare for you. But if Edwin and Morcar influence Mercia and the North to declare for another, what remains but a breaking up of the kingdom, with perhaps a great war?"

"I cannot do it, and I will not," Harold said, stopping in his walk and standing before her. "My life, my work, all save you I will give up for England -- but you I will not."

Edith turned even paler than before. "You will not give me up, Harold, but you cannot hold me. I can bear my life in seclusion and retirement, and can even be happy in the thought of our past love, of your greatness, and in the peace of England, which, I should have the consolation of knowing, was due to the sacrifice that we had both made, but I could not live happy, even with your love and your companionship, knowing that I have brought woes upon England. Nor will I live so. Death will break the knot if you will not do so, and I could die with a smile on my lips, knowing that I was dying for your good and England's. If you will not break the bond death shall do so, and ere to-morrow's sun rises, either by your sacrifice or by my own hand, you will be free. Marry for the good of England. Here is the ring by which you pledged your troth to me," and she took it from her finger and dropped it in the fire that blazed on the hearth. "There is the end of it, but not the end of our love. I shall think of you, and pray for you always, Harold. Oh, my dear lord and master, do not make it too hard for me!" and she threw herself on his neck in a passion of tears. For two or three minutes they stood locked in each other's close embrace, then she withdrew herself from his arms.

"Farewell," she said. "You have left my side many a time for battle, and we parted bravely though we knew we might never meet again. Let us part so now. We have each our battles to fight, but God will comfort us both, for our sacrifice will have brought peace to England. Farewell, my dear lord, farewell!" She touched his hand lightly and then tottered from the room, falling senseless as soon as she had closed the door behind her.

Harold sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands, while his breast heaved with short sobs. So he sat for some time; then he stood up.

"She is stronger and braver than I," he murmured; "but she is right. Only by this sacrifice can England be saved, but even so I could not have made it; but I know her so well that I feel she would carry out her threat without hesitation." Then he went out of the house, but instead of returning to the town took his way to the lonely path by the river, and there for hours paced up and down. At last his mind was made up, the sacrifice must be accepted. As she had said, their happiness must not stand in the way of that of all England. He walked with a firm step back to Oxford, and went straight to the house where Edwin and Morcar had taken up their quarters.

"Tell Earl Edwin that Harold would speak with him," he said to the retainer at the door. The man returned in a minute, and led the way to the room where Edwin and his brother were standing awaiting him. They had had several interviews since they arrived at Oxford, and supposed that he had come to arrange some detail as to the assembly on the following day.

"Edwin," Harold said abruptly, "methinks that for the good of our country it would be well that our houses should be united. Why should the sons of Leofric and Godwin regard each other as rivals? We are earls of the English people, and we cannot deny that the unfriendly feeling between us has brought trouble on the country. Why should there not be an end of this?"

Greatly surprised at this frank address, Edwin and Morcar both hastened to say that for their part they had no quarrel whatever with any of the house of Godwin, save with Tostig.

"Tostig will soon be beyond the sea, and will no longer be a source of trouble. There is, it seems to me, but one way by which we can unite and bind our interests into one. I have come to you to ask for the hand of your sister Ealdgyth in marriage."

The two earls looked at each other in surprise. The proposition was altogether unexpected, but they at once saw its advantages. They knew as well as others that the choice of the nation at Edward's death was likely to fall upon Harold, and it would add both to their dignity and security that they should be brothers-in-law of the king. Such an alliance would do away with the danger, that once seated on the throne Harold might become reconciled with Tostig, and endeavour to replace him in the earldom of Northumbria. This danger would be dissipated by the marriage.

"You would perhaps like to consult together before giving an answer," Harold said courteously.

"By no means," Edwin said warmly. "Such an alliance is, as you say, in all respects to be desired. Ealdgyth could wish for no nobler husband. We should rejoice in obtaining such a spouse for her, and the union would assuredly unite our families, do away with the unfriendly feeling of which you spoke, and be of vast advantage to the realm in general. We need no word of consultation, but accept your offer, and will with pleasure give Ealdgyth in marriage to you. But is there not an obstacle?"

"The obstacle is at an end," Harold said gravely. "Of her own free will and wish, and in order that there should be peace and union in England, the Lady Edith has broken the tie that bound us."

The brothers, seeing that the subject was a painful one, wisely said no more, but turned the conversation to the meeting on the following day, and assured Harold that they hoped the decision would now be unanimous, and then after a short time skilfully brought it round again to the subject of the marriage. By nightfall the news was known throughout the city, and was received with universal joy. The union seemed to all men a guarantee for peace in England. The two great rival houses would now be bound by common interests, and the feud that had several times been near breaking out into civil war was extinguished.

The moment he returned to his house Harold called Wulf.

"Wulf, go at once to the Lady Edith. Tell her that though it has taken all the brightness out of my life, and has made all my future dark, I have done her bidding, and have sacrificed myself for England. Tell her that I will write to her to-night, and send the letter to Hampton, where, I trust, it will find her."

Wulf at once carried the message. He found Edith sitting with eyes swollen with weeping, and yet with a calm and composed expression on her face.

"I knew that my lord would do as I prayed him," she said; "he has ever thought first of England and then of himself. Tell him that I start in an hour for Hampton, and shall there stay till I get his letter; there I will answer it. Tell him I thank him from my heart, and that, much as I loved and honoured him before, I shall to the end of my life love and honour him yet more for having thus sacrificed himself for England. Tell him that you found me calm and confident that he would grant my prayer, and that with all my heart I wish him happiness."

Her lips quivered and her voice broke, and Wulf hurried away without saying another word, for he felt that he himself was at the point of bursting into tears. Harold was anxiously awaiting his return, and after listening to the message turned abruptly and entered his private closet, with a wave of the hand signifying that Wulf would not be further required.

The next day the Witenagemot met. It was solemnly decreed that all old scores should be wiped out; that Northern and Southern England were again to be reconciled, as they had been forty-seven years before in an assembly held by Canute in Oxford. It was decreed unanimously that the laws of Canute should be renewed, and should have force in all parts of the kingdom.

Until this decision was arrived at by the assembly Tostig had remained with the king, but he now went into exile, and crossed the sea to Flanders, where he had at an earlier period of his life, when Godwin's whole family were in disgrace, taken refuge. He was accompanied by his wife and many personal adherents. He left filled with rage and bitterness, especially against Harold, who ought, he considered, to have supported him to the utmost, and who should have been ready to put the whole forces of Wessex in the field to replace him in the earldom.

By the time that Harold returned to London Edith had left his abode at Hampton. He would have gladly handed it over to her and maintained it as before, but she would not hear of this, though she had accepted from him an income which would enable her to live comfortably in seclusion.

"I only do this," she said in her letter to him, "because I know that it would grieve you if I refused; but I entreat you, Harold, make no inquiries whither I have gone. I do not say that we can never meet again, but years must pass over before we do so. You must not think of me as always grieving. I have done what I am sure is right, and this will give me comfort, and enable me to bear your absence; but you know that, even if I never see you again, you will dwell in my heart as long as I live, its sole lord and master. I have so many happy memories to look back upon that I should be sorely to blame did I repine, and although I may not share the throne that will ere long be yours, nor the love which Englishmen will give their king, I shall be none the less proud of you, and shall be sure that there will be always in your heart a kind thought of me. Forbear, I pray you earnestly, to cause any search to be made for me. Doubtless you might discover me if you chose, but it would only renew my pain. In time we may be able to meet calmly and affectionately, as two old friends, but till then it were best that we stood altogether apart."

Harold put down the letter with a sigh. But he had little time to lament over private troubles. The king was ill; he had not rallied from the state of prostration that succeeded his outburst of passion when he found himself powerless to put down the Northern insurrection by force, and to restore his favourite Tostig to his earldom. Day succeeded day, but he did not rally. In vain the monks most famous for their skill in medicine came from Canterbury and Glastonbury; in vain prayers were offered up in all the cathedrals, and especially in his own Abbey of Westminster, and soon the report spread among the people that Edward, the king, was sick unto death, and all felt that it was a misfortune for England.

Edward was in no sense of the word a great king. He was a monk rather than a monarch. The greatest object of his life had been to rear an abbey that in point of magnificence should rival the stateliest fane in England. To that his chief care was devoted, and for many years he was well content to leave the care of government to Harold. But after the monarchs who had immediately preceded him, his merits, if of a passive kind, were warmly appreciated by his subjects. His rule had been free from oppression, and he had always desired that justice should be done to all. In the earlier part of his reign he was Norman in tongue, in heart, and in education; but in the latter years of his life he had become far more English in his leanings, and there can be no doubt that he bitterly regretted the promise he had rashly given to William of Normandy that he should succeed him.

It was not only because the people respected and even loved the king that they were grieved to hear that his days were numbered, but because they saw that his death would bring trouble on the land. With him the line of the Oethelings would become extinct, save for the boy Edgar and his sisters. The boy had been born beyond the sea, and was as much a foreigner as Edward himself had been, and Edward's partiality for the Normans in the early years of his reign had so angered the English that Edgar's claims would on this account alone have been dismissed. Moreover, boys' hands were unfit to hold the sceptre of England in such troubled times. It was to Harold that all eyes turned. He had for years exercised at least joint authority with Edward; he was the foremost and most noble of Englishmen. He was skilled in war, and wise in counsel, and the charm of his manner, the strength and stateliness of his figure, and the singular beauty of his face rendered him the popular idol. And yet men felt that it was a new departure in English life and customs for one who had in his veins no drop of royal blood to be chosen as king. His sister was Edward's wife, he was Edward's friend and counsellor, but although the men of the South felt that he was in all ways fitted to be king, they saw too that Northumbria would assuredly stand aloof, and that the Mercian earls, brothers-in-law as they were to be to Harold, would yet feel jealous that one of their own rank was to be their sovereign.

The Witan, as the representative of the nation, had alone the right of choosing the sovereign; but though they had often passed over those who by birth stood nearest to the throne, they had never yet chosen one altogether outside the royal family. It was a necessary step -- for young Edgar was not to be thought of -- and yet men felt uneasy, now that the time had come, at so complete a departure from custom.

Rapidly the king grew worse, and prayers were uttered up for him in every church in England. The Christmas Witan met at Westminster, but little was done. The great minster was consecrated on December 18th, and the absence of its founder and builder was keenly missed at the ceremony.

The members of the Witan remained in attendance near the palace, hoping for some guidance from the dying king. He had no power to leave the throne to whom he wished, and yet his words could not but have great weight; but he lay almost unconscious, and for two days remained speechless. But on the 5th of January, the year being 1066, he suddenly awoke from sleep, in the full possession of his senses. Harold was standing on one side of his bed, Archbishop Stigand at the other. His wife sat at the foot of the bed, chaffing her husband's feet; Robert Wymarc, his personal attendant, stood by his head. The king on awakening prayed aloud, that if a vision he had had was truly from heaven he might have strength to declare it; if it were but the offspring of a disordered brain he prayed that he might not be able to tell it.

Then he sat up in bed, supported by Robert; some of his chosen friends were called in, and to them, with a strangely clear voice and with much energy, he told the vision. It was that some monks he had known in his youth had appeared to him, and told him that God had sent them to tell him that on account of the sins of the earls, the bishops, and the men in holy orders of every rank, God had put a curse upon England, and that within a year and a day of his death fiends should stalk through the whole land, and should harry it from one end to another with fire and sword.

The king's words filled his hearers with awe, Stigand alone deeming the story but the dream of a dying man. Then Edward gave orders as to his burial. He bade his friends not to grieve for him, but to rejoice in his approaching deliverance, and he asked for the prayers of all his people for his soul. At last those standing round called his mind to the great subject which was for the moment first in the heart of every Englishman. Who, when he was gone, they asked, would he wish to wear the royal crown of England? The king stretched out his hand to Harold and said, "To thee, Harold, my brother, I commit my kingdom." Then, after commending his wife and his Norman favourites to Harold's care and protection, he turned his thoughts from all earthly matters, received the last rites of the church, and soon afterwards passed away tranquilly.

Rapidly the news spread through London that the king was dead. The members of the Witan were still there, for the assembly had not separated, but knowing that the king was dying had waited for the event. The earls and great thanes of the South and West, of East Anglia and Wessex, were all there together, probably with many from Mercia. There was no time lost. In the afternoon they assembled. All knew on whom the choice would fall, for Harold had been for long regarded as the only possible successor to the throne, and the news that the dying king had, as far as he could, chosen him as his successor, doubtless went for much in the minds of many who had hitherto felt that it was a strange and unknown thing to accept as monarch of England one who was not a member of the royal house. There was no hesitation, no debate. By acclamation Harold was chosen king of the land, and two great nobles were selected to inform him that the choice of the Witan had fallen upon him.

They bore with them the two symbols of royalty, the crown and the axe, and bade him accept them as being chosen both by the voice of the Witan and by the king, whom he had so well and faithfully served. There was no hesitation on the part of Harold. He had already counted the cost and taken his resolution. He knew that he alone could hope to receive the general support of the great earls. Leofric and Gurth were his brothers, the Earls of Mercia and Northumbria had been mollified by the alliance arranged with their sister. The last male of the royal line was a lad of feeble character, and would be unable either to preserve peace at home or to unite the nation against a foreign invader. The oath he had sworn to William, although obtained partly by force partly by fraud, weighed upon him, but he was powerless to keep it. Did he decline the crown it would fall upon some other Englishman, and not upon the Norman. The vote of England had chosen him, and it was clearly his duty to accept. The die had been cast when Edith had bade him sacrifice her and himself for the good of England, and it was too late to turn back now. Gravely he accepted the dignity offered him.

Throughout London first, and then throughout the country, the news that the Witan had unanimously chosen him, and that he had accepted, was received with deep satisfaction. There was no time to be lost. The next day was Epiphany, the termination of the Christian festival, the last upon which the Witan could legally sit, and had the ceremony not taken place then it must have been delayed until another great feast of the church -- another calling together of the Witan. All night the preparations for the two great ceremonials were carried on. At daybreak the body of the dead king was borne to the noble minster, that had been the chief object of his life to raise and beautify, and there before the great altar it was laid to rest with all the solemn pomp of the church. A few hours passed away and the symbols of mourning were removed. Then the great prelates of the church, the earls and the thanes of England, gathered for the coronation of the successor of the king whom they had just laid in his last resting-place. Eldred the primate of Northumberland performed the rites of consecration -- for Stigand, primate of England, had been irregularly appointed, and was therefore deemed unfit for the high function. Before investing him with the royal robes Eldred, according to custom, demanded in a loud voice of the English people whether they were willing that Harold should be crowned their king, and a mighty shout of assent rang through the abbey. Then the earl swore first to preserve peace to the church and all Christian people; secondly, to prevent wrong and robbery to men of every rank; thirdly, to enforce justice and mercy in all his judgments as he would that God should have mercy on him. Then after a solemn prayer the prelate poured the oil of consecration upon Harold's head; he was vested in royal robes, and with symbols appertaining to the priesthood. A sword was girded to his side, that he might defend his realm, and smite his enemies and those of the church of God. Then the crown was placed on his head, the sceptre surmounted with the cross and the rod with the holy dove placed in his hands, and Harold stood before the people as the king chosen by themselves, named by his predecessor, and consecrated by the church. A great banquet followed the coronation, and then this day memorable in the history of England came to its close.

Wulf had been present at the two great events at the abbey and at the banquet, and knew, better than most of those present, that the gravity on Harold's face was not caused solely by the mighty responsibility that he had assumed, but by sad thoughts in his heart. Wulf on his return from the abbey had handed to Harold a small roll of parchment that had been slipped into his hand by a man, who at once disappeared in the crowd after handing it to him, with the words, "For the king". In the interval before the banquet he handed this to Harold, who had opened and glanced at it, and had then abruptly turned away. It contained but the words: "That God may bless my dear lord and king is the prayer of Edith."

"Do you know where she is?" Harold asked abruptly, turning upon Wulf.

"No, my lord."

"I have respected her wishes and made no inquiry," the king said. "Others think, doubtless, that I am rejoicing at having gained the object of my ambition, but as God knows, I would far rather have remained Earl of the West Saxons with her by my side than rule over England."

"I know it, my lord," Wulf said. "But who beside yourself could rule here?"

"No one," Harold answered; "and it is for England's sake and not my own that I have this day accepted the crown. If you can find out where she has betaken herself without making public inquiry I charge you to do so, and to tell her that on this day I have thought mostly of her. Tell me not where she is. What is done cannot be undone, but I would fain that, in the time that is to come, I may at least know where to send her a message should it be needful."



Chapter XIV.


Wulf's Suspicions.

Beyond the fact that the name of the king had changed, the death of Edward and the accession of Harold made no sensible difference in the government of the southern half of England. Harold had practically reigned for years, and the fact that he was now able to give his orders direct instead of having nominally to consult Edward, had only the effect that the affairs of the state moved somewhat more promptly. Such of the Norman favourites of Edward as desired to leave were permitted to do so, and were honourably escorted to the coast, but many remained. The Norman prelates and abbots retained their dignities undisturbed, and several of the court officials of Edward held the same positions under Harold.

A fortnight after the coronation a party of Norman barons arrived, bearing a summons from Duke William to Harold to fulfil the oath he had sworn to be his man, and also to carry out his engagement to marry one of William's daughters. They were received with all honour, and Harold informed them that he would, without delay, reply to the duke's summons. A few days later three thanes of high rank started for Normandy with Harold's reply. Wulf accompanied them.

"I would that you should go with them, Wulf," Harold had said to him. "You are too young to be one of my embassy to Duke William, but it would be well that you should form one of the party. The duke knows you and has a liking for you, and possibly may speak more freely to you than to my official messengers. Moreover, you have many acquaintances and friends there, and may gather valuable news as to the feeling in Normandy and the probability of William's barons embarking in a desperate war for his advantage."

"I shall be glad to go, my lord."

"The duke knows well enough what my answer must be. He is aware that were I ready either to resign my kingship to him, or to agree to hold my crown as his vassal, the people of England would laugh to scorn my assumption so to dispose of them, and would assuredly renounce and slay me as a traitor who had broken the oath I swore at my coronation. It is a mere formal summons William makes, as one summons a city to surrender before undertaking its siege. It is but a move in the game. That he will, if he can, strike for the kingdom, I doubt not in any way, but it may well be that his barons will refuse to embark in a war beyond the seas, which is altogether beyond the military service they are bound to render. At any rate, we have breathing time. Vast preparations must be made before he can invade England, and until he is ready we shall have messengers passing to and fro. A few of my chief councillors, the earls and great thanes, refuse to believe that William will ever attempt by force of arms to grasp the crown of England, but for myself I have no doubt he will do so. I shall at once prepare for war; and the first step of all is to unite England from the northern border to the southern sea, so that we may oppose the Normans with our whole strength. This must be my personal work, other matters I must for a time intrust to the earls."

The train was not a large one. One ship bore the thanes and their attendants from Southampton to Rouen. They were received with all honour at their landing, conducted to a house that had been assigned to their use, and informed that they would be received by the duke on the following day. They had brought their horses with them, and as soon as they were housed Wulf mounted, and attended by Osgod rode to the castle of the De Burgs. Three years had past since he had last been there. He had from time to time received letters and greetings from Guy de Burg by the hands of Normans who visited the court, and knew that although he had gained in health and strength the predictions of the surgeons had been fulfilled, and that he would never be able to take part in knightly exercises or deeds of arms. The warden at the gate had sent in Wulf's name, and as he alighted a tall young man ran down the steps and embraced him.

"I am overjoyed to see you, Wulf," he exclaimed. "When we heard that Harold would send over an English embassy to answer the duke's demands, I hoped that you would be among the number. Harold would be likely to choose you, and I felt sure that you would come over to see me. I had a messenger waiting at Rouen to bring me tidings of the arrival of your ship, and it is scarcely an hour since he rode in with the news that, by inquiries among the servants as they landed, he had learned that you were indeed of the party. But I had hardly looked to see you until to-morrow morning, and had indeed intended to ride over on my palfrey at daybreak."

"I would not delay, Guy, for the answer we bear will not be to the duke's liking, and for aught I know he may pack us off again as soon as the interview is ended. Therefore, I thought it best to lose not a moment."

"I see you have brought your tall retainer with you, Wulf. I am glad to see the stout fellow again. But come in, they will chide me for keeping you so long at the entrance."

Wulf was warmly received by the baron and his wife. "You are just what I thought you would grow up, Wulf," the former said. "Indeed your figure was so set and square before, that there was little chance of great alteration. We have heard of you from time to time, and that you distinguished yourself greatly in the war against the Welsh, and stood high in the favour and affection of Harold. Guy has overshot you, you see, in point of height, though he is scarce half your breadth," and the baron looked with a suppressed sigh at the fragile young fellow, who stood with his hand on Wulf's shoulder.

"He looks better and stronger than I expected, my lord," Wulf said. "You must remember when I last saw him he could scarce walk across the room, and in my heart I scarce hoped to ever see him again."

"He gains strength very slowly," De Burg said wistfully; "but although he has to be careful of himself, he has no ailment."

"He could hardly gain strength while growing so fast," Wulf said; "but now that he has gained his full height he will, doubtless, gather strength, and as three years have done so much for him, another three years will I hope do far more. The Lady Agnes is well, I trust?"

"She is well, and will be here anon," the baroness said.

Guy laughed with something of his former heartiness. "She was here when the man brought news of your arrival, Wulf, but she fled away like a startled deer, and has, I suppose, gone to put on her best kirtle in your honour."

As he spoke Agnes entered the room. Considerable as was the change that three years had wrought in the young men, it was still greater in her case, for she had grown from a pretty young girl into a very lovely maiden, whose cheek flushed as she presented it for Wulf's salute.

"Would you have known her again, Wulf?" Guy asked with a smile.

"I should certainly have known her, though she has so greatly changed," Wulf replied. "I thought that you would be grown up and altered, but I scarcely looked for so great an alteration in her, though I might of course have known that it would be so."

"And now tell me, Wulf," the baron said, abruptly changing the conversation, "how go things in England -- are people united in choosing Harold as their king?"

"The South, the East, and West are as one man," Wulf said. "Mercia, which comprises the midlands, has accepted the choice. Northumbria has as yet held itself aloof, although its earl has sworn allegiance and its primate has placed the crown on Harold's head; but in time, I am well assured, the North will also accept him. As I said when we spoke about it after Harold had been tricked into taking an oath to be William's man, he had no more power to pledge himself for England than I had. Englishmen are free to choose their own king, and as Harold has long been their ruler, their choice naturally fell on him.

"Harold is about to marry the sister of the Earls of Northumbria and Mercia, the widow of Griffith of Wales, and this will, I hope, bind these two powerful nobles to him. The only trouble is likely to come from Tostig, who is, as you know, at the court of Norway. But as he is hated in Northumbria, and the earl and his brother of Mercia both have personal enmity against him, he can gather no following there, while Anglia and Wessex are devoted to Harold. Still he and the King of Norway may cause trouble."

"The answer of Harold's ambassadors is, of course, a refusal?"

"Assuredly," Wulf said. "I do not know the exact import of the reply, as, although I have accompanied them, I am not a member of the embassy, being too young to be intrusted with so weighty a matter. But there can be but one answer. Harold is powerless to carry out his oath. He had the choice of becoming King of England, and thus defending our rights and freedom, or of refusing the crown, in which case he must have fled here, and could have given no aid whatever to William, as he himself would be regarded as the worst of traitors by the English. The duke must be perfectly well aware that a king of England could not, without the assent of the people, accept a foreign prince as his liege lord."

De Burg nodded.

"That is plainly so, Wulf; and although the duke professes intense indignation against Harold, he himself has, over and over again, broken his own oaths of allegiance to the King of France. Breaches of oaths go for little, except they serve as pretexts for war. It would have been the same thing if Harold had never taken the oath, except that his breach of it will be an aid to William in a war against him. We northmen came to France and conquered a province, simply by the right of the strongest. The duke has doubled his dominions by the same right. He deems himself now strong enough to conquer England; whether he is so remains to be seen. At present methinks that but few of us are disposed to follow him in such an enterprise, but there is never any saying how things will go at last. When war is in the air men's minds become heated. There will be dignities, estates, and titles to be won, and when many are ready to go, few like to hang back. More than once already William has embarked on a war against the wishes of the majority, but he has finally carried all with him, and it may be so again, especially if he can win over the pope to excommunicate Harold for the breach of an oath sworn on the relics."

"His excommunication will go for little in England," Wulf said sturdily. "Many of our prelates, and almost all our clergy are Englishmen, and hold in very small respect the claim of the pope to interfere in the affairs of England."

"And if Harold died who would be likely to succeed him?"

"I have never thought of that," Wulf said, "and I should think that few Englishmen have done so. If such a misfortune should happen, methinks that England would be rent in two, and that while Wessex and Anglia would choose one of his brothers, Mercia and the North would take Edwin or his brother Morcar as their king, but assuredly no foreign prince would be chosen."

"No, but with England divided the chance of conquest would be easier. You are about the king, Wulf. Keep a shrewd guard over him. I say not for a moment that the duke would countenance any attempt to do him harm, but there are many rough spirits who might think that they would gain his favour greatly did they clear his path of Harold, and who would feel all the less scruple in doing so, should the pope be induced to excommunicate him. Such things have happened again and again. Mind, I have no warrant for my speech. Methinks the honour of De Burg is too well known for anyone to venture to broach such a project before him, but so many kings and great princes have fallen by an assassin's knife to clear the way for the next heir or for an ambitious rival, that I cannot close my eyes to the fact that one in Harold's position might well be made the subject of such an attempt. The history of your own country will furnish you with examples of what I say."

"Thank you, my lord," Wulf said gravely. "The thought that an assassin's knife might be raised against Harold, who is of all men the most beloved in England, has never once entered my mind, but I see there may be indeed a danger of such an attempt being made. I do not greatly trust Morcar or his brother, and the danger may come from them, or, as you say, from one desirous of gaining favour with your duke. I will lay your warning to heart."

The conversation now turned on other topics, on the Welsh war and the life Wulf had been leading since they last met, and upon what had happened to the many acquaintances Wulf had made in Normandy. They talked until long past the usual hour for retiring to rest; Wulf slept at the chateau, and rode into Rouen at an early hour in the morning.

The audience next day was a public one. William was surrounded by his officers of state, and by a large number of his barons. The English envoys were ushered in, and the duke asked them in a loud voice what answer they brought to his just demands on the part of his sworn liegeman, Harold.

"The king of England bids us state, duke, that he holds an oath taken by a prisoner under force to be invalid, especially when taken in ignorance of the sanctity of the concealed relics; secondly, he says that he has been elected by the people of England, and that he has no power whatever to transfer the rights that they have conferred upon him, and which he has sworn to maintain, and that they would absolutely refuse to be bound by any act on his part contrary to the welfare of the kingdom, and to their rights as freemen; thirdly, as to your demand that he should carry out his promise to marry your daughter, he points out that the lady whose hand was promised to him has since that time died; and lastly, that although as Earl of Wessex he might transfer that engagement to another of your daughters, as king of England he is unable to do so, as the will of the people is that their king shall marry no foreign princess, but that the royal family shall be of unmixed English blood."

William frowned heavily. "You hear, my lords," he said, after a pause, to the Norman barons, "this English earl who was here as my guest refuses to carry out the engagements to which he swore upon the holy relics. I cannot, however, bring myself to believe that he will really persist in this foul perjury, and shall persevere in my endeavours to bring him to a sense of his duty, and to show him the foul dishonour that will rest upon him should he persist in this contempt alike of our holy church and his honour as a knight and a Christian, conduct that would bring upon him eternal infamy and the scorn and contempt of all the princes and nobles of Europe, and draw upon his head the wrath of the church." Then he abruptly turned on his heel and left the audience-chamber, while the English envoys returned to their house and made preparations for immediate departure.

A few minutes after his arrival there one of the duke's pages brought word to Wulf that the duke desired to speak to him in private. He at once went across to the palace. The duke received him cordially.

"I marked you were with the other thanes, and was glad to see one whom I count as my friend. Tell me frankly, what think the people of England of this monstrous act of perjury on the part of Harold?"

"To speak the truth, my lord duke," Wulf replied, "they trouble their heads in no way about it. They hold that the right of electing their king rests wholly with them, and that Harold's promise, to do what he had no more power to do than the lowest born of Englishmen, was but a waste of words. Harold himself feels the obligation far more than anyone else, and had there been any other Englishman who could have united the people as well as he could himself, he would gladly have stood aside; but there is none such, and he had no choice but to accept the decision of the Witan, and, for the sake of England, to lay aside his own scruples. The late king, too, nominated him as his successor, and although his voice had no legal weight, he is now regarded as almost a saint among the people. The fact, therefore, that he, full of piety and religion as he was, should have held that Harold's oath in no way prevented the people from choosing him, has gone very far to satisfy any scruples that might have been felt."

"Edward at one time named me as his successor," the duke said shortly.

"So I have heard, my lord duke; but as he grew in years and learned more of English feeling and character he became fully aware that the people would accept no foreign prince, and that only the man who had for thirteen years governed in his name could be their choice."

"And the great earls and thanes are likewise of that opinion?"

"Assuredly in Anglia and Wessex they are so. I know not the minds of Earls Morcar and Edwin, but they were at the Witan and stood by his side at the coronation, and doubtless felt that they could not rely upon their own people if they attempted any open opposition to Harold."

"And you will support this usurper against me, Wulf?"

"I shall fight, my lord duke, for the king chosen by the people of England. Should that choice some day fall on you I should be as faithful a follower of yours as I am now of Harold."

"Well answered, young thane. You have twice done me loyal service, and I at least do not forget my promises. As yet my mind is not made up as to my course, but should fate will it so, William of England will not forget the services rendered to William of Normandy."

A few minutes later Wulf rejoined his companions, and before nightfall the ship was far on her way down the river.

"Shall we go back to Steyning, my lord, when we return home?" Osgod asked as they stood by the bulwark together watching the passing shores.

"No, Osgod. I mean for a time to remain with the king. Baron de Burg yesterday hinted to me that he thought it possible that some of the duke's followers might endeavour to remove the obstacle between him and the throne of England. There are in every country desperate men, who are ready for any crime or deed of violence if they but think that its committal will bring them a reward. We have had English kings assassinated before now, and it has been the same in other countries. Moreover, there are many Normans who were forced to fly from England when Godwin's family returned from exile. These having a personal grudge against him would be willing to gratify it, and at the same time to earn a place in William's favour. Harold is so frank and unsuspicious that he will never think of taking precautions for his personal safety. You and I, then, must serve as his watch-dogs. It may be a difficult task, for we have no idea from what quarter that danger may come, and yet by chance we may discover some clue or other that will set us on the right track At any rate, if we are near him, and keep a watchful eye on any strangers approaching him, we may save him from a treacherous blow."

"Good, my lord. Methinks that Harold was wrong in not sending every Norman across the seas, and every man with whom I have spoken thinks the same. But at any rate we can, as you say, keep a sharp look-out, and although I cannot be always near his person, I shall go about and listen; and it will be hard if anything is on foot without my hearing some whisper of it. You will tell him no word of your suspicions, I suppose?"

"Certainly not. I have fears rather than suspicions, and Baron De Burg certainly spoke as if he regarded it as likely that such an attempt might be made, and he knows his own people better than I do. He expressly said that he had no special reason for giving me the warning, but he may have heard some angry remark or some covert threat against Harold; and although the duke would not, I feel sure, openly countenance his slaying, I think that the slayers might confidently look for a reward from his gratitude did they by their daggers open a way for him to the throne of England."

On the return of the embassy to London King Harold said to Wulf: "I have no further occasion for your services at present, Wulf, and I suppose you will return home and increase the number of your housecarls. It is not with undisciplined levies that the Normans, if they come, must be met. It is no question this time of Welsh mountaineers but of trained warriors, and should they land they must be met by men as firm and as obedient to orders as themselves. I am trying to impress this on all our thanes, but most of them are hard to move, and deem that all that is necessary on the day of battle is that men shall have strength and courage and arms."

"With your permission, my lord, I would rather abide near you, and leave the training of my men to the officer who taught those who fought by my side in Wales."

"I thought you did not care for the gaieties of the court?" Harold said, in some surprise.

"Nor do I, my lord. For its gaieties I care nothing, but in times like these there is much to be learned, and I would not bury myself in Steyning when there is so much of importance going on in London."

"Then stay, Wulf, I shall be glad to have you here. I have but little time to myself now, but it is a relief to put aside grave matters sometimes. I will appoint a room for you near my own chamber. You have heard no news of her, I suppose?"

"In truth, my lord, I know not how to set about the task, and it seems to me that my only chance is to run against one of her serving-men in the street."

"That is but a slight chance, Wulf; but even I, with all the power of England in my hands, am equally at a loss. I cannot send round to all the thanes of Wessex to ask if a strange lady has taken a house in their jurisdiction, nor to all the parish priests to ask if a new worshipper has come to their church. However, I believe that sooner or later she will herself advise me where she has hidden. It may be that your stay here will not be a long one, for I purpose journeying to the North."

"To Northumbria!" Wulf said in surprise.

"Yes; the people there refuse to recognize me, and I would win them by going among them rather than by force. My dear friend Bishop Wulfstan will accompany me. I shall take with me a body of my housecarls, partly as a guard, but more because I cannot now travel as a private person. It is very many years since an English king has visited Northumbria, and it is not strange that these northern men should object to be ruled by a stranger from the South. I shall take with me two or three of my thanes only, but shall be glad for you to ride with me. Young as you are, you have a quick eye and ready wit, and in case trouble should arise, I can rely upon you more than upon many men far older than yourself."

The palace of Westminster was not an imposing edifice. London had not yet become the capital of England, Oxford being the seat of government of most of the kings, so that the palace was built on a simple plan, and had been altered by Edward until the interior arrangements more nearly resembled those of a convent than of a palace. Below was the great banqueting-hall, and beyond this the chamber where the king heard complaints and administered justice. Leading from this were the king and queen's private chambers, where the one sat and read or received his chief councillors, and the other worked with her maids, and listened to the music of the harpers or the tales of war and love sung by bards.

Behind was the chapel. On the floor above a corridor ran from one end of the building to the doors which separated the royal sleeping-rooms from the rest. On either side of the corridor were small bed-chambers, where the officers of the household and guests at the court slept, their attendants lying in the corridor itself or in the kitchens, which with other offices were contained in a separate building. The room assigned to Wulf, and which Harold had ordered was henceforth to be retained for him, was that on the right hand of the corridor, next to the door leading to the royal apartments. Like the others it was a mere cell, with the straw pallet covered with sheep-skins, with some rugs for covering. This constituted the whole of the furniture. In the morning water was brought in brass ewers and basins, either by the pages or servants of the guests.

"Nothing could be better, my lord, than this," Osgod said. "I am a light sleeper, and lying across your door I am sure that no one could enter the king's apartments without my hearing those heavy doors move."

"There is but little chance, Osgod, of an attack being made on him in that fashion. Doubtless some of the royal servants sleep on the other side of the door. No, if any design be attempted against his life it will be when he is travelling, or when he is abroad amid a crowd."

"I saw Walter Fitz-Urse to-day, master, in the train of William of London."

"Then he must have returned within the last day or two, Osgod, for he has been absent for more than a year, and I know that when we sailed for Normandy he was still absent, for I inquired of one of the court officials if he had been here of late. What should bring him back again, I wonder. He has long been out of his pageship, and he can hope for no preferment in England while Harold is king. He has, I know, no great possessions in Normandy, for I asked Guy about him, and learned that his father was a knight of but small consideration, either as to his state or character, and that the boy owed his place as page to William of London, to the fact that he was a distant relation of the prelate.

"I would say harm of no man, but I should think he is as likely as another to be mixed up in such a plot as we are talking of. He is landless, hot-tempered, and ambitious. He owes no goodwill to Harold, for it was by his intervention that he was sent away in disgrace after that quarrel with me. At any rate, Osgod, since we have no one else to suspect, we will in the first place watch him, or rather have him looked after, for I see not how we ourselves can in any way keep near him. He knows me well, and has doubtless seen you with me, and having seen you once would not be likely to forget you."

"I think I can manage that," Osgod said confidently. "My father has a small apprentice who well-nigh worries his life out with tricks and trifling. I have more than once begged him off a beating, and methinks he will do anything for me. He is as full of cunning as an ape, and, I warrant me, would act his part marvellously. My father will be glad enough to get him out of the forge for a while, and when I tell him that it is in your service he will make no difficulty about it. He is fifteen years old, but so small for his age that he would pass for three years younger than he is."

"I think it is a very good plan, Osgod. You had best see your father in the morning, and if he consents to your having the boy, bring him down to the river-bank behind the abbey, where I will be awaiting you, and can there talk to him without observation. You are sure that he can be trusted to keep silence regarding what I tell him?"

"He can be trusted, my lord. In the first place he will enjoy playing his part, and in the second he will know well enough that I should nearly flay him alive with my stirrup-leather if he were to fail me, and that his life in the forge would be worse than ever."

The next morning Wulf strolled down to the river-bank after breaking his fast, and it was not long before Osgod joined him with the boy.

"Have you told him what he is required for, Osgod?" Wulf asked, as the boy, doffing his cap, stood before him with an air of extreme humility.

"I am not good at the telling of tales, as you know, my lord, and I thought it better that you should tell him just as much or as little as you chose."

"You don't like your work at the forge, Ulf?" for that Wulf had learned was the boy's name.

"I think that I like it better than it likes me," the boy replied. "When I get to do the fine work I shall like it, but at present it is 'fetch this tool, Ulf, or file that iron, or blow those bellows,' and if I do but smile I get a cuff."

"No, no, Ulf," Osgod said. "Of course, at present you are but a beginner, and at your age I too had to fetch and carry and be at the bidding of all the men; and it is not for smiling that you get cuffed, but for playing tricks and being away for hours when you are sent on a message to the next street, and doing your errands wrongly. My father tells me you will be a good workman some day. You will never be strong enough to wield a heavy hammer or to forge a battle-axe, but he says your fingers are quick and nimble, and that you will some day be able to do fine work such as clumsy hands could not compass. But that is not to the point now."

"You will be glad to be out of the forge for a bit, Ulf?" Wulf asked.

"That should I, but not always."

"It will not be for very long. I want a watch set upon a Norman in order to know where he goes, and whom he meets, and what he purposes. Osgod tells me that he thinks you could play the part rarely, and that you would be willing for his sake to do our bidding."

The boy looked up into Osgod's face with an expression of earnest affection.

"I would do anything for him," he said, "even if I were to be cut to pieces."

"Osgod is as much interested in the matter as I am, Ulf; and as he has assured me that you are to be trusted, I will tell you more as to the man, and my object in setting you to watch him."

"You can trust me, my lord," the boy said earnestly. "I will do your bidding whatever it is."

"You know, Ulf, that the Duke of Normandy desires the crown of England?"

"So I have heard men say, my lord."

"Were King Harold out of the way, his chances of obtaining it would be improved."

The boy nodded.

"I am sure that the duke himself would take no hand in bringing about Harold's death, but there are many of his people who might think that they would obtain a great reward were they to do so."

The boy nodded again.

"The man I wish you to watch is Walter Fitz-Urse, who is in the train of the bishop. I have no particular reason for suspecting him, beyond the fact that he has but just come over here, and this is scarcely a time a Norman would come to London; though as the bishop is a relation and patron of his he may have come merely to visit him. Still he has, as he thinks, a cause for enmity against the king. He is needy, and, as I know, somewhat unscrupulous. All this is little enough against a man; still it seems to me that his coming bodes danger to the king, and this being so I desire that he shall be watched, in order that I may find out what is his real object in coming over here. I want you to post yourself near the gate of the bishop's palace, and whenever he comes out to follow him save when he is in the train of the bishop -- most of all if he sallies out alone or after dark.

"It will not do for you to be always dressed as an apprentice. Osgod will procure for you such clothes as you may require for disguises. One day you can be sitting there as a beggar asking alms, another as a girl from one of the villages with eggs or fowls. You understand that you will have to follow him, to mark where he goes in, and especially, should he be joined by anybody when out, to endeavour to overhear something of what they say to each other. Even a few words might suffice to show me whether my suspicions are true or not. Do you think you can do that? Osgod tells me that you are good at playing a part."

"I will do it, my lord, and that right gladly. It is a business after my own heart, and I will warrant that those who see me one day will not know me when they see me the next."

"Osgod will go with you now, and will stay near the bishop's palace until the man you are to watch comes out, and will point him out to you. In a day or two I may be going away with the king; when we return you will tell us what you have found out. Till we go, Osgod will meet you here each morning as the abbey bell rings out the hour of seven. You can tell him anything that you have learned, and then he will give you such further instructions as may seem needful; and remember you must be cautious, for Walter Fitz-Urse would not hesitate to use his dagger on you did he come upon you eaves-dropping."

"I will give him leave to do so if he catches me," the boy said.

"Very well, then; Osgod will go with you to buy such clothes as may be necessary, and remember that you will be well rewarded for your work."

"I want no reward," the boy said, almost indignantly. "I am an apprentice, and as my master has bid me do whatever Osgod commands, he has a right to my services. But this is nothing. There is not one in London who would not do aught in his power for Harold, and who would scorn to take pay for it. As this is a matter in which his very life may be concerned, though I am but a boy, and a small one at that, there is nought that I would not do, even to the giving of my life, to spoil these Norman plots."

Osgod was about to chide the boy angrily for this freedom of speech, but Wulf checked him.

"You are right, lad; and I am sorry I spoke of a reward. I myself would have answered the same at your age, and would have died for Harold then as I would now. I should have bethought me that the feelings of Englishmen, gentle or simple, are the same towards the king, and I crave your pardon for treating your loyal service as a thing to be paid for with money."

The boy's eyes filled with tears; he dropped on one knee, and seizing Wulf's hand placed it to his lips, and then without a word sped away, halting a hundred yards off till Osgod should join him.

"You have made a good choice," Wulf said; "the boy is wholly trustworthy, and unless his face belies him he is as shrewd as he is faithful. My only fear in the matter is, that he may be over rash in his desire to carry out the trust we have given him. Warn him against that, and tell him that should he be discovered and killed it would upset all our plans."



Chapter XV.


A Meeting By The River.

During the three days that elapsed between Ulf's being set upon the track of Walter Fitz-Urse and the departure of the king for the North, the boy had no news to report to Osgod. The young Norman had not left the bishop's palace alone. He had accompanied the prelate several times when he went abroad, and had gone out with some of his countrymen who still held office at the court. In one or other of the disguises Wulf had suggested, the boy had hung about the gate of the bishop's palace until late in the evening, but Walter Fitz-Urse had not come out after dark. On the day before starting, Wulf was with Osgod when the latter met the boy at the rendezvous.

After he heard Ulf's report Wulf said: "As we leave to-morrow this is the last report you will have to make to us. So far it would seem that there is nothing whatever to give grounds for suspicion, and if, after a few days, you find that the Norman still remains quietly at the bishop's, there will be no occasion for you to continue your watch until the time is approaching for the king's return."

"Yes, my lord. But I cannot say surely that he does not go out of an evening."

"Why, I thought you said that he certainly had not done so?"

"No, my lord; I said only that I had not seen him. He has certainly not gone out through the great gates in his Norman dress, but that it seems to me shows very little. As the bishop's guest he would pass out there, but there is another entrance behind that he might use did he wish to go out unobserved. Even at the main entrance I cannot tell but that, beneath the cowl and frock of one of the many monks who pass in and out, Walter Fitz-Urse may not be hidden. He would scarce go about such a business as we suspect in his dress as a Norman noble, which is viewed with little favour here in London, and would draw attention towards him, but would assume, as I do, some disguise in which he could go about unremarked -- it might be that of a monk, it might be that of a lay servitor of the palace."

"You are right, Ulf; I had not thought of that. That is indeed a difficulty, and one that I do not see how you can get over. Are you sure that he has not passed out by the main gate?"

"I have marked his walk and carriage closely, my lord. He steps along with a long stride, and unless he be a better mummer than I judge him to be, I should know him whether in a monk's gown or a servitor's cloak. It is no easy thing to change a knight's stride into the shuffle of a sandalled monk, or the noiseless step of a well-trained servitor in a bishop's palace."

"You are a shrewd lad indeed, Ulf," Wulf said warmly; "and I feel that you will fathom this matter if there be aught at the bottom. But, as you say, you cannot watch more than one place."

"The other entrance is not altogether unwatched, my lord. The first day you gave me my orders I went to one of my cronies, who has shared with me in many an expedition when our master deemed that we were soundly asleep. Without, as you may be sure, giving any reason, I told him that I had come to believe that the Norman I pointed out to him was in the habit of going out in disguise, and that I was mightily curious to find whither he went and why, and therefore wanted him to watch, at the entrance behind the palace. I bade him mark the walk of the persons that went out, and their height, for the Norman is tall, and to follow any who might come out of lofty stature, and with a walk and carriage that seemed to accord ill with his appearance. So each evening, as soon as his house was closed and the lights extinguished, he has slipped out, as he knows how, and has watched till ten o'clock at the gate. It seemed to me that that would be late enough, and indeed the doors are closed at that hour."

"You have done well, Ulf; but has not the boy questioned you as to your reasons for thus setting a watch on the Norman?"

"I have told him nought beyond what I have said, my lord. He may guess shrewdly enough that I should not myself take so much trouble in the matter unless I had more reason than I have given; but we are closely banded together, and just as I should do, without asking the reasons, any such action did he propose it to me, so he carried out my wishes. I cannot feel as sure as if I had watched him myself that Fitz-Urse has not passed out in disguise unnoticed, but I have a strong belief that it is so. At any rate, my lord, you can go away with the assurance that all that is possible shall be done by us, and that even if he pass out once or twice undiscovered there is good hope that we shall at last detect him."

After again commending the boy, Wulf returned to the palace with Osgod.

"I feel half ashamed of having entertained a suspicion of Fitz-Urse on such slight grounds, Osgod."

"I think you have done quite right, my lord. You know how the fellow gave a false report to the bishop of that quarrel with you. At any rate, should nothing come of it, no harm will have been done. As to the boys, so far from regarding it as a trouble, I feel sure that they view it as an exciting pleasure, and are as keenly anxious to detect the Norman going out in a disguise as you yourself can be. When they get tired of it they will give it up."

Ulf, at any rate, was determined not to relax his watch during the absence of the king. The more he thought of it the more certain he felt that if Walter Fitz-Urse went out on any private business after nightfall he would use one or other of the entrances at the rear of the palace, and accordingly next day he arranged that one friend should watch the front entrance of an evening, while he himself took post behind. As soon as it was dark he lay down by the wall close to the entrance at which the servitors generally passed in and out. The moon was up but was still young, and the back of the palace lay in deep shadow; a projecting buttress screened him to a great extent from view, while by peeping round the corner he could watch those who came out and see them as they passed from the shadow of the building into the comparatively light space beyond.

Many came in and out. The evening was bitterly cold, and his teeth chattered as he lay, cautiously putting his head beyond the edge of the stonework every time he heard any one leaving the palace. The heavy bell had just struck eight, when a man wrapt up in a cloak passed out. He differed in no respect from many of those who had preceded him, save that he was somewhat taller. The hood of the cloak was drawn over his head. Ulf raised himself to his knees and gazed after the figure. The man was walking more slowly than the others had done, for most of them had hurried along as if in haste to get their errands finished and to be in shelter again from the keen wind.

"If that is Fitz-Urse, he is walking so as to avoid the appearance of haste in case anyone should be looking after him," Ulf muttered to himself. "At any rate I will follow him, he is more like the Norman than anyone I have yet seen, though he carries his head forwarder and his shoulders more rounded." As he watched him, the boy saw that as he increased the distance from the palace the man quickened his pace, and when he came into the moonlight was stepping rapidly along.

"That is my man," Ulf exclaimed. "He knows well enough that no one is likely to be standing at the door, and thinks he need no longer walk cautiously." Feeling sure that even if the man looked back he would not be able to see him in the shadow, he started forward at a run, paused before he reached the edge of the moonlight, and then, as soon as the figure entered a lane between some houses, ran forward at the top of his speed. The man was but a hundred yards in front of him when Ulf came to the entrance of the lane. Just as he turned into it the man stopped and looked round, and Ulf threw himself down by the side of a wall.

"That settles it," he said to himself. "No one who had not a fear of being followed would turn and look round on such a night as this."

Ulf was barefooted, for although he generally wore soft shoes which were almost as noiseless as the naked foot, he was dressed in rags, and a foot covering of any sort would have been out of place. Always keeping in the shade, having his eyes fixed on the man he was pursuing, and holding himself in readiness to leap into a doorway or throw himself down should he see him turn his head, he lessened the distance until he was within some fifty yards of the other. The man took several turns, and at last entered a long street leading down to the river. As soon as Ulf saw him enter it he darted off at full speed, turned down another lane, and then, when he got beyond the houses, and on to the broken ground that lay between them and the river, ran until he was nearly facing the end of the street which he had seen the man enter, and then threw himself down.

He had scarcely done so when he saw the figure issue from the street and strike across the open ground towards the water. Crawling along on his stomach Ulf followed him, until he halted on the bank. The man looked up and down the river, stamped his foot impatiently, and then began to walk to and fro. Presently he stopped and appeared to be listening; Ulf did the same, and soon heard the distant splash of oars. They came nearer and nearer. Ulf could not see the boat, for it was close under the bank, which was some twenty yards away from him, but presently when the boat seemed almost abreast of him the man on the bank said, "Where do you come from?"

"From fishing in deep water," a voice replied.

"That is right, come ashore."

The words were spoken by both in a language Ulf could not understand, and he muttered a Saxon oath. The thought that any conversation Fitz-Urse might have with a Norman would naturally be in that tongue had never once occurred to him. Three men mounted the bank. One shook hands with Fitz-Urse, the others had doffed their caps and stood listening bareheaded to the conversation between their superiors. It was long and animated. At first the stranger stamped his foot and seemed disappointed at the news Fitz-Urse gave him, then as the latter continued to speak he seemed more satisfied.

For fully half an hour they talked, then the men got into the boat and rowed away, and Fitz-Urse turned and walked back to the palace.

Ulf did not follow him. The meeting for which Fitz-Urse had come out had taken place, he would be sure to go straight back to the palace. Ulf lay there for some time fairly crying with vexation. He had done something, he had discovered that Fitz-Urse was indeed engaged in some undertaking that had to be conducted with the greatest secrecy; but this was little to what he would have learned had he understood the language. His only consolation was that both Wulf and Osgod had likewise forgotten the probability that the conversations he was charged to overhear might be in Norman.

Had Wulf still been in London he could have gone to him for fresh instructions, but he had started at daybreak, and the king's party would assuredly ride fast. There was no time to be lost. These men had a boat, and probably came from a ship in the port. Were there really a conspiracy against the king they might sail north and land in the Humber, though it seemed more probable that they would wait for his return, for on his journey he would be surrounded by his housecarls, and there would be far less chance of finding him alone and unguarded than in London. Had it been their intention to sail at once for the North, Walter Fitz-Urse would probably have rowed away with them without returning to the palace. At any rate it was too important a matter for him to trust to his own judgment, and he determined to take counsel with his master.

He had not been near the forge since he had begun the search, and was supposed to have gone down to stay with his family, who lived near Reading. He had hidden away his apprentice dress beneath some stones in a field half a mile from Westminster, and he presented himself in this at the forge in the morning.

"You are back sooner than I expected, Ulf," Ulred said as he entered. "I did not look for you for another week to come. Is all well at home?"

"All is well, master; but I have a message to deliver to you concerning some business."

The armourer saw that his apprentice wished to speak to him in private. He knew nothing of the reason for which Osgod had asked him to release the boy from his work at the forge for a time, but had quite understood that the wish to pay a visit to his family was but a cloak, and that the boy was to be employed in some service for Wulf. Guessing, therefore, that the message was one that should be delivered in private, he bade the boy follow him from the forge and took him into the room above.

"What is it you would say to me, Ulf? Mind, I wish to hear nothing about any private matter in which you may be engaged either by Wulf or Osgod. They are both away and may not return for a month or more. I judged the matter was a private one, as Osgod said nought of it to me."

"The matter is a private one, master, but as they are away I would fain take your counsel on it."

The armourer shook his head decidedly. "I can listen to nought about it, boy. It can be no business of mine, and unless he has given you license to speak I would not on any account meddle with the affairs of the young thane, who is a good lord to my son."

"That he has not done, sir; but I pray you to hear me," he added urgently as the armourer was turning to leave the room. "It is a matter that may touch the safety of our lord the king."

The armourer stopped. "Art well assured of what you say, Ulf?"

"For myself I can say nothing, master, but the young thane told me that he had fears that some attempt or other might be made from the other side of the sea against the king's life, and that although he had no strong grounds, he thought that Walter Fitz-Urse, who had just returned here, might be concerned in it, he having reasons for enmity against the king. Therefore he appointed me to watch him."

He then related the scene he had witnessed on the river bank the evening before.

"It is a strange story indeed, Ulf, and whatever it may mean, this meeting can have been for no good purpose. The secrecy with which it was conducted is enough to prove it. It is indeed unfortunate that you did not understand what was said, for much may depend upon it. Well, this is a grave affair, and I must think it over, Ulf. You have done well in telling me. Has any plan occurred to you?"

"I thought that you might accompany me, master."

"That would I willingly, but though I have picked up enough of their tongue to enable me to do business with the Normans at the king's court when they come in to buy a dagger or to have a piece of armour repaired, I could not follow their talk one with another. We must obtain someone who can speak their language well, and who can be trusted to be discreet and silent. Why, were it but whispered abroad that some Normans are plotting against the life of the king, there would be so angry a stir that every Norman in the land might be hunted down and slain. Do not go down to the forge, I will tell my wife to give you some food, and you had best then go up to the attic and sleep. You will have to be afoot again to-night, and it were well that you kept altogether away from the others, so as to avoid inconvenient questions. I will come up to you when I have thought the matter over."

"Is aught troubling you, Ulred?" the armourer's wife asked when breakfast was over and the men had gone downstairs again to their work. "Never have I seen you sit so silently at the board."

"I am worried about a matter which I have learned this morning. It matters not what it is now. Some time later you shall hear of it, but at present I am pledged to say no word about it. I want above all things to find one who speaks the Norman tongue well, and is yet a true Englishman. I have been puzzling my brains, but cannot bethink me of anyone. Canst thou help me?"

"Except about the court there are few such to be found, Ulred. If Wulf of Steyning had been here he could doubtless have assisted you had it been a matter you could have confided to him; for Osgod said that although he himself had learned but little Norman his master was able to talk freely with the Norman nobles."

"Ay, he learnt it partly when a page at court. But what you say reminds me that it was but yesterday afternoon his friend Beorn came into my shop. He had just arrived from his estate, and said how disappointed he was at finding that Wulf had left London. I will go to the palace and see him at once. I know but little of him save that I have heard from Osgod that he is Wulf's firmest friend, and they fought together across in Normandy and again against the Welsh. He has been here several times to have weapons repaired, and knows that Osgod is Wulf's man. I wonder I did not think of him, but my thoughts were running on people of our own condition."

Ulred at once put on his cap and proceeded to the palace, where he found Beorn without difficulty.

"You have not come to tell me that the blade I left with you yesterday cannot be fitted with a new hilt, Master Ulred? It is a favourite weapon of mine, and I would rather pay twice the price of a new one than lose it."

"I have come on another matter, my Lord Beorn. It is for your private ear. May I pray you to come with me to my house, where I can enter upon it without fear of being overheard?"

"Certainly I will come, Ulred, though I cannot think what this matter may be."

"It concerns in some way the Thane of Steyning, my lord, and others even higher in position."

"That is enough," Beorn said. "Anything that concerns Wulf concerns me, and as he is in the matter you can count on me without question."

Upon reaching his house Ulred left Beorn for a moment in the room upstairs, and fetched Ulf down from the attic.

"This is an apprentice lad of mine," he said, "and as it is he who has been employed by the Thane of Steyning in this affair, it were best that he himself informed you of it."

When Ulf had finished his story Beorn exclaimed, "I will go at once, and will put such an affront upon this Walter Fitz-Urse that he must needs meet me in mortal combat."

"But even if you slay him, my lord, that may not interfere with the carrying out of this enterprise, in which, as we know, another of equal rank with him is engaged."

"That is true, master armourer, and I spoke hastily. I thought perhaps it was for this that you had informed me of the matter."

"No, my lord; it seemed to me that the first thing was to assure ourselves for a certainty that the affair is really a plot against the king's life, of which we have as yet no manner of proof, but simply the suspicion entertained by my son's master. The first necessity is to find out for a truth that it is so, and secondly to learn how and when it is to be carried out; and this can only be by overhearing another conversation between the plotters. As you have heard, Ulf could have learnt all this if he had but understood the Norman tongue. Could I have spoken it well enough to follow the conversation I would not have troubled you, but it seemed to me that at their next meeting it needed that one should be present who could speak Norman well. After considering in vain how to find one who should at once know the Norman tongue and be a true and trustworthy Englishman, my thoughts fell upon you, of whom I have always heard my son speak as the companion and friend of his master, and I made bold to come and lay the matter before you, thinking that you might either take it in hand yourself or name one suitable for it."

"Certainly I will take it in hand myself," Beorn said, "and right glad am I that you came to me. A matter in which the king's life is concerned I would trust to no one but myself. And now, how think you shall we proceed? for it may well be that these plotters may not meet again for some time, seeing that the king is away."

"So it seems to me," the armourer said; "and, moreover, they may in their talk last night have appointed some other place of meeting."

"What think you, Ulf?" Beorn said, turning to the boy. "Wulf would not have chosen you for this business had he not had a good opinion of your shrewdness; and, indeed, you have shown yourself well worthy of his confidence."

"I should say, my lord, that I must go on the watch as before. It is most likely that the Norman will, sooner or later, go out in the same disguise and by the same way as before, and that the hour will be between seven and nine in the evening -- most likely between seven and eight, in order that he may return from the meeting before the bishop's doors are closed for the night."

"I will keep watch with you, Ulf. Were I sure that the meeting would take place at the same spot as before you should show me where they landed, and I would lie down there in readiness, but as they may meet elsewhere, it seems to me that I must post myself by your side."

"It would be better, my lord, if you would take your place on the other side of the open space, for although I, being small, can escape notice, you might well be seen by those approaching the door. It will be necessary, too, that you should put on sandals of soft leather or cloth, so that your footfall should not be heard. Then, as I follow him, I would run to where you are posted, and you could follow me, so that you could keep me in sight and yet be beyond his view, for all our plans would be foiled should he suspect that he was being followed."

"I will do as you advise. Come with me now and we will fix upon a station to night, and afterwards you may be sure of finding me there between half-past six and ten. Should you wish to see me at any other time you will find me at the palace; I will not stir out between eight and nine in the morning. I must say I wish it were warmer weather, for a watch of three hours with the snow on the ground -- and it is beginning to fall now -- is not so pleasant a way of spending the evening as I had looked for when I came hither."

Beorn went out with Ulf, and they fixed upon a doorway some twenty yards from the street down which the Norman had before gone.

"We must hope he will go by the same way," Beorn said, "for should he turn to the right or left after issuing from the gate he will have gone so far before you can run across and fetch me that we may well fail to pick up his track again. It were well if we could arrange some signal by which you would let me know should he so turn off. It would not do for you to call or whistle."

"No, my lord; but I could howl like a dog. He would but think it some cur lying under the wall I might howl once if he turns to the right, twice if he turns to the left, and you could then cross the ground in that direction, and I could meet you on the way without losing sight of him for long."

"That would do well, Ulf, if you are sure you could imitate the howl of a dog so nearly that he would not suspect it."

"I can do that," Ulf said confidently. "I have used the signal before with my comrades, and to make sure will go out to the fields and practise daily."

A month passed. Harold was still away in the North, and complete success was attending his journey. The influence of Bishop Wulfstan, who was greatly respected throughout the kingdom, did much, but Harold himself did more. His noble presence, his courtesy to all, the assurances he gave of his desire that all men should be well and justly ruled, that evil-doers of whatever rank should be punished, that there should be no oppression and no exaction of taxes beyond those borne by the whole community, won the hearts of the people. They were, moreover, gratified by the confidence that he had shown in coming among them, and in seeing for the first time in the memory of man a monarch of England in Northumbria.

Ulf and Beorn had kept regular watch, but without success, and Ulf's comrades had as steadily watched the other entrances. Beorn had two or three conferences with Ulf. He was becoming impatient at the long delay, though he acknowledged that it was possible it had been arranged that no more meetings should take place until it was known that Harold was about to return. The armourer was perhaps the most impatient of the three. He was doing nothing, and his anxiety made him so irritable and captious at his work that his men wondered what had come over their master. After fretting for three weeks over his own inaction, he one morning told Ulf to go to Beorn and say that he begged to have speech with him. An hour later Beorn returned with Ulf.

"I bethought me last night, my lord," Ulred said, "while I lay awake wondering over the matter, whether these fellows are still on board ship or are in lodgings in London."

"It might be either, Ulred. I have frequently thought over the matter. Possibly they may have stayed on board their ship till she left, and then have come on shore in the guise of peaceful traders."

"If the ship did not return at once they may still be on board," the armourer said, "for the wind has blown steadily from the east for the last five weeks, and no ships have been able to leave the port. I blame myself sorely that I did not think of it before, but at least I will lose no time now if you think that good might come of it."

"It would certainly be good if you could find either the ship or the house where the men are in lodging, but seeing that you know nothing of their appearance or number, nor the name of the ship in which they came nor the port she sailed from, I see not how you could set about it."

"I will first go to the port-reeve's office and find out the names of the ships that arrived just before the time that the meeting by the river took place. She may have come in early that day, or on the day before. They would surely send word at once to him that they had arrived."

"You might learn something that way, Ulred, but we do not know that the meeting Ulf saw was their first."

"That is true. But as Ulf's friend declares that he certainly had not gone out that way during the evenings that he had been keeping watch, it is likely that it was their first meeting."

"That is so, Ulred; and at any rate it would be well that you should make the inquiries, and that, while we are keeping our watch as before, you should try to gather some tidings of the fellows in another way."



Chapter XVI.


A Voyage North.

The armourer found without any difficulty that twenty-five vessels, exclusive of small coasters, had arrived in the port during the thirty-six hours previous to the time of the meeting on the bank. Of these, eighteen were from English ports, seven from Normandy, France, or Flanders. Three of the latter had sailed away, and of the four remaining in the port two were from Rouen, one from Calais, and one from Flanders. Having obtained the names of these, he took boat and rowed down the river and ascertained where each lay at anchor. He then, with the assistance of some citizens of standing of his acquaintance, obtained a view of the manifests of their cargoes. The Flemish vessel carried cloth, the other three miscellaneous cargoes -- wine, dried fish, cloth, and other goods.

The Flemish vessel was the largest, those from Rouen and Calais were about the same size. All had discharged their cargoes, and were waiting for a change of wind to drop down the river. There was nothing unusual to be observed on any of the ships. The men were for the most part down in the forecastle, for the weather was too severe for them to lounge about on deck. He talked the matter over with Beorn, and they agreed that it was most probable that the men would embark from Calais rather than Rouen. It was a far shorter and less perilous voyage, and moreover, as Frenchmen they could move about without attracting attention, while as Normans they would be viewed with a certain amount of hostility and suspicion.

"I will make it my business to watch that vessel. I know not whether any good can come of it, but I would fain be doing something. If the wind changes she will doubtless proceed to sea, and if they are still on board of her they will come ashore, and I could see their numbers and where they put up."

"That will indeed be important," Beorn said, "for we should then have two places to watch, and should be almost certain to get to the root of the matter. But how will you watch her?"

"There are many houses near the water's edge, on the southern side of the river near which the ship is lying, she having moved away from the quays when she discharged her cargo. I will hire a room in one of these, and will there pass as much of my time as I can; and I will take with me my apprentice Ernulf, whom I shall bid keep his eye upon the ship whenever I myself am away. I need say nothing whatever of the reason of my desire that I should be acquainted with everything that passes on board."

Ulred succeeded in getting a room exactly opposite the French vessel, and sitting back from the window, was able, himself unseen, to notice everything that passed on board the ship, which lay scarce her own length from the shore. Upon the third day a boat containing a man wearing an ample cloak with a hood, which was pulled far over his face, rowed up to the side of the ship, and climbed up right nimbly into her waist.

"It is a Saxon cloak," the armourer said to himself, "but those are Norman leggings. The man is tall, and the quickness with which he climbed over shows that he is young. I doubt not that it is our man. I would give a year's profits of the forge to be hidden down below at present. However, it is much to have learnt that this is really the ship, and that the Norman's friends are still on board. I would that Wulf were in London. He has a keen wit, and would hit on some plan by which we might get to the bottom of the matter. Beorn is a brave young thane, and were Wulf here would second him valiantly, but he has none of the other's quickness of thought. As soon as this fellow leaves the ship I will hurry back to take counsel with him, and hear what the boy Ulf, who is a marvellously shrewd little knave, may think of the matter."

Half an hour later the boat put off again; a man came to the side with the visitor and retired below as soon as he left the ship. Ulred at once hurried off, hailed a boat a short distance higher up and was rowed to Westminster. As soon as he gained the house he despatched Ulf to Beorn. The latter listened to the discovery that had been made, and then asked the armourer what he advised should be done.

"That is just what I am at a loss about, my lord. Doubtless were we to go to the city and tell the port-reeve that there are men on that craft who have designs against the king's life, he would pounce upon them and throw them into jail. But we have no evidence to give in support of the charge."

Beorn nodded his head in agreement. "If I had half a dozen of my own men here," he said hotly, "I would go down in a boat after nightfall, seize the vessel, and put all on board to the sword."

"That would hardly do, my lord," the armourer said gravely. "On the high sea doubtless the thing might be done, but here in the port of London it would be a desperate undertaking, especially as we have nought that in the eyes of the law would in any way justify such action."

"Well, let us have your own advice, then," Beorn said impatiently. "You think they cannot be arrested and they may not be slain. What do you counsel shall be done!"

"I see nought to do but to continue to wait and to watch. We are better off than we were before, inasmuch as we know where these men are."

"Yes, but we do not know where they will be to-morrow, for we know nothing of what passed between Fitz-Urse and them; doubtless some settlement of their plans has been come to. They may land or may sail away, for methinks from the look of the sky there is like to be a change in the weather. You see, the Norman may have taken them news that Harold will soon be on his way back, for indeed a message arrived from him this morning with news that all things had been well-nigh settled, and that he will shortly make for York, where he is to wed the sister of the Northern earls. It may be that the ship may be bound thither also. You left your apprentice on the watch, I suppose?"

"Yes, I bade him keep his eye on the ship, and should any men leave her he is to follow on their track and mark their movements."

"At any rate there can be little need for me to watch this evening," Beorn said. "As Fitz-Urse has seen the others to-day he cannot want to meet them to-night."

"No, that is certain," the armourer agreed; "but with your permission I will call Ulf in. I told him before I sent him to you what I had observed. Are you going to watch again this evening, boy?" he asked when Ulf entered. "Methinks there can be little chance of his going out again to-night."

"I shall keep even a stricter watch than usual, master," Ulf said, "for it may be that the agreement at which they arrived to-day is that they sail north, and in that case Walter Fitz-Urse may go on board the ship, and hide there until the wind changes and they can get up sail."

"I think the boy is right, my lord. In a dark matter like this, where we know so little, it behoves us to provide for every chance. But I think not that there can be any need for you to be on watch, for it can hardly be that they will hold another consultation on the river bank."

Ulf returned soon after ten o'clock. "He has not gone out by my gate, master, but I find that my comrade is missing. When I went round as usual to the other entrance he was not there."

"Perhaps he was tired and went home."

"No, indeed," the boy replied indignantly; "he has sworn to do what I told him, and he knows that it would be bad for him if he broke his word; besides, we are sworn comrades. He has never before failed me, and I cannot but think that he must have seen the man go out and followed him. I instructed him that if at any time he saw a man like the one we are looking for he was to follow him wherever he went, and to bring me word whether he met anyone and whether he returned to the palace or went into any house. If he did so he was to make a small mark on the door-post with chalk, so that in the morning he would be able to point it out with surety. I will sit at my window and watch, and I warrant it will not be long before he is here."

Half an hour later Ulf heard steps rapidly approaching; then a low whistle. He put his head out of the window.

"What is the news, Edwyn?"

"A man came out in a cloak. He was tall. I followed him and heard a sword clink under the cloak, and so felt sure it was the man we have been looking for. I stole after him. He went straight down to the river and gave two short calls. A boat was rowed up. Only a word or two was spoken, and then he took his seat in it, and it was rowed away down the river."

"You have done well, comrade," Ulf said. "I warrant that some good will come to us through your discovery. Good-night."

Ulf went and knocked at his master's door, and on Ulred opening it he told him the news.

"I will go down right early," the armourer said.

"It is beginning to rain, master. The frost has broken, and the wind is soft and warm."

"So much the worse, boy. I will be up at daylight, and you shall go down the river with me. I may want to send you back with a message to Beorn."

Next morning they had rowed near to London Bridge when they saw a boat approaching. The day had broken, but the light was still uncertain. As the boat approached, however, Ulf said: "There is a boy in the boat, master, and he wears an apprentice's cap. Maybe that it is Ernulf." The other boat was keeping close inshore, for the tide had begun to run down. The armourer told the boatman to row closer in, and presently called the boy's name.

"Yes, master, it is I; I was just coming to you with news."

In a couple of minutes the boats were alongside of each other. "What is your news, Ernulf? But I can guess; the ship has sailed."

"Yes, master; I lay down by the open window, and an hour before day broke I was aroused by the creaking of ropes, and looking out could see that the ship was getting up sail. Tide was then just on the turn, and five minutes later her sails were spread and she went down the river. I came off to tell you, but was some time before I could get a boat."

"Come on board here, Ernulf," the armourer said, "your message has saved us further journey." He then paid off the lad's boatman, and with his two apprentices returned to Westminster. "Beorn will be up by this time, Ulf. You had best go and tell him the news. I will come with you to save time, though I see not that there is aught to be done."

The thane at once came out and chatted for some time with Ulred, while Ulf stood by, cap in hand. "It is certain that something should be done, and yet I see not what it can be. What think you, boy? I see by your eyes that you would fain speak."

"I should say, my lord, that it would be a good thing if we could discover whether the Norman is still at the bishop's palace. He may have returned early this morning."

"That can easily be done," Beorn said. "I will send my man to the bishop's and bid him ask one of the servants if Walter Fitz-Urse is in. He need not say that he comes from me, only that he has a message to deliver. If the servant says he is there I will bid my fellow slip away when the man goes to fetch him down. Supposing he has gone, as I should think he has done, what then?"

"Then, my lord, I think there is more danger than if the Norman remained here. It may be that the Normans have returned to France and abandoned any plans they may have entertained. But it seems to me far more likely that they have gone north to carry out the enterprise."

"Whither, think you, will they be bound, Ulf?"

"I should say to the Humber, my lord. They may on landing proceed to York, or, if they have really designs against the king's life, may take post somewhere on the road down from that city."

"By my faith the boy is right," Beorn said. "What say you, master armourer?"

"I say the same, my lord. The villains have slipped through our fingers, and we can do nought to stay them. It seems to me that not an hour should be lost in sending a warning to the Thane of Steyning."

"I will mount myself and ride north," Beorn said.

"And I, my lord, will at once go down to the port and inquire if there be a ship sailing to-day for the Humber. Scarce a day passes that one or more do not start for the northern ports. Yes, Ulf, I shall take you with me. You are charged with this business by the Thane of Steyning, and I am but aiding you in it. I will go straight away to the city, my lord, and if a ship be sailing -- and after so long a bout of east wind it is like that many will be doing so -- I will be back in an hour with the news. Maybe I can find a quick sailer, and shall be at one of the ports in the Humber before the craft that left this morning."

"By the time you return I shall have found out whether Fitz-Urse is at the bishop's palace, and shall have my horses ready to mount."

The armourer learnt in the city that several ships for the North had already dropped down the river, and that three others were hastily completing their lading, and would follow by the next tide. He learnt from a trader that one of them was considered especially fast, and being acquainted with the owner, he took the armourer with him, and arranged for a passage for him and the boy.

"You will have to be on board this afternoon," the owner said. "The shipmaster will not waste a tide, but as soon as it turns will up anchor and make his way down the river in the dark. He knows the channel well, and there will be light enough to enable him to hold on his course all night. The east wind may return again, and he might be caught; so he has decided to start as soon as the last bale is on board. He knows the sands well, and you may reckon on a speedy passage if the wind holds as it is, or even if it goes round to the east again, when he is once abreast of Harwich."

On returning to Westminster Ulred learnt from Beorn that Fitz-Urse was there no longer, having, as the servant said, left for Normandy.

"I am just starting, Ulred. Which will be at York first, you or I?"

"It depends upon the wind, my lord. A ship can sail night and day, but a horse and rider must take some rest. It may be that we shall lay to at night, but that must depend upon the shipmaster. If the breeze holds and the ship goes on without stopping, methinks we shall be there before you."

"At any rate," Beorn said, "we may feel sure that we shall both be in time. Whatever their designs they will have to lay their plans and wait their opportunity, and such may not come for some time. Farewell, then, Ulred, and a safe voyage to you. As for me, I have had enough of the sea, and never wish to set foot on board ship again; for what with the want of space and the tossing and the sickness, I would rather pass the time in bonds in a prison cell than be cooped up in a ship."

A few minutes later Beorn, attended by his servants, started for the North, and in the afternoon Ulred, after giving many orders to his head man as to the conduct of his business during his absence, took boat, and with Ulf went on board the ship. To the armourer it was a very serious undertaking upon which he was embarking. He had never before set foot on board of a ship, and a sea-voyage in those days was regarded as a very dangerous business. Nothing short of his loyalty to Harold would have induced him to have ventured on such an expedition. It was but a few months since that the Northumbrians had been burning and sacking the country round Northampton, and even putting aside the dangers of the sea, he regarded the visit to the North as full of peril.

Ulf on the other hand was delighted. To him the journey was full of interest and excitement, and on his return he would be regarded as a great traveller by his comrades. His face, therefore, as he climbed on board ship, was in strong contrast to the grave and serious visage of his master. Before the vessel had passed Greenwich he had made the acquaintance of the two ship's-boys, and soon felt perfectly at home on board. He watched with great interest other craft that they met or passed, and noted with great satisfaction that they overhauled several who had, when first seen, been two or three miles ahead. The wind was blowing briskly from the south-west, and with her great sail set the vessel ran quickly through the water. Even when the tide turned she held on her course, and keeping close inshore made good way against it. Many times during the night he went out from the close sleeping-place to assure himself that the vessel was still making way. When morning broke the tide had again turned, and Ulf found that the vessel was now holding her course near the middle of the river, which had widened to an extent that seemed wonderful to him.

"Where have we got to now?" he asked one of the boys. "Are we out at sea? There does not seem to be any land on the right hand."

"You would see it if it were clear. We are just opposite Foulness."

"The vessel rolls about a good deal."

"Do you feel ill?" the boy laughed. "This is nothing."

"No; I feel hungry, but that is all."

"If the wind holds as it is we shall not have it rougher than this, for we shall steer more and more north, and as we always keep inside the sands the land will shelter us. The shortest passage is straight ahead, but we generally go through a channel between two sands into the Wallet, which lies between the sands and the Essex shore. There are not many ship-masters who will come down the river below Sheerness at night, and even our master would not try it with a falling tide; but even if one does touch when the tide is rising, one soon gets off again. She won't roll about so much when we get inside the sands; and besides, I heard the master say that he thought the wind would fall lighter as the sun got up."

"I should like it to keep on just as it is," Ulf said. "I do not want it to blow so hard that we must go into port, and I don't want it to blow so light that we shall go slowly."

"What are you in such a hurry for?" the boy asked.

"There are some people my master knows who have gone up in a ship that started yesterday morning, and my master wants to be there before them."

"You need not be afraid, he is sure to be there first. Like enough we have passed them already. The wind was not so strong yesterday as it was in the night, and I expect they had to anchor when the tide turned. If they have a master who knows the sands well they may have gone on when the tide turned again, but it was likely they would anchor before they got down to Sheerness. If they did, we passed them three or four hours ago. But anyhow you are sure to be in first. We often beat vessels that started with us, by a week. Most of them go outside all the sands when it is fine weather, but we always keep inside; and it makes a great difference, for the tides do not run so strong, and even with a light wind we can make way against them, while those outside have to anchor."

"I can't make out how you can find your way in the dark."

"If it is a thick night and the weather is bad we anchor, but when it is clear enough to see the stars, or if the wind is steady so as to give us our direction, we go on. There is a man always standing at the side with a lead-line, and that tells us the depth of water, which is quite guide enough for the master. Of course we never sail in rough weather, for if we went on the sand then we should soon go to pieces; but if it is fine when we stick fast, which is very seldom, we put out the anchor and lower the sail, and go to sleep until the tide floats us again. Come up into the top; you can see a great deal farther from there than you can from the deck."

Ulf found no difficulty in mounting to the top, although he was much longer than his companion in getting up. There were several sail following them, and Ulf was surprised at the knowledge his companion showed of vessels that appeared to him almost precisely similar.

"The one nearest to us is the Alfred," he said. "I know her by that patch on her sail. She trades with Harwich. Those two smaller craft behind are bound, I should say, for Colchester or Maldon. That craft two miles ahead of us is a foreigner. You can see her sail has a longer yard than the others, and the sail is narrower at the bottom than it is at the top. Those two or three small craft you see more inshore have passed through the channel we shall follow into the Wallet. The farthest one is going on to Harwich, the others into the rivers. There is a craft about our own size hull down close by the land. She may be going to Harwich, or may be going on north. She looks to me like a foreigner. If so, she has come last from London. French and Flemish ships do not come within fifty miles of this. And now I must go down. We do the cooking, and breakfast must be ready in half an hour, or the master will be storming at us."

The wind held steadily from the south-west, and the vessel ran along near the shore in smooth water. The armourer had been ill the first night, but he came on deck soon after breakfast, and when once the vessel was past the mouth of Harwich Bay and was close inland, he soon recovered. On the morning of the fourth day after leaving port she entered the mouth of the Humber, and by nine o'clock arrived at Hull. Landing at once the armourer found a small vessel on the point of starting for York, and in half an hour from the time of weighing anchor the tide turned, and they ran rapidly along, helped by the flood.

"At what time will you reach York?" the armourer asked the master.

"By daylight to-morrow. We shall sail on until the flood is spent, and then anchor and go on again as soon as the ebb has done."

"How far will you be from York when you anchor?"

"We shall most likely get to Selby, some fourteen miles away by the road, though farther by the turns of the river."

"Could you put us ashore there, for we are anxious to reach the city as soon as possible?"

"Oh, yes. I will put you ashore in the boat either there or wherever else we may bring up."

They were three miles short of Selby when the ebb began to come down and the anchor was dropped. The armourer and Ulf were at once landed, and shouldering their bundles they set out at a brisk pace and passed through Selby at four o'clock. No questions were asked them. There was but small difference of dress between the people of the various parts of England, and it was no unusual sight to see traders and others passing along the road on their way to the Northern capital.

"I am right glad to be on firm land again," Ulred said; "for although, after the first night, matters have been better than I expected, there was always a movement that seemed to make my head swim."

"I liked it, master," Ulf said, "and if it were not that I am going to be an armourer I would gladly be a sailor."

"You might not have said so if you had seen bad weather; and moreover, it is one thing to be a passenger with nought to do but to amuse yourself, and another to be always hauling at ropes and washing down decks as a sailor. I am glad night is coming on, for I feel strange in this country I know nothing of, and in the dark one place is like another."

"I would much rather walk along this road in the dark," Ulf laughed, "than along some of the streets of London, where one may step any moment into a deep hole or stumble into a heap of refuse."

"At any rate, in the dark no one can see we are strangers, Ulf, and though I should not think there would be robbers on the road so near to York, these Danes are rough folk, and I want to meet none of them. One man, or even two, I in no ways fear, but when it comes to half a dozen even the best sword-player may wish himself out of it."

They met, however, but one or two men on the road, and beyond exchanging the usual salutation nothing was said; but Ulred was well pleased when about seven o'clock they entered the streets of York.

They had already learned that the royal marriage had taken place on the previous day, and that the king was expected to remain in York two days longer before journeying south. There was a banquet being held at the archbishop's palace, where the king was lodged, and on arriving there they found that it would at present be impossible to get at Wulf, as supper had just been served. A small bribe, however, was sufficient to induce one of the bishop's servants to take the message to Osgod, who would be stationed near his master's chair, that his father was at the entrance and prayed him to come out to him as soon as possible. A few minutes later the tall Saxon came out with an expression of utter bewilderment on his face.

"Is it really you, father, in flesh and blood?" he exclaimed as his eyes fell on Ulred.

"I have never been taken for a ghost, Osgod, and if I were to give thee a buffet methinks you would have no doubt upon the matter."

"But what brings you here, father? If they had told me that the great Abbey tower stood without I could not be more surprised."

"Do you not see that I have brought Ulf with me, Osgod? If your head were not so thick you would guess at once that I have come about the business with which he was charged."

Osgod looked relieved. That his father should be in York had seemed to him so strange and outrageous that he had first doubted his own eyes, and then his father's sanity. Now for the first time the object of his coming flashed upon him.

"Is there danger, father?"

"Methinks there is great danger. But the story is a long one."

"Then I cannot wait to hear it now, for I must needs return to Wulf. I whispered in his ear that I must leave for a moment, but that I should be back directly."

"Then just whisper to him again, Osgod, that I have urgent need for speech with him. I suppose Beorn has not arrived?"

"Beorn!" Osgod repeated vaguely.

"The Thane of Fareham," the armourer said sharply. "Are your wits wool-gathering altogether?"

"No, he is not here; nor has Wulf said a word of his coming, as he assuredly would have done had he expected him."

"Well, when I tell you that he is riding from London, while I have come thence by sea, you may suppose that we thought the matter urgent."

"I will tell Wulf at once, father, but I am sure that he cannot come out for an hour yet."

"The matter will keep that while. I will go and look for a lodging for us and get something to eat, for we have walked some seventeen miles, and my legs are not so accustomed to exercise as my arms. In an hour we will be here again."

Ulred and his apprentice had returned to the gate of the bishop's palace but a few minutes when Wulf came out, followed by Osgod. "Your message must be an important one, indeed, Ulred, to cause you to leave the forge and to undertake so long a voyage. And you say Beorn is riding hither on the same errand?"

"He is. It is a sort of race between us, and it seems that we have won."

"Let us step aside from here," Wulf said. "There are too many gathered about to stare at the guests as they come and go for us to talk unobserved. The cathedral yard is close by, and there will be no fear of eaves-droppers there."

"It is Ulf's story," the armourer said when they reached the shadow of the cathedral. "It is to him that the matter was committed, and though he was forced to take me into his confidence, the merit of following up the matter, if merit there be, is his."

Ulf accordingly related the story of his watching, the discovery he had made by the river, and how Walter Fitz-Urse had been afterwards seen to embark and had not returned. Ulred then stated how he had discovered the ship from which the boat had come, and had seen the Norman go on board, and how, when he learned that the ship had sailed, he had, after seeing Beorn, taken passage in another vessel. "We have come up fast," he said, "and the opinion of the master was that we have gained a full day on any craft that started that morning. Of course, we know not that the villains have come hither; they may have returned to France, they may have gone up some of the other rivers in order to take post on the road the king will follow on his way south. But at any rate we felt it right that you should know that Fitz-Urse, with those with whom he has been holding secret communication, have left London."

"You have done rightly indeed, Ulred, and in the king's name and for myself I thank you heartily. Of course, we are still without any proof that Fitz-Urse is conspiring against the king's life. It was unfortunate indeed that Ulf did not understand the first conversation he heard, but I ought to have foreseen that it was likely that any talk Fitz-Urse might have with others would be in Norman. I cannot think now how I could have overlooked such a probability. Of course, in the years that he has been over here he has learnt to speak our language, but it would be with Normans he would deal in the matter of which we suspect him. I will give myself the night to think over the matter before I decide what steps we had better take. Inside the bishop's palace, at any rate, the king is safe, and, as you say, it is not likely that the Normans can be here for a day at least. If their ship is a French one the master will be ignorant of the dangers of the coast, and instead of threading his way through the channels of the sands, as your master did, will have held his course far outside them. I would we knew how many men are engaged in the matter."

"As to that we have no clue," the armourer said. "There was the man of his own rank and the other two who met him on the bank, but whether these were all, or whether there were a score of others on board the ship, I know not. Certainly none showed themselves on the deck while I was watching them. But this proves nothing. They would naturally be kept in concealment, for had there been an unusual number of men on board, inquiries would have been made as to whom they were and their business."

"I will meet you here at seven to-morrow morning, Ulred, and we shall then have time to talk the matter over more fully."



Chapter XVII.


An Attempt At Assassination.

When Wulf met the armourer next morning in the cathedral close he was accompanied by Beorn, who said, laughing, to the latter, "You have beaten me fairly, friend Ulred, and it is well that I had no wager with you on the race. But it was not by much, for I rode in here as the bells were chiming eleven. I was glad to hear from Wulf when I roused him up that he had learnt all the news from you, for indeed I was sore weary, and was right pleased to wrap myself in my cloak and go straight to sleep instead of having to sit up for an hour expounding my story."

"We have resolved in the first place, Ulred, to say nought of this matter to the king," began Wulf. "He will have enough to occupy all his thoughts in the affairs of the kingdom, and in the second place his nature is so open that he will refuse to believe in such villainy unless upon strong proof, and of actual proof we have none. Beorn's appearance here will excite no surprise. He will say that having nought in particular to occupy him he had ridden north to be at the wedding, and finding that he was too late, would at any rate ride back with the king. With him and me and Osgod ever on the watch, methinks there will be little fear of a surprise; and it is by surprise only that they can succeed, for Harold himself is a match for any four or five ordinary men if he has but time to draw his sword. I will, however, on some excuse have half a score of Harold's housecarls placed under my orders, and sleeping or waking the king shall never be a moment unguarded.

"I should not think it is likely that Fitz-Urse will have more than five or six men associated with him in such an enterprise. He would not take more into his confidence than he could help, and six would suffice as well as a score for a surprise; and that number could travel in disguise without exciting attention, while twenty would assuredly do so; therefore I feel sure that we shall not have to deal with more than six, including the two leaders. Ulf, do you station yourself at the river-bank and mark any vessels arriving. If the men come hither they will probably do as you did, leave their ship at Hull and come up by a local trader. They would thus avoid all questions they might be asked if passing through the country on foot."

"And what is there for me to do, my lord Wulf?" the armourer said. "Frankly, I have gone so far in this matter that I would fain see it through."

"Of course we reckon upon you, Ulred. I have been talking it over with Beorn, and it seemed to us that the best thing will be for you to ride with Osgod. You can either make some slight change in your clothes and ride as a man of mine, or you can ride as Osgod's father, who, having come up here on matters connected with your business, have obtained permission to ride in my train with him. I will see that you have that permission."

"I care not how I go so that I can be at hand if there is a blow to be struck for the king."

"Then in that case, Ulred, it were best you went as my man, for you would then have the entry of the houses where the king will stop and can aid us in keeping guard."

"That will do well for me," Ulred replied. "Ulf had best journey back as he came. He might go by ship after the king has left here."

"No, he shall travel with us. I will see the chamberlain who has charge of the arrangements of the journey, and will get leave for him to ride in the waggons with the servants."

During the three days before the king left York Ulf kept a vigilant watch over the boats that came up the river, but he could see nothing of the men he was searching for. Wulf had bought a horse for the armourer, and when they started the latter took his place by Osgod's side, while Ulf was seated in one of the waggons. The king rode with Bishop Wulfstan, next to them rode the four thanes who had accompanied them through their journey, and next to these Wulf and Beorn came on together. Behind came the queen's litter, with a guard of housecarls, the main body of whom rode just behind, while the waggons and servants brought up the rear.

"We need not trouble ourselves on the march, Beorn. It is not while the king rides with so strong a following that the blow will be struck."

"I see not when they can ever get a chance," Beorn said. "The king will stop always at religious houses, and they will scarcely storm a convent to get at him."

"They would not attempt to storm it, Beorn, but they might enter it secretly. But for my own part I think the most dangerous time is when he mounts or dismounts. There is always a crowd assembled to see him, and two or three reckless men might rush forward and stab him."

"It would be at the cost of their own lives," Beorn objected.

"It might be, but they would reckon much on the confusion that would follow, and might think so to get away. They would probably have horses somewhere close at hand, and might ride for the port where they had left their ship. It is a great stake they are playing for, and doubtless they are desperate men; though they would know the danger they might calculate that some at least would escape to claim the reward. Then again, they might manage to mingle with the servitors at one of the places where we stop. This would not be difficult, for many beside the usual establishment would be hired to aid in the preparations for the reception of the king. That might be their safest plan, for were he stabbed suddenly at a meal the assassins might very well escape in the confusion."

The first night they slept at a monastery at the village of Bautre. The establishment was but a small one, and could entertain only the king and queen, with the thanes and their personal attendants. The rest of the train were lodged in the village. Although they had little fear that an attack would be ventured in so quiet a village where the presence of strangers would at once attract attention, Wulf, Beorn, and Osgod kept watch in turns all night in the corridor. The night passed without cause of alarm, and the next day they rode to Nottingham, where they were lodged in the bishop's palace. Beorn and Wulf agreed that this was the place where there was the greatest likelihood of an attack being made on Harold's life. The ship might have sailed up the river and landed her passengers a few miles from the town, where, among the number of country people who would flock in to obtain sight of the king, no one would think of questioning strangers. The armourer and Ulf were charged to wander about the streets, and to closely scan every face. Wulf had with some difficulty obtained from Harold the command of twelve of the soldiers.

"I have my reasons, my lord king, though I would rather not state them. I would remind you that I have shown that it is not my habit to take alarm lightly. Your brother Gurth laughed at me when I begged to watch over his camp with my housecarls, and I saved him from a sudden attack by the Welsh thereby."

"Then you think that there is danger of an attack upon me, Wulf?"

"I said not so, my lord. I have only begged you to appoint twelve of your men to obey my orders solely, during your journey to London."

"You shall do as you like, Wulf," the king said at last. "You have proved yourself brave as well as prudent before now, and are not given to vain fears, therefore do as you please, but let me know nought about it. I shall have to receive the visits of all the thanes of the neighbourhood when I reach Nottingham, and the same in other towns. There will be many persons coming in with petitions for the redress of grievances, and I would not have my thoughts disturbed by other matters."

"You shall know nought about it, my lord," Wulf said. "It is like enough that nothing will come of the matter, and none will be more glad than myself to find that I am mistaken."

Orders accordingly had been given to the officer of the king's guard to hand over twelve of his men to Wulf, and the latter had begged him to choose twelve of his most intelligent men for this service. As soon as they reached Nottingham Wulf took his small command aside.

"You have been chosen," he said, "for a special duty. I have learned that there are disaffected men who may possibly make an attempt on the king's life. You are to say no word of what I tell you to anyone. Meet me over by that wall half an hour after sunset. Gather quietly one by one so as to attract no attention. You will be posted round the palace, to keep watch and ward during the night. As soon as it is daylight half of you will lie down and sleep till mid-day, and then be in readiness for fresh duty. The others I will instruct as to where to hold themselves. The king will remain here two days, and watch must be kept over his safety night and day."

As soon as their apartments were assigned to the different guests Wulf went outside and examined the windows of the rooms to be occupied by the king. They were on the first floor, and looked into a garden surrounded by a high wall.

"At any rate, there is little fear of a successful surprise from this side," Wulf said to Beorn, who was with him. "It would need a ladder to scale the wall; this would have to be pulled up for them to descend into the garden, and then carried across to mount to the window. If we post Ulred with two men here and let four others lie down near to change guard every two hours, it will be ample, for on an alarm being given, the Normans however numerous will see that their attempt must fail. We can therefore send the other six to bed after supper is over, for we cannot suppose that they would be so daring as to force their way into the palace at any other point."

As soon as it was dark Ulred and six of the soldiers were placed in the garden; the others were directed to hold themselves in readiness to take their post in the banqueting-hall. Just before the bell sounded for supper Wulf was told that a boy desired to speak to him at the gate. He hurried out, and, as he expected, saw Ulf waiting there.

"What news, Ulf, -- hast seen Walter Fitz-Urse?"

"I have not seen him, my lord, but I am sure that I heard him speak. There was a great crowd in the square after the king had entered, and among those round me I heard one man speak to another in a foreign tongue, and the voice was assuredly that of Walter Fitz-Urse. It was but two or three words he said, but having listened to him for well-nigh half an hour that night by the river, I am certain I was not mistaken in the voice. Close beside me were two cowled monks, and I believe that it was one of them who spoke. I looked round at the faces of the other men standing near, but they all seemed honest countrymen or town folk. I should have followed the monks to see where they went, but at that moment there was a rush among the crowd to see some mummers who had just commenced their antics, and I was swept along by it; and though I have been searching ever since, and have so stared up into the cowls of monks, that I have been cursed as an insolent boy many times, I have not seen our man."

"Thanks, Ulf. It is something to have learned that he is here. As to his disguise, he may by this time have changed it. Still, I will be on my guard, and will take care that no cowled monk approaches too closely to the king. Take your place here at the gate and watch all who come in and out, and if you see aught suspicious send in a soldier, whom I will place by your side, to fetch me out."

One of the men was accordingly placed with the boy with orders to come to Wulf, whether at the table or in the king's room, the moment Ulf told him to do so. When the others went into the banquet Wulf posted two men just outside the door, and placed the other three back against the wall nearest to the king's chair. Here, standing against the arras, they were concealed from the sight of the guests by the crowd of servitors passing to and fro.

"Stand with your hands on your daggers," Wulf said to them, "and watch every man who approaches the king, no matter of what degree he may appear. Be ready to spring forward in an instant if you see his hand go to his dagger."

The bishop and king sat next to each other in the centre of the table on the dais; on either side were the king's thanes, abbots and other dignitaries of the church, and the nobles of the country. Wulf and Beorn had begged to be excused from supping, and permission had been readily granted by the king, as he knew that the bishop would be glad at having two extra seats at his disposal; and they also, standing back by the wall, closely scrutinized the movements of the attendants. It was a relief to them when supper was over and the bishop and his principal guests retired to a private room. The five soldiers were then told that they would not be required until morning.

Wulf went out to the gate, and learnt from Ulf that he had seen no one enter whom he took for Fitz-Urse.

"He may have gone in by some other entrance, my lord," he said, "for there are three or four ways into the palace."

"We shall be on watch inside, Ulf. You need stay no longer. Be here in the morning at seven."

After the king and queen had retired to bed and the palace was quiet Wulf, Beorn, and Osgod stole from their room, and noiselessly passed along the corridors until they came to the king's apartment, and then lay down across the door. They were to keep watch in turns, Osgod being told to keep the first watch and to rouse Wulf at midnight. This he did, and Wulf lay for some time listening intently. The corridor was faintly lit by two lamps, one at either end. Wulf had chosen the middle watch, because he thought that if any attempt was made it would be soon after midnight, as the assassins would wish to have many hours of darkness in which to make their escape. He knew that Beorn was a sound sleeper, and could scarcely be trusted to keep awake from midnight until four o'clock, and that it were best he himself watched during that time.

Half an hour passed, and then he heard a very slight noise. A moment later four figures appeared at the end of the corridor. He dared not wake his companions, for they might speak or move, but he grasped his sword-hilt, having drawn the blade in readiness when Osgod woke him. The men advanced stealthily, and as they approached he saw they had drawn swords in their hands. They paused a few paces away, and in a whisper one said:

"Here are three fellows asleep; what shall we do with them?"

"Draw your daggers and stab them to the heart," another replied. "Each take one, and do not bungle over it. As you strike I will open the door and rush in. Now!"

Wulf had gathered his legs under him in readiness to spring to his feet as soon as he saw the figures, and as they swiftly advanced he leapt up with a shout and crossed swords with the man nearest to him.

"Cut him down! Kill him! It is too late to draw back now!" one of the men cried. The others, who had recoiled a moment when Wulf sprang up, rushed at him just as he cut down the man he had first engaged.

"Cut them down and fly!" the one who had before given orders exclaimed, lunging furiously at Wulf.

"Easier said than done, Walter Fitz-Urse!" Wulf exclaimed, as he parried a blow and dealt one in return. It lighted on his opponent's shoulder, but the blade shivered in his hand, for it had fallen upon mail armour concealed under the Norman's garment.

"It is my turn now!" Fitz-Urse exclaimed, and raised his sword to strike a sweeping blow at Wulf's head, but before it could fall the latter leapt forward and caught the uplifted wrist, the impetus of the spring throwing his opponent backwards, while Wulf fell heavily upon him, and for a moment they rolled over and over. But Wulf was by far the most powerful, and speedily got the upper hand. He had not noticed that his opponent, while holding his sword in his right hand, had his dagger already drawn in his left. The sword had flown from Fitz-Urse's hand as he fell, and Wulf, believing him to be powerless, glanced round to see how the fray went with the others, when the Norman stabbed him deeply in the side. Before he could repeat the blow Wulf snatched his own dagger from his girdle and buried it in the assassin's throat Then he raised himself on his left hand. It was but a matter of seconds since the fight had commenced, but it was already over. Osgod had slain one man, Beorn was following a flying opponent down the corridor, and Harold, sword in hand, had just rushed from his chamber. Wulf saw no more, but fell over insensible by the side of his adversary.

"What is all this?" Harold shouted as he turned to Osgod, the only figure standing, raising his sword as he spoke, for in the dim light he did not recognize him.

"It means, my lord, that there has been an attempt on your life. I am Osgod, Wulf's man. I fear my brave young master is killed!" and he dropped on his knees by Wulf's side. By this time doors were opening all along the corridor, and the king's thanes and other guests, awakened by Wulf's shout and the clashing of swords, were pouring out, armed with the first weapon they could snatch up.

"Bring lights!" Harold shouted. "My life has been attempted, and I fear that the brave Thane of Steyning is killed."

The alarm spread fast, and the palace so lately hushed and silent was now in an uproar, while the bishop with many other ecclesiastics, with servants, retainers, and men-at-arms, mingled with the thanes.

"Keep all back!" Harold cried. "Let none approach these bodies until we have examined them."

Torches were soon brought. Harold seized one, and bent over Wulf's body.

"Is he dead?"

"His heart beats, but feebly, my lord," Osgod replied.

"Where is he hurt?"

"There is a great patch of blood here on his right side just over the hip. I see no other sign of a wound."

"We will carry him into my chamber," the king said. "But no; I forgot, the queen is there. We will take him into the room opposite; it matters not whose it is. Now, Osgod, aid me to lift him gently. Bishop, I pray you send for the leeches most skilled in the treatment of sword wounds in the city." Then he and Osgod carried Wulf into the chamber opposite his own, and laid him on a pallet.

"Now see to the staunching of the flow of blood till the leeches arrive. I must inquire into this matter. Who knows aught about it?" he asked as he went out into the corridor.

"I do, my lord king," Beorn replied as he pushed his way through the throng. "It was a plot to take your life. Wulf, his man Osgod, and myself had no certain knowledge of it, but we had cause for suspicion, and therefore lay outside your door. We were to take it in turns to watch. Wulf was on guard, and as I awoke at his shout I saw him cut down that villain who lies there with a cleft skull There were three others. I fell upon one, Osgod took another, while Wulf engaged the man who seemed to be the leader. Wulf's sword broke, but he closed with his opponent and they fell together. Osgod ran his man through, and my opponent fled. I could not catch him until he reached the door, but as that was closed he could fly no farther, and I slew him there."

"Who and what are these men, good Beorn?"

"They are, I believe, Normans; but I know naught for certain beyond the fact that the leader, he with whom Wulf was engaged, is Walter Fitz-Urse, who was a page of the Bishop William of London, and was well known at the court."

Exclamations of fury and indignation broke from those around, with the cries of "Death to the Normans!"

Harold raised his hand. "Silence, my friends. Let us be fair and just as it becomes Englishmen. There are villains of all nations, and it is not because four caitiffs have thought to do a good service to their duke by getting rid of me that we should blame men who will abhor this crime as much as we can do. First let us see if Beorn is right as to this man. Hold a torch to his face. It is Fitz-Urse truly. He was of knightly blood, but has died in a most unknightly business. Wulf's dagger is still in his throat. Let us see if we know anything of the others."

"I think that you will find them all strangers, my lord," Beorn said. "I believe they came from beyond the sea to do this deed."

The man whom Wulf had first slain was evidently by his dress a person of some rank; the other was of inferior station, as was also, as it was found, the man Beorn had killed.

"Now, my lord bishop," the king said calmly, "we have a right next to ask you how these men came to be in your palace. Know you aught of them?"

"I know nothing of them," the bishop replied. "So far as I am aware I have never seen any of their faces before, and assuredly they were not here with my cognizance. I will at once question all my people shrewdly, and woe be to him who has admitted strangers here unknown to me at the time when you were beneath my roof."

"And have this house searched from basement to roof, bishop. It may be that there are others in hiding."

"With your permission, my lord," said Beorn, "I will at once take your men, of whom we have posted six under your window, and will call up some more and search the town. It is likely that there are others without with horses held in readiness for these assassins to escape."

"Do so, Beorn. It will be well if we can catch some at least, so that we can get to the bottom of this matter."

The bishop at once ordered his armed retainers to accompany Beorn, and then proceeded to interrogate his officials and the domestics, and to see that the latter made a complete search of the palace. All denied any knowledge of strangers having entered, and the search revealed nothing but four monks' gowns and hoods found wrapped up in a bundle in a small room downstairs. Further questions had been then put. Some of the domestics remembered that four monks had entered the palace late in the evening, and one of the under chamberlains said that he had seen them, and they had told him that they had just arrived from Flanders, and craved permission to sleep in the palace for the night, as they were going on to Peterborough in the morning. He had told them that this was impossible, as he could give no permission without the leave of the bishop, who was at present with the king and could not be disturbed, and that, moreover, every room in the palace was occupied. He had given them the address of a citizen, who would he was sure take them in. They had thanked him, and said that they would go there, but doubtless instead of doing so they had slipped aside, and had hidden themselves in the room where their gowns were found. It was one used only for the storage of garments for poor travellers who came along, and no one was likely to enter it on such an evening.

This discovery was a great relief to the bishop and all within the palace, as it showed that they were not there with the connivance of any of the prelate's people. Before the matter was fully unravelled Beorn returned. They had in a quiet spot a short distance from the palace come upon two men with six horses. Before they could run up and seize them the two men had leapt up into the saddles and galloped furiously away. Unfortunately the other four horses had followed, and immediate pursuit was therefore impossible. The housecarls had run to the spot where their horses were stabled and had gone off in pursuit, but Beorn feared that the men would have far too great a start to be overtaken. One of the officers had ridden with the housecarls, and Beorn had told him to keep by the river-bank, as the men would assuredly make for a ship that was lying somewhere down the river, though whether at a distance of two miles or of twenty he knew not. Long before Beorn's return Wulf's wound had been examined. Unguents had been poured into it and bandages applied. The surgeons were of opinion that it was a very grave one, but that at present they could not say how the matter would terminate.

"Your story will keep till the morning, Beorn," the king said. "It is still five hours to daylight, and we may as well retire to rest, unless, indeed, you know that there are others engaged in the affair in London or elsewhere who should be arrested before the news of the night's business reaches them."

"I know of none such," Beorn said, "and believe that these four and the two who have escaped were alone concerned in it. I will bring with me in the morning a man and a boy who know more than I do of the matter; they and Osgod, with whom Wulf will assuredly have talked it over, will be able to tell you all that was known up to the moment when these men entered the palace."

The armourer and Ulf told their story in the morning, and Beorn took Osgod's place by Wulf's bedside, while he too was questioned by the king. The latter then went to Wulf's chamber.

"What say the leeches this morning, Beorn?

"They are somewhat more hopeful, my lord. They say that his heart beats more strongly than it did last night, Osgod says that he has not moved or opened his eyes, but they say that this is not a bad sign, and that it may be anxiety has brought on an exhaustion, for his breathing is more like that of one who sleeps than of a man wounded to death."

"His face has grieviously changed since yesterday," the king said sadly, looking down upon Wulf. "I would give my right hand rather than that he should die. You have of a surety saved my life among you, Beorn, you and his stout man-at-arms and the worthy armourer and that shrewd apprentice of his for had they entered my chamber and taken me unawares they would have slain me without doubt."

"I have done the best I could since I learnt from the armourer the suspicion that Wulf entertained, but the whole thing is Wulf's doing. Had I heard that Walter Fitz-Urse was back in London I should have given the matter no further thought than that it was one Norman the more. It was, as he told me, some words that Baron de Burg said when he saw him over in Normandy the other day that first set him thinking. Then, he could not understand why Fitz-Urse should return to London at this time, when Normans are not overwelcome there, and this caused him to have some sort of suspicion as to his reasons for undertaking such a journey, and determined him to set a watch on the fellow's movements. Had it been any other than Wulf who had so acted I should have laughed at his suspicions. But he is as a brother to me, and knowing how sharp are his wits I am always well content to follow him without question. I first heard of the matter after the discovery that the Norman was having secret meetings with some of his countrymen who were concealed on board a ship, and I at once felt sure that Wulf had not been running on a false trail, and so did the little I could to aid those who had the matter in hand."

"You have done well, Beorn, though as you say it is doubtless Wulf to whom the chief credit is due. I regretted at first that the other two men had escaped, but had they been taken they might, to save their own lives, have implicated others, and I might have been forced to lay a complaint against the Duke of Normandy. As it is now, the matter is at an end. Four men have tried to murder me, and have been killed. Their bodies have been buried this morning, and there is no more to be said about it.

"I was obliged to go down and show myself to the people an hour since, for they assembled in a great crowd, clamouring to see me so that they might know I was safe. I told them that while I thanked them for their loyal care, there was nought to be alarmed about. It was true that there had been an attempt on my life by four men, of whom the leader had a private grudge against me for a disservice I did him some years ago, but that all had been killed by my guards without even penetrating my chamber, and that I had run no sort of personal risk, nor had I any reason whatever to suppose that the malefactors had accomplices either within or without the palace."

Late in the evening, when the surgeons were applying pungent salts to his nostrils, Wulf opened his eyes. Osgod was standing beside him holding one of his hands.

"It is all well, master," he said. "We finished them all off, and no harm has happened to the king. You have been hurt, but I hope you will soon be better. The leeches say that you are not to talk, and you had best sleep as much as you can. They have got some stuff for you to drink here; do you lie still and I will pour it between your lips."

A look of intelligence came into Wulf's eyes as Osgod spoke; he smiled faintly, and murmured, "Thank God, the king is safe!" He swallowed a few spoonfuls of the potion Osgod held to his lips, and then closing his eyes his regular breathing soon showed that he was again asleep. On the following day the king proceeded on his way to London, Beorn remaining to nurse Wulf. The king would have loaded Ulred with presents, but the sturdy armourer refused to receive anything save a small gold cup in remembrance.

"I want no reward for doing my duty," he said. "I have my trade that keeps me, and should be no happier were I laden with money. All that I have done in the matter has been to watch for a few hours at a window, and to make a journey by ship to York, and I should be ashamed of myself indeed if I could not take that slight trouble for my king without looking for a reward."

As to Ulf he was thanked and praised, but the king decided to take no steps to alter his condition until Wulf should be well enough to be consulted in the matter. It was a fortnight before the doctors were able to state with any confidence that the young thane was on the road towards recovery, and still another month before he had gained sufficient strength to be carried in a litter to London.



Chapter XVIII.


The Northern Invasion.

The news of Harold's marriage to Ealdgyth put an end to the demands of William of Normandy that Harold should take one of his daughters to wife, and in the complaints that he addressed to all Christendom against Harold the breach of his promise in this respect was placed far more prominently than his failure to carry out his oath to be the duke's man. It must have been evident indeed to all that it was beyond the power of the English king to keep this oath, obtained from him by force and treachery. He had been elected by the voice of the English people, and had no more power than the meanest of his subjects to hand the crown they had bestowed to another.

The breach of this oath, however, served to obtain all the aid that the church could give to William. Harold was solemnly excommunicated, and the struggle for which the duke was preparing thereupon assumed the character of a sacred war. In England itself the Bull of excommunication had no effect whatever. The great bulk of bishops and clergy were Englishmen, and thought far more of their king than of any foreign prince or prelate. Even the bishops and abbots of Norman blood disregarded the commination, and remained staunch to Harold. He had been a generous patron to the church, had maintained them in all the privileges and dignities that Edward had bestowed upon them, and possessed the love of the whole English people; therefore, in spite of bann and interdict the churches remained open, services were held as usual, and people were married and buried as if the Papal Bull had never been issued.

But it was not so on the Continent. The Norman barons as a body had at first refused to support the duke in an invasion of England, but as individuals they had been brought round to join in William's project, and to give far more aid in ships and men than they were bound to do by their feudal engagements. Having accomplished this, William issued an invitation to all adventurous spirits in Europe to join him in his crusade against the excommunicated King of England, promising that all should share alike in the plunder of England and in the division of its land. The bait was a tempting one. Some joined the enterprise merely for the sake of gaining glory under the banner of one who was regarded as the greatest military leader in Europe, others were influenced by love of gain, while, as in the crusades, numbers joined to obtain absolution for past misdeeds by taking part in an enterprise blessed by the Pope. Thus the force which William was collecting greatly exceeded that which the resources of Normandy alone could have set on foot.

Among the first to hurry to the court of William, as soon as Harold's accession to the throne was known, was Tostig, in whose mind the refusal of Harold to embark in a civil war for his sake, and to force him upon the people of Northumbria in spite of their detestation of him, was an injury not to be forgiven. The fact that Tostig was ready thus to sacrifice England to his own private quarrel showed a baseness and recklessness that could hardly be expected from his early career. William naturally accepted the alliance, received Tostig's oath of allegiance, and aided him in fitting out a number of ships manned by Norman and Flemish adventurers. Evading the watch kept by the English fleet they crossed the sea, landed, and plundered and ravaged a considerable extent of country, and then retired, Tostig being enraged that William of Normandy was unwilling to send an expedition to act in concert with him until the whole of his plans were prepared and his great army ready for sea.

Normandy indeed had been converted into a vast camp. In every port great numbers of workmen laboured night and day building ships, for Normandy had ceased to be a naval power, and its shipping was utterly insufficient to carry the great army across. Tostig, impatient and hasty, thought no more of the oath of allegiance that he had sworn to William. Driven from Yorkshire by the forces of the northern earls he sailed to Scotland, where he was welcomed by King Malcolm, both as a sworn brother and as the enemy of England. From Scotland he entered into negotiations with Harold Hardrada of Norway. This warlike monarch was in a fit mood to listen to his advances; he had for years been engaged in a struggle with Denmark, which he had ineffectually attempted to conquer, and had at last been forced to conclude a treaty of peace with Sweyn, its king.

Tostig had already endeavoured by personal persuasions to induce Sweyn to revive his claim to the crown of England, and to undertake its conquest; but he altogether declined to undertake so dangerous and difficult an enterprise, and Tostig had then turned to Harold of Norway. Whether his interview with him was before he went to Scotland or whether he went thence to Norway is a point on which historians differ. Some deny that any interview took place, but the balance of probability lies strongly in favour of an early interview, at which Harold entered heartily into Tostig's plans, and began at once to make preparations for the enterprise.

It was certain that an invading force from Norway would land in Northumbria, and Harold, although he might not be able to rely greatly upon the assistance of the northern earls as against the Normans, knew that they would do their best to defeat an expedition landing on their own shores, especially when Tostig was a sharer in the invasion. His own thoughts were wholly bent upon repelling the mighty expedition gathering in Normandy, and for this purpose, by immense efforts, he collected the greatest army and fleet that had ever been got together in England. An incessant watch was kept up along the coast where the Normans might be expected to land, while the fleet cruised for months between the Thames and the Isle of Wight prepared to give battle to the invaders.

But the conditions of service in England were such that it was impossible to keep a great force on foot for an indefinite time. The housecarls were the only regular portion of the army The great bulk of the force, both land and sea, consisting of the levies or militia, whose term of service was very limited. It says much for the influence of Harold that he was able for four months to keep his army and navy together. Had the foe appeared, soldiers and sailors would have done their duty, but the long term of inaction, the weary waiting for a foe that never came, was too much, and when September arrived and the harvest was ready to be gathered it was impossible even for him to keep the men longer together. The army disbanded, the levies went to their homes, and the ships of the fleet sailed away to the ports to which they belonged. All the efforts and anxieties of Harold, all his lavish expenditure in feeding and providing for so great a number of men had been thrown away. England lay for a time absolutely defenceless against the coming storm.

It was not until August that Wulf had completely recovered his strength, and was able to join the army.

"This is not a time," Harold said to him on the day he arrived at the camp, "for the granting of dignities or the bestowal of grants. But if we are successful, and I remain King of England, the services you have rendered me at the risk of your life, Wulf, shall be worthily rewarded."

"I need no reward," Wulf replied. "My estates are sufficient for all my needs, and I desire neither land nor dignity, being more than content that I have been enabled to render a service to you and to England."

Wulf was, however, at once appointed as commander of the whole of the housecarls supplied by the thanes of the south coast of Sussex. None of these bodies were equal in strength to his own carefully prepared contingent, few of the thanes having kept up more than fifteen or twenty men constantly under arms, and these only for the past few months, in consequence of Harold's exhortations. Altogether the force amounted to about four hundred men. Each party had its own sub-officer, and Wulf did his best to weld them into one body. When the army broke up, he returned with the king to Westminster. The day after he arrived there a man met him as he issued from the palace, and handed him a letter. It contained but the words:

"I would fain see you. If you will follow the bearer he will bring you to me. Say naught to any one of this message. Edith."

"Is the distance far?" he asked the man.

"It is to Croydon, my lord. I have ridden here on horseback."

Wulf at once ordered his horse to be brought to him.

"Will you be back to-night, my lord," Osgod asked, as he mounted, "in case the king should wish to see you?"

"I shall not be back till late, possibly not until to-morrow I do not tell you where I am going, in order that if you are asked you may be able truly to reply that I said nothing before I mounted, as to my destination."

It was just mid-day when Wulf drew up his horse before a modest house standing in a secluded position a quarter of a mile from the village of Croydon. Edith met him at the doorway.

"I thank you, Wulf, for answering my request so speedily. There is much that I would ask you about my lord. I hear of him only by general report, for although from time to time I send him messages I give him no opportunity for writing to me, and I know that he has respected my wishes, and has caused no search to be made for me."

"Harold sometimes speaks to me of you, lady, and has in no way forgotten you. He did charge me to find out if I could the place of your abode; not that he would seek an interview with you, but, should there be need, he might be able to send a message." By this time they were seated in the room where Edith spent the greater part of her time.

"It is better that we should not meet," she said earnestly. "His mission is to work and to fight for England; mine to remain apart from all men and to spend my time in prayers for him. I know that he places great confidence in you, as indeed he well may, for I heard how you had saved his life, well nigh at the expense of your own. Is he happy with his new queen?"

"His thoughts at present, lady, are altogether turned to public affairs, and it is well perhaps that it should be so. I do not think that he receives much sympathy from the queen, who cares more, I should say, for her brothers, the northern earls, than for her husband."

"It is scarce a wonder that it should be so," Edith replied; "though it seems strange to me that any woman could live with Harold without loving him with all her heart. And yet she may well feel that she, like Harold, has been sacrificed. There was no shadow of love between them before their marriage, in fact she may even have hated him, for it was he who brought ruin and death upon her husband, the Welsh king. She must know that he only married her in order to gain the firm alliance of her brothers, and that her hand was given by them to Harold without any reference to her feelings. I would that the king were happy, even though it were with another. But it was not for his happiness that I left him, but that England might be one. Is it true that the army is broken up and the fleet scattered?"

"It is true, lady. Save for three or four thousand housecarls, there is not an armed man in readiness to defend England."

"It must be a terrible trial to him."

"It is, my lady. He returned to town yesterday dispirited and cast down at the failure of the work of months."

"Still they will reassemble rapidly," she said, "when the Normans really come?"

"Doubtless they will. But the loss of the fleet is greater than that of the army, for at sea we could have met and almost assuredly have conquered them, for the Normans are no match for our sailors; whereas to meet so great an army of trained soldiers, with hastily assembled levies, is to fight under every disadvantage."

"And is the rumour true which says that Tostig and Harold of Norway are also preparing for an invasion?"

"All reports that come to us through Denmark are to that effect."

"It is enough to make the stones cry out," Edith said indignantly, "that a son of Godwin should thus betray England. I never thought it of him. He was headstrong and passionate; yet as a young man he was loved almost as much as Harold himself, nay, some loved him more. But it was not on account of public affairs that I brought you here, but to talk of Harold. I know nought of his daily doings, of his thoughts, or his troubles. Tell me all you can of him, Wulf."

For a long time they talked of the king. She had from the first been drawn towards Wulf by seeing how he loved Harold, and as they talked her tears often fell.

"I am proud of him," she said at last; "more proud of him than when he was the light of my life. My sacrifice has not been in vain. He is what I would have him. One whose thoughts are all fixed upon his country; who gives all his energy, all his wisdom, all his time to her service. Humbler men can be happy, but a king has higher duties than others, and for him love and marriage, wife and children, the joys of the peasant, must be altogether secondary. The good of his country, the happiness and welfare of tens of thousands are in his hands; and if in these respects he acts worthily, if he gains the blessings of his people, he can afford to do without the home joys that are so much to lesser men. You are sure that he is not unhappy? If I did but know this, I would be content."

"I do not think he is unhappy," Wulf said confidently. "He has the applause and love of all men, and the knowledge that all his work is for the good of his country and his people. He may have regrets, but he has little time to spend upon them when he has in hand so vast a work, upon which night and day his every thought is directed."

"I suppose you wish to get back to-night, Wulf?"

"I should greatly prefer it," he said.

"And I would rather that you did not remain here. It may seem inhospitable, but I feel it would be better so. No one here knows who I am, and at first my servants were plied with questions whenever they went abroad; but the wonder has died away, and the villagers have come to believe that I am, as I gave out, the widow of a court official. Should it be known that a young thane stayed here the night, it would set them gossiping afresh. Stay and sup with me before you start."

"And am I to tell the king I have seen you?" he asked.

"What think you yourself, Wulf?"

"I am sure that he would be glad to know. I need not say where you are living. I will say that you have charged me to keep it secret, and he will forbear questioning me. But I am sure that it will give him deep pleasure to know that I have seen you, to learn how you look, how you are living, how you occupy yourself, and how you think of him. It cannot but be a trial to him to know nothing of one he so loves. More than once he has told me that he wondered whether you had entered a convent, whether you were in health, how you bore yourself, and other matters."

"Tell him then, Wulf. You can tell him that great as has been my grief over our separation, I can yet feel happy in my solitude in knowing how nobly he is doing his kingly work, and that I have never wavered in my assurance that I was right when I bade him go. Tell him that I have no thought of entering a cloister; that I have my old servants and my garden and needle-work; that I spend much of my time in ministering to my poorer neighbours, and that I am getting to be loved by them. Say that my health is good, and that I have every comfort I need save his presence. Tell him that if I fall ill, and the leeches say that I shall die, I shall send for him to see me once again, but that in such manner only will we meet in this life; and that it is my prayer that he will not seek to alter my resolution, for that the pain of parting again would be more than the joy of seeing him. He is another woman's now, and that by my act, therefore it would be a grievous sin for us, loving each other as we do, to meet again, unless he or I was on a death-bed."

The supper was served early, and when it was eaten Wulf's horse was brought round to the door.

"Am I to come again?" he asked.

She did not answer for a time. "Not unless I send for you, Wulf. Our meeting has given me much pleasure, and I shall be the happier for it, but for a time our talk of the past and present will unsettle me and stir up afresh regrets and longings. Therefore, it were best that you come not again until I send for you."

The darkness was just closing in when Wulf rode into Westminster.

"The king has twice asked for you, my lord," Osgod said, as he alighted. "The last time a quarter of an hour since."

Wulf at once went to the king's closet, where he was at work with two or three secretaries, to whom he was dictating.

"I want you, Wulf," the king said as he entered. "Where hast been?" Wulf glanced at the secretaries, and Harold bade them retire till he summoned them again. Wulf then related at length his interview with Edith. Harold listened in silence.

"I am right glad at your news," he said, when the latter had finished. "It is just what I thought she would do. Her words are lofty and wise; truly a king can little hope for happiness such as that which is in the reach of the humblest of his subjects. But we will talk of this again. For the present I must think of public business. News has been brought me by a sure hand from Denmark that the fleet of Norway has sailed. 'Tis said that Harold has called out a levy of half the fighting men of his kingdom, and that he has five hundred war-ships besides transports. His son, Magnus, has been left behind to rule Norway with the title of king. Harold intends to conquer England and reign here. I must lose no moment in sending the news to the northern earls. Doubtless it is on their coast he will first land. There is no one I would sooner trust than yourself, and you shall be my messenger.

"I have the letters already written to them, warning them that every man capable of bearing arms should be summoned to their standard, and every preparation made to repulse the foe. Of help at present I can give them none; my army is dispersed, my shores undefended, and at any moment William's fleet may appear off the coast. Let them meet the Norwegians, while I meet the Normans. It is for you to press upon them the counsels I give in my letters; and I would that you should remain with them, sending messages to me from time to time, giving me full tidings of what takes place at York and how they fare in their struggle with Harold of Norway, and, as I fear, with my brother Tostig. They met you at Northampton, and they know the confidence I place in you and the services you rendered in the Welsh campaign. However, although they may receive you well I fear that your counsel will go for nought. They are haughty and headstrong, and assuredly they will not be guided by one of my thanes. Do not, therefore, press the matter with them, or risk incurring their anger. I want you to stand well with them, for so only can you learn their views and keep me informed of what is doing. Being assured that you would undertake the duty I have highly commended you to them as my representative at York, and I doubt not that you will be well received. Brothers-in-law though they are I can count on but little aid from them in our struggle with the Normans, but there they will be fighting for their own earldoms and will do their best, though I fear the result, for they have been deaf to my entreaties to keep an army on foot, and the hurried levies of the North will scarce stand against the mighty army Harold Hardrada is bringing against them."

"I will start immediately, my lord."

"Here is a royal order upon all governors and thanes to give you changes of horses and to aid you in all ways. Take that giant of yours with you, he is a faithful fellow and is not wanting in sense; you will find him of great use there. You will, of course, accompany the earls to the field. Watch well how the levies fight, it is long since they have been called upon to meet a foe, and I would fain know how much they can be trusted on the day of battle. As your own horse has travelled to-day take two of my best, here is an order to the head of the stables to deliver them to you. Is there aught else that I can do for you?"

"Nothing, my lord. I understand your wishes, and will follow them as closely as I can."

"Do not expose yourself too much on the field of battle, Wulf. I cannot spare you, and therefore charge you not to be rash, and if matters go ill to provide for your safety as far as you may."

Wulf found Osgod awaiting him in the hall below.

"I thought you might require me, master, so I waited till you had seen the king."

"You did well, Osgod. I am starting on a journey to York and you are to accompany me. We ride armed, so get on your coat of mail and take your favourite axe, then carry this order to the stables and tell them to have the two horses ready at the gates in half an hour's time; then go to the kitchen and eat a hearty meal and put up some bread and cold meat in a wallet. We shall ride fast and with few stoppages, for I have the royal order for change of horses everywhere."

"That is good news, my lord. After dawdling away the last four months doing nothing I am glad to hear that there is a chance of striking a strong blow on someone, though who it is I know not."

"Now go, Osgod, I have also to change my clothes and drink a horn of ale and eat something, though I supped but three hours since. Put my gayest suit into the saddle-bag, for I may stay some time at York, and must make a fair show, going as I do as Harold's messenger."

The journey was accomplished at an extraordinary rate of speed, Harold's order procuring them a change of horses when ever they stopped; and they but once halted for a few hours' sleep. Wulf found that Edwin and Morcar were both at York, and alighted at the gate of their residence. Announcing himself as a messenger from the king, he was at once conducted into their presence.

"It is Wulf of Steyning, is it not?" Edwin said courteously. "The message must be urgent indeed since Harold has chosen you to carry it. When did you leave him?"

"I left Westminster at nine o'clock on the evening of Tuesday."

"And it is now but mid-day on Thursday," the earl said in a tone of astonishment. "You have ridden nigh two hundred miles in less than forty hours."

"The roads are good, my lord, and I had the king's order for changes of horses whenever needed. I slept six hours at Northampton, but have ridden without other stop save to take meals. I knew that the message I bore was of importance, as you will see by the king's letter."

Edwin opened the letter and laid it before Morcar, and the two read it together.

"This is serious news indeed," Edwin said when they had perused it. "So Harold of Norway is on his way hither with five hundred warships and half the males of Norway. Since the news has come from Denmark he must already have been nigh a fortnight at sea, and if he had sailed hitherwards we should have heard long ere this of his being within sight of our shores. As we have heard nought of him it may be that his object has been misreported, and that it is not against us that his fleet is bound."

"I fear that it can have no other destination," Wulf said; "though it may be that it has sailed first to Scotland to obtain assistance from Malcolm. There, too, he will find Tostig, whom the king fears is in alliance with him."

"Then assuredly it is against us that he comes," Morcar said, "and unless the winds shatter his fleet we shall hear of him before long. But he may land anywhere from the border of Scotland to the Humber, and it is useless our trying to hinder him along so great a line. He may delay his coming as William of Normandy has done, and our men, like those of Harold, will not remain under arms for months doing nothing. With so great an army he must move slowly and we shall have plenty of time to gather our forces to meet him. Harold urges us to call out the levies at once, but he does not know the Northumbrians as we do. They will fight, and stoutly, but they will scatter as soon as their term expires. It is but six weeks since we called them under arms to repulse Tostig, and unless they themselves see the danger presses they will not leave their homes again after so short an interval. I am glad to see by the king's letter that he has charged you to stay with us for a while. We shall be glad of your presence, both as the agent of our royal brother and as one who has already proved himself a valiant and skilful soldier."

Apartments were at once assigned to Wulf in the palace, and he was treated as an honoured guest. He had been furnished by the royal chamberlain with an ample sum of money, and every two or three days despatched messengers to London. He was greatly disturbed in mind, for the earls made no preparation whatever to meet the coming storm, but continued to hunt or to hawk, to give entertainments, and to pass their time as if the news of a mighty invasion had never reached them. The first attempts he made to urge them to follow Harold's counsel were dismissed so curtly that he felt it useless to persevere.

A fortnight passed by, and then a messenger rode into York with the news that a vast fleet had entered the Tyne, and that the Norsemen were harrying and burning the country. Harold Hardrada had first sailed to the Isles of Shetland and Orkney, which, with the northern districts of the mainland, formed a powerful Scandinavian province. Paul and Erning, the two young earls of the state, and a large number of their subjects, joined the fleet, as did a Scotch contingent sent by Malcolm and commanded by Tostig, who also had with him the force he had brought from Flanders. Iceland, then a great Norwegian colony, sent ships and men, as did an Irish sovereign of Danish descent.

Roused to action at last the northern earls sent out summonses in all directions for the levies to assemble. The invaders were next heard of at Scarborough, which made a brave resistance, but the Norsemen took post on the steep hill overhanging the town, and gathering there a vast pile of wood set it on fire, and hurled blazing timbers down on the place. Many of the houses caught fire, and this spread rapidly. The inhabitants surrendered, but the greater portion was slaughtered and the town given up to plunder. Holderness, like Scarborough, bravely but unsuccessfully resisted the attack, and the great fleet sailing south entered the Humber. Hour by hour messengers rode into York bringing news of the progress of the invaders; hour by hour the Northumbrian levies poured into the capital.

Much as he had disapproved of their previous carelessness and delay, Wulf acknowledged that the two northern earls now bore themselves as men. They saw to the defences of the town, mustered all the inhabitants capable of bearing arms, arranged for the feeding and disposition of the levies, and did all that was possible at so short a notice to get them to take the field. But he saw, too, that this raw militia was but little calculated to stand before the assault of the Norsemen. There was no body of seasoned troops like the housecarls to serve as a nucleus, and to bear the chief brunt of the battle. All alike were raw, inexperienced, and badly armed, save for the axe, which was the favourite weapon of the English.

The great fleet made no stay but sailed up the Humber, packing closely in the river as it narrowed, till it seemed well-nigh covered from shore to shore with the crowded ships. It passed the little village of Selby, and cast anchor beside the left bank of the Ouse, near the village of Riccall, but nine miles' march from York. Olaf, the king's son, the two earls of Orkney, and the bishop of those islands remained on board to guard the ships, for the Northumbrian fleet, which was far too small to encounter so great an armament, had taken refuge up the Wharfe, and might descend and attack the Norse vessels were they left unguarded. The main body of the great army under the king and Tostig landed and prepared to march upon York. Sudden as the call had been there was no lack of spirit or patriotism in the English levies. Among their ranks were many priests and monks, who felt that it was their duty to aid in the defence of the land against the semi-heathen host that invaded it. The memory of the past invasion of the Norsemen, when the churches had been sacked and the priests slain on the altar, inspired them, and they and the monks responded as readily as did the laymen to the summons of the earls. These had not hesitated to consult Wulf as to the post where they had best station themselves to give battle, and the disposition of their forces. One who had distinguished himself under Duke William of Normandy, and under Harold in Wales, had, young though he was, more experience of war than any of the northern thanes, and as the representative of Harold all these were ready to listen with respect to his advice. He had already spent four or five days in surveying the ground in the direction from which the Norsemen were likely to advance, and had decided that a place known as Gate Fulford, two miles from the city, was best calculated for defence, it being situated on a narrow ridge, having the river and its swampy banks on one side, and a flat marshy country on the other. Thither the army of the earls marched to take up its position.



Chapter XIX.


Stamford Bridge.

Owing to the difficulty of getting the levies formed up and set in motion, the Norsemen had arrived on the ground and had taken up a defensive position before the English reached it. Had the force contained a strong body of housecarls, Wulf, who had talked the matter over with the earls, would have advised that they should fight on the defensive and allow the Norsemen to attack; but with freshly-raised troops, ready and eager for battle, but wanting the discipline that alone enables trained soldiers to endure patiently a long series of attacks, he thought that there was more chance of victory in attacking the enemy. Morcar commanded on the left, Edwin on the right. Wulf took up his position by the side of Morcar, and exchanged a few words with Osgod before advancing to the charge.

"This will be a right royal contest, master," the latter said as he fingered his heavy axe. "Never before have I seen a set battle like this."

"Do you keep close to me, Osgod."

"That I am sure to do, master," the latter broke in.

"Yes, I know that while we fight you will be by my side, but it may be that we shall have to fly. The Norsemen outnumber us greatly, and their king is a host in himself. This is a good position to defend, but a bad one to fly from. The king's last words were a charge to me not to throw away my life, and therefore while I shall fight as long as fighting can avail, I shall also do my best to save myself if we are defeated. As we came along I kept near to the edge of the swamp, and some hundred yards back I marked a spot where, as it seemed to me, there was a sort of path, worn either by broken men and outlaws, who may dwell somewhere in its recesses, or by men from a village beyond it. For this point, then, I shall make if we are defeated. It may be that it was not a path, but at least it offers a chance of escape. So when I give you the word, keep close to my side."

Osgod nodded. His confidence in Wulf was absolutely boundless, and though he revolted at the thought of retreat he knew well that so long as a chance of victory remained Wulf would not quit the field. When within two or three hundred yards of the enemy, Morcar advanced to the front of the line with his standard-bearer beside him.

"On men!" he shouted, and with a yell the English poured down to the attack The line of the Norsemen was on this side less strong than it was near the river where their king had posted himself, and the Norsemen gave way before the furious attack of the English. Morcar and many of his thanes fought in the front rank. Wulf was close beside him, and before their swords and the terrible axe of Osgod the invaders fell back foot by foot, and shouts of triumph rose from the English; but it was not for long. On the left Edwin could make no impression on the shield-wall of the enemy, and presently their king caused his horns to blow the signal for attack, and his line, hitherto immovable, flung itself on the English. The king, a head taller than any of his men, fought in their front rank, his terrible two-handed sword hewing down every man who opposed him. As the English gave way the assault became more and more impetuous, and in a few minutes the English broke and fled all along the line.

"All is lost, Osgod," Wulf said; as after fighting to the last he turned his back on the foe. The scene on the ridge was now terrible; the exulting Norsemen followed hard upon the flying English, uttering their shouts of victory and cutting down all they overtook. Hampered by the crowd in front of them great numbers of the English fell beneath the weapons of their pursuers, others turned to the right or left, and hundreds were smothered in the swamp by the river or in that on the other side. Once the flight began, Osgod placed himself in front of his master, his powerful figure and his weight enabling him to push his way through the crowd of fugitives. Wulf kept close behind him, and they followed the edge of the swamp until Wulf saw the faint indication of a path he had before noticed.

"Turn off here, Osgod; this is the place I spoke of. Let me go first, I am lightest."

The ground shook beneath their feet, the slime oozed up to their ankles, but, moderating their pace now, they sprang from tussock to tussock until two or three hundred yards from the edge of the swamp. Then they paused and looked round. The work of slaughter was still proceeding. Along the edge of the swamp numbers of English could be seen, some half immerged, some fast disappearing. In the din of the struggle none heard or heeded their cries, each man was occupied solely with the thought of flight or slaughter. Some half-dozen of the fugitives, seeing the two men were making their way across the swamp, had followed in their footsteps.

Slowly and cautiously Wulf moved forward again. Sometimes a treacherous tuft gave way and he slipped waist-deep into the mire, but Osgod was always close at hand, and his long arm enabled him to reach forward to his master from a firmer spot and to draw him from the bog. After an hour's painful work the ground began to be firmer, and before long they were safe in the forest beyond the swamp. Here for a while the party threw themselves down exhausted. After an hour's rest the others asked Wulf what they had best do.

"There is but one thing to be done," he replied; "make off to your homes. The remnant of the army will reach York, and the Norsemen will doubtless surround the city and lay siege to it. For the present our cause is lost, and there is nought for us to do but to try and save our lives, which have been spared well-nigh by a miracle."

Keeping south through the forest Wulf and his follower were several hours before they emerged from its shade. Another three miles' walking brought them to a village, where they learned they were six miles west of Selby. Here they obtained some food, and then bearing off so as to strike the south road arrived soon after nightfall at the house of the thane who had supplied them with their last change of horses on their way north. The news they brought excited the greatest consternation, but their host saw at once that the only hope now was that Harold might bring help, and at once placed the two horses which they had ridden to his house at their disposal. Wulf and Osgod mounted at once, and travelled southwards at a speed equal to that at which they had journeyed north.

When within a few miles of Peterborough they received news that seemed almost too good to be true. Harold at the head of a great army had already reached that town, and was pressing north at the top of his speed. From east and west he was being joined by the levies of the thanes. Riding forward to Peterborough they found the town crowded with troops, who, as they learned, were to march forward again in half an hour. Wulf at once made his way to the monastery, in which Harold was lodged.

"I need not ask your news, Wulf," Harold said, as, covered with dust and mire, and almost reeling with exhaustion, the young thane entered his private closet.

"The army of the northern earls has been well-nigh destroyed two miles from York. Whether the earls themselves escaped I know not, for I left the field while the slaughter was still going on. York will be at once besieged, and as most of its fighting men went out to the battle and a large proportion must have been slain, I fear that it can resist but a short time the attack of the Norsemen. It was good news indeed when I heard that you were advancing north."

"It is bad tidings that you bring, Wulf, but not unexpected. Directly I heard that the enemy's fleet were off our northern coast and were burning and pillaging unopposed, I speedily gathered what force I could in the South, and sending on messengers ahead to summon the levies of East Anglia to join me on the way, started north. Yesterday the news reached me that the great fleet of Norway had sailed up the Humber, and I saw that I should be too late to join Edwin and Morcar before they were forced to give battle before York. Now tell me of the fight, and how you managed to escape, for I see by your mail-coat and helmet, which are dinted and frayed and the steel rings shorn off in many places, that you were in the thick of it."

Wulf related the story of the battle, and the manner in which he had escaped.

"You did wisely, Wulf, to mark a way of retreat before the battle commenced. A good general should ever be prepared for defeat as well as for victory. So the levies fought well?"

"They did, my lord. They engaged the Norsemen gallantly and well -- much better, indeed, than I had looked for them to do, and the day went favourably until the King of Norway with his picked men threw themselves upon them. Even after that they fought sturdily for a short time, and had there been but a body of housecarls to form a shield-wall, behind which they could have rallied, the day might still have been theirs. But you look ill, my lord."

"I was on a bed of sickness when the news came; but it was no time for lying abed. For the first two or three days' marches I was carried on a litter, but I am now well enough to sit my horse. It cost me a sore struggle to leave the South unguarded simply because my orders were not obeyed here in the North. But there was no help for it, and we have been marching well-nigh night and day in hopes that we might bring this matter to a close, and return south before the Norman fleet appears off the coast. We have already marched farther than would seem possible in the time, but the men are all in good heart and eager to meet the Norsemen, and I have addressed them and shown them the urgent necessity for speed. We shall set forward again in half an hour. They have had six hours for rest, so they can do another fifty miles before they halt again. You can tarry here for a day to rest yourself, and can then ride on and overtake us."

"I will go down and take a plunge in the river," Wulf said, "and shall be ready to mount again by the time that the rearguard is in motion. I could have kept on to London had it been needful, and shall be quite ready to proceed with the army."

They were within a day's march of York when the news came that the city had surrendered without waiting for an assault. The King of Norway had offered favourable terms; a local Gemot had been held, and it had been agreed to make peace with Harold of Norway, and not only to receive him as king but to join him in his warfare against the South. Hostages were given for their fidelity to their new lord, who in return gave hostages to York for the good conduct of his troops. It was the city only that had so treacherously behaved, and the surrender by no means included the whole province. It was arranged, however, by the earls, that hostages should be given for Northumbria at large, and they promised that a hundred and fifty of these should be handed over at Stamford Bridge, eight miles north-east of the city.

Here there was a palace of the old Northumbrian kings. The spot was favourable for the encampment of an army, for the country round was fertile and the bridge across the Derwent afforded facilities for the collection of provisions over a large area. The bridge was a wooden one, the country on either side of the river was flat, but considerably elevated above the stream, with a slope down to it on both sides of the bridge.

The news of the surrender of York made no change in Harold's plans. He had come to give battle to the Norsemen, whether he did so under the walls of the northern capital or elsewhere; accordingly he pressed rapidly forward.

In a few hours the army arrived in sight of York, which, had it resisted but a day longer, would have been saved the humiliation of the surrender and treaty. The invaders had all marched to Stamford Bridge, and the people opened its gates and received with rejoicing the king, whose authority they had the day before cast off. Beyond a short pause for food there was no delay. Harold's thoughts were on the South, and he grudged every hour that delayed his return to his post there. The men of the city and the survivors of the army defeated at Fulford joined the force, which kept on its way east to Stamford Bridge. The invaders, believing that Northumbria lay at their feet, and without a thought that Harold was advancing, were encamped in careless security on the low ground by the river. The greater portion of their host had crossed the bridge; their king, Tostig, and many of the great chiefs had taken up their abode in the royal palace at Aldby, and were preparing to return to York, where the king was to hold his court and formally to assume the government and to proclaim the laws for his new kingdom.

Already the cortege had set out, clad not in warlike armour but in court habiliments, when on the long road leading gently down to the river a cloud of dust and the sparkle of arms was seen. There was little room for doubt as to the nature of the arriving force. Northumbria could gather no array that would venture thus to approach the army that had but five days before crushed the levies of the North. It could only be Harold himself who, with the men of the South, had thus unexpectedly arrived. Tostig at once proposed a retreat to the ships at Riccall, so that the whole army might be gathered together, but Harold Hardrada strove to marshal his army for the battle, at the same time sending off mounted messengers to summons the party left at the ships. But while all was in confusion among the main body of the invaders on the eastern bank of the river, while men were buckling on their armour and gathering in their ranks, the cloud of war rolled rapidly down the descent, and with a mighty shout the English vanguard fell upon the Norsemen on the western bank.

Valiantly they fought, but there was no resisting the solid array of the English housecarls, or Thingmen as they were also called. Taken altogether unprepared, and for the most part without their defensive armour, the Norsemen could offer no successful resistance to the English host. Great numbers were killed; others were driven headlong across the bridge or were drowned in the stream, which is said to have been literally choked with dead. But for a time the advance of the English was stayed; for one Norseman, a man of great stature and prodigious strength, took post in the middle of the narrow bridge and barred the way to the English host. But one foe could attack him at a time, and so great was his strength and prowess that it is said forty Englishmen fell under the mighty blows of his two-handed sword, and at last he was only over-powered by one who made his way along beneath the timbers of the bridge and stabbed him with his spear from below.

His gallant stand, however, had sufficed to give his countrymen time to complete their preparations, and the shield-wall of the Norsemen stretched across the gentle ascent from the bridge. With his hands raised aloft, as a sign that his mission was a peaceful one, an English thane with twenty mounted horsemen rode across the bridge. He was met by the king, Tostig, and his chiefs. Raising his voice the thane addressed Tostig, "I bring to Tostig the greeting and message of his brother King Harold. Let him return to his allegiance and he shall again have the earldom of Northumberland; nay, he shall have a third of the kingdom to rule together with the king."

"What, then," Tostig asked, "shall be given to King Harold of Norway?"

"Seven feet of English ground!" the thane said sternly, "or more, perchance, seeing he is taller than other men."

"Return to King Harold of England," Tostig said, "and bid him make ready for the battle. Never shall men say in Norway that I brought their king hither to England and then went over to his foes."

Harold's ambassador returned with his men across the river with Tostig's message, and then in solid array the English Thingmen moved forward to the attack. Had the King of Norway advanced to the end of the bridge a battle would have been impossible, for the English could never have forced their way across. But the kings were equally anxious for a battle. Harold of Norway knew as well as the King of England that the host of Normandy was on the point of sailing, and it was as essential for him to crush the English army before the Normans landed as it was for Harold of England to dispose at once of the Norse invaders. There were three claimants for the English crown, and both kings felt the necessity of having their hands free to meet the Normans. Harold of Norway may well have believed that his host of tried warriors was capable of disposing of an army that, save for its small body of regular troops, was wholly unused to war; therefore, he held his array immovable while the English army crossed the bridge and formed up for battle.

Steadily and firmly the solid line of the housecarls moved up the ascent, and then as Harold's trumpet gave the signal of attack, flung themselves upon the shield-wall of the Norsemen. The conflict was a terrible one. The heavy two-handed axes of the English clashed against the long two-handed swords of the Norsemen. Against such terrible weapons wielded by such powerful arms, helmet and hauberk afforded but a poor defence. Casques and the heads beneath them were cleft like egg-shells under the terrible blows; but the gaps thus made in the ranks were at once filled from behind, and for hours the struggle continued with unabated vigour on both sides. Harold himself with a body of his thanes fought in the front line, his position marked to his followers by his standard kept flying close behind him. His great strength and height made him so formidable an assailant that his standard generally flew well in advance of his fighting line, while on the other side the still greater height and strength of the King of Norway rendered him equally conspicuous. At last the obstinate valour of the English housecarls prevailed over the resistance of the fierce Norsemen, and the invading host was driven backward step by step up the ascent until the level ground was reached.

Here the battle again raged as fiercely as ever. In vain did Harold of Norway, followed by his bravest warriors, hurl himself upon the ranks of the English, his terrible sword carrying death in its path. In vain did his followers again and again strive to take the offensive. The English line ever bore up against their attacks. The battle was still undecided when, as the sun was going down, an English arrow pierced the throat of the giant King of Norway. How Tostig, who had throughout the day fought by his side, fell, we know not, but he died, as did the Irish prince who had brought his followers to share in the plunder of England. There fell, too, most of the bravest warriors of Norway, the last of the sea-kings who had carried the banner, known as the land-waster, far and wide over Europe.

The slaughter was terrible, and at nightfall the Norsemen who survived broke and fled to the shelter of their ships. Never in the history of England was there a harder fought battle; never were English valour and endurance more splendidly shown. Terrible, too, had been the losses on their side. Many of the king's bravest thanes had fallen, and the ranks of the housecarls were fearfully thinned. Complete as had been the victory, absolute as had been the destruction of their foes, there was but little rejoicing in the English camp that night. So exhausted were the troops by their long march and the desperate struggle of the day that they threw themselves down to sleep on the ground they had won, thickly covered as it was with the bodies of friend and foe.

Wulf throughout the day had fought close to Harold. Osgod had kept close beside him, and had warded off many a sweeping blow and cut down many a pressing enemy. At the end of the day his left arm hung useless by his side, well-nigh cleft off by the blow of a Norseman's sword. Wulf himself had escaped without a scratch, thanks in a large measure to his follower's watchfulness. When the battle was over he was one of the few thanes who gathered round Harold. The latter felt no exultation at this victory. It had cost him the flower of his army and numbers of his most valued thanes. It had cost him, too, the life of a brother, to whom in spite of his faults he had been deeply attached. He knew that there was before him a struggle even more serious than that from which he had just emerged a victor, and there was no saying how that struggle might end.

"I thank God that you are spared to me, Wulf," he said as the young thane came up. "I marked you near me all through the battle, and none fought more bravely. It has been a terrible day, and our victory is dearly purchased indeed. I have sent a messenger to York, praying that every monk skilled in surgery will at once hasten hither, that all men and boys shall come and help to collect the wounded, and that such women as can aid will accompany them. I cannot ask the men who have marched well-nigh night and day since we left London, and borne the brunt of the day's battle, to do more. England has need of their strength. The messenger was to stop at Helmsley, and bid every soul left there to hurry to the field. It is but two miles away, and in half an hour they will be here. The first thing for them to do is to carry water to the wounded; there are no lack of vessels in the Norsemen's camp."

"I will go to the bridge, my lord, and take them in charge when they arrive, and set them at the work."

"You need rest as much as any, Wulf."

"I can rest to-morrow," Wulf said; "and at any rate could not sleep to-night, for I must see to Osgod, who will, I fear, lose an arm."

"I am sorry to hear it," Harold said, "for one could ill spare so brave a fellow. I saw the Norsemen going down under his axe, and assuredly no man did more than he to-day."

"I will tell him what you say, my lord; it will do him good. I left him sitting down on a bank bemoaning himself that he might not be cured in time to fight the Normans."

Harold shook his head. "I would give half my estates, Wulf, that he should be well enough to fight by your side in our first battle with the Normans. That would mean that they would not land before two months have passed, and by that time I would have all the force of England gathered to receive them. As you are willing that it should be so, I will leave you in charge of the camp to-night. It will be three hours before help can arrive from York. Till then there is nought to do but to carry water to the wounded. When they arrive the monks will dress the wounds, and the men and women carry such as can be moved down by the river, where they can be treated more easily than lying in the fields. Have a strict search made for the body of my brother, and place a guard over it. Sweyn is in charge of the Norse camp. There is great treasure there, which shall to-morrow be partly divided among the troops."

Wulf went at once down to the bridge, while Harold and his thanes lay down like the soldiers on the field of battle. In a short time men, women, and children came in from Helmsley. Having been told what they were required for, they had brought with them jugs and drinking cups, and also a supply of torches. The first search was made over the ground west of the river. Here few English had fallen, but the Norsemen lay thickly. Wulf ordered that water should be given to all, foe as well as friend. The number of living was small, for the heavy two handed axes had done their work thoroughly. When such as survived had been seen to, Wulf led the villagers over the bridge.

"Scatter right and left," he said, "and then move forward. You cannot go wrong." Having seen them all at work, he hurried away to the spot where he had left Osgod sitting. He had before leaving him staunched the flow of blood by winding a bow string round the arm above the wound and then twisting it tightly.

"How fares it with you, Osgod? Here is a ewer of water."

"That is good," Osgod said, after taking a mighty draught. "Truly I felt as if the moisture of my body had all dried up, and not only my mouth but my whole frame was parched."

"Why, Osgod," Wulf exclaimed, as he held the torch he carried close to him, "your arm has gone!"

"That is so, master, an arm after the bone has been cleft through is of no use to anyone, so I thought the sooner I got rid of it the better, and having my knife handy I just cut through the flesh that remained. That was the end of it. Would that we could get rid of all our evils as readily. To-morrow I will walk to York and get the wound seared."

"The king sent to York for aid directly the battle was over, and we shall have all the townsfolk here soon, among them monks and others skilled in the dressing of wounds. I told the king of your misfortune." And he then repeated what Harold had said.

"It does me good to hear that Harold is satisfied with me. I hope to strike many a good blow for him yet."

"How still it is here, Osgod! There is scarce a sound to be heard from all those lying round."

"There are but few with life in them, I reckon," Osgod said. "A Norse sword and an English axe let out the life quickly when they strike fair. This blow fell on my arm as my axe was raised to strike, and it were well it did so, or it would have taken me in the neck, and then neither monk nor leech could have brought me back to life. Had it been my right arm I would as lief have been killed at once, for what good is a man without his right arm?"

"You would have learned to use your left in time, Osgod. Now if you can walk, come down to the river, and I will see that you are among the first attended to."

"I will lie down here," Osgod said, "for in truth I feel as if I need sleep. For the last two days I have been scarce able to keep my eyes open, and now that I have had a drink I feel that a few hours' rest will do me more good than any monk."

Osgod's words came slowly and heavily, and as he ended he lay down on his back. Wulf saw that it was best that he should sleep, and so left him. In two hours a great number of lights were seen along the road, and soon a crowd of men and women from York appeared and scattered themselves over the battlefield, the monks pouring balm into wounds and bandaging them up, while the men and women carried the wounded, as fast as they were attended to, down to the river. The bodies of Tostig and of the King of Norway were both found, and a guard placed over them, and in the morning that of Tostig was carried to York for burial in the cathedral, while Harold Hardrada was buried where he fell.

Harold sent messengers to the Norsemen's fleet offering mercy to them if they would surrender, and their chiefs come to York and swear never again to raise their swords against England -- an offer which was thankfully accepted, for the English fleet had entered the Humber, and their retreat was cut off.

The next day the Norse chiefs went to York and took the required oath, and were then escorted back to their ships. So terrible had been the slaughter, so complete the destruction of the invading army, that, even including the guard that remained at the fleet, twenty-four ships sufficed to carry away home the survivors of the mighty host. The task of burying the slain was too great to be undertaken, and for many years afterwards the field of battle was whitened with the bones of the invaders who had fallen there.

On the day after the battle Harold returned with his army to York. Here all who had fallen away from the cause of England were pardoned. Measures were taken for making the fighting strength of the North available for the general defence of the country. The wounded were cared for in the houses of the citizens, and for five days the troops rested after their prodigious exertions.

Early in the morning after the battle Osgod's wound had been seared with red-hot irons. He had borne the pain unflinchingly, saying that he had suffered as much from burns more than once while learning his trade as an armourer. Wulf was not present, as he had thrown himself down to sleep as soon as he had been relieved at daylight, but he saw him before he started with the king for York.

"Yes, it hurts a bit, master," Osgod replied in answer to his inquiries. "I could not expect otherwise. You will have to do without me for a few days. I have made friends with some peasants at Helmsley. I shall stay with them till the army marches south. If I were at York I should never keep quiet; and the monks tell me the quieter I am the sooner my wounds will heal. They are poor creatures, these monks; they wanted to make out that it might be two or three months before I was fit for service again. I told them it would be a shame to my manhood if in a fortnight I could not wield an axe again. It is not as if I had been brought up softly. I have burnt myself with hot irons many a time, and know that a few days suffices to heal a sore."

"It is not the sore, Osgod; it is the veins that might burst out bleeding again."

"That is what they said, master; but at present there is not much blood left in me, I think, and by the time it comes again my veins ought to have healed themselves. This plaguey bowstring hurts me well-nigh as much as the smart of the irons; but the monks say I must bear it for a couple of days, when they will put on some tight bandages in its place, but if I can bear the pain it were better that it should be kept there for a week or two."

Five days passed. The king laboured incessantly at making a settlement of the affairs of the North. The thanes came in from all Northumbria. They were full of thankfulness at the deliverance that had been wrought for them, and the victor of Stamford Bridge was far more to them than the King of England had ever been. All were received with kindness and courtesy, and Harold felt that at Stamford Bridge he had conquered not only the host of Norway but the Northern earldoms. On the evening of the fifth day after the battle they held a great banquet at York. The feasting was at its height when Harold was told that a messenger had arrived with urgent news, and the man was at once brought in. He had ridden in two days from the South, and brought the momentous news that on the third day after the victory of Stamford Bridge the Norman host had landed in Sussex.



Chapter XX.


The Landing Of The Foe.

While Harold with his army had been anxiously and impatiently watching the sea on the southern coast of England, the mixed host of the Duke of Normandy had been no less anxiously awaiting a favourable breeze at the port where the whole of the expedition was gathered. William had, however, one great advantage. While Harold's army and navy were composed of levies, bound by feudal obligations to remain but a certain time under arms, and eager to return to their harvest operations, their wives and families, William's was made up to a great extent of seasoned troops and professional soldiers, gathered not only from his own dominions but from all parts of Europe.

These were far more amenable to orders than were the English militia. Tempted by the thought of the plunder of England, they had enlisted under the duke's banner for the expedition. They had no thought of returning home, and as long as they were well supplied with food, the delay in starting mattered comparatively little to them; and thus while at length the fleet and army of Harold scattered to their homes the Normans remained in their camp, ready to embark on board the ships as soon as a favourable wind blew. They were kept in good temper by receiving regular pay and provisions, and as all plundering was strictly forbidden the country people freely brought in supplies, and for a month the great army was fed without difficulty; but as the resources of the country became exhausted the duke grew more and more anxious to move to another port, and taking advantage of a change of wind to the west he embarked his army and sailed north along the coast of Normandy to the mouth of the Somme, and the troops disembarked and encamped round the town of St. Valery.

Here there was another long delay, and while Harold was marching north to meet the King of Norway the Normans were praying for a favourable wind at the holy shrine at the Abbey of St. Valery. Two days after the host of Harold Hardrada had been destroyed the wind suddenly shifted to the south. There had on the previous day been a great religious ceremony; the holy relics had been brought by the priests into the camp; the whole army had joined in a solemn service; precious gifts had been offered at the shrine, and as the change of wind was naturally ascribed to the influence of the saint, the army was filled with enthusiasm, and believed that heaven had declared in their favour.

From morning till night the scene of bustle and preparation went on, and when darkness fell the whole host had embarked. Every ship was ordered to bear a light, and a huge lantern was hoisted at the masthead of the Mora, the duke's own ship, and orders were issued that all vessels should follow the light. The Mora, however, was a quick sailer, and was not, like the other vessels, deeply laden down with horses and men. When daylight broke, therefore, she had so far outstripped the rest that no other sail was in sight, and she anchored until the fleet came up, when the voyage was continued, and at nine on the morning of Thursday the 28th of September the Normans landed on English soil, near the village of Pevensey.

The landing was unopposed; the housecarls were away north with their king, the levies were scattered to their homes. To the surprise of the Normans who landed in battle array no armed man was to be seen. Parties of mounted men at once examined the country for miles round, but without finding signs of the defending army they expected to meet. On the following morning a small force was left in the Roman fortifications near Pevensey to guard the ships, hauled up on the beach, from attack, and the duke with his army marched away along the Roman road to Hastings, where William established his headquarters and resolved to await the approach of the army of England. A wooden castle was raised on the height, and the country for miles round was harried by the Norman horse. Every house was given to the flames; men were slain, women and children taken as slaves, and the destruction was so complete that it seemed as if it had been done with the deliberate purpose of forcing Harold to come down and give battle.

No sooner did Harold hear the news that the Normans had landed and were harrying the land than he ordered the hall to be cleared and issued a summons for the assembly of a Gemot, and in an hour an assemblage of all the thanes gathered at York was held in the hall that had so shortly before been the scene of peaceful feasting. Harold proclaimed to them the news he had heard, and called upon them to arm and call together their levies for the defence of England. An enthusiastic reply was given. As the men of the South had crushed the invaders of the North, so would the men of the North assist to repel the invasion of the South. Morcar and Edwin promised solemnly to lead the forces of Northumbria and Mercia to London without a day's delay, and though Harold trusted his brothers-in-law but little, he hoped they would have to yield to the patriotic spirit of the thanes and to play their part as Englishmen.

An hour later messengers started on horseback for the South, bidding all men to assemble at London to fight for home and freedom against the foreign invader, and orders were issued that the troops who had fought at Stamford Bridge should march at daybreak. As soon as the council was over Wulf mounted his horse and rode at full speed to Helmsley. He had each day ridden over to see Osgod, who in his anxiety for a rapid cure was proving himself a most amenable patient, and was strictly carrying out the prescriptions of the monk who had taken charge of him and of other wounded who were lying in the village. He was asleep on a rough pallet when Wulf entered.

"A pest upon the Norman!" he exclaimed angrily when he heard Wulf's news. "He might have given me a week longer at any rate. I am feeling mightily better already, for to-day the monk has bandaged my arm, and that so tight as almost to numb it. But that I care little for, as he has now taken off that bow-string which was cutting its way into the flesh. He told me that everything depended upon my keeping absolutely quiet for another week, for the slightest exertion might make the wound break out afresh, and that if it burst there would be but a poor chance for me. Well, I must travel in a waggon instead of on horseback."

"You will do nothing of the sort, Osgod; I absolutely forbid it. It would be an act of sheer madness. Besides, you would be useless at present even if you went south, while if you rest here for three or four weeks you may be able to take part in some of the battles; and, moreover, it may be weeks before Harold moves against the Normans. At any rate, it is out of the question that you should move at present. I am not going to have you risk your life by such folly."

Osgod was silent for a minute or two and then said, "Well, master, I must obey your orders, but never before did I feel it so hard a thing to do."

"It is for your own good and mine, Osgod. I am not going to lose so faithful a follower, and would rather do without you for two months than for all my life. But now I must be going, for I shall ride on ahead so as to go down to Steyning and fetch our men. I was before sorry that, owing to my being here, they did not come down with the king; now I am glad, for I might have lost half of them, while as it is I shall have a hundred men as good as his own to help to fill up the ranks of Harold's housecarls, besides the general levy of my tenants."

On his march south Harold was joined by large numbers of men. The news of the destruction of the army of Harold Hardrada had excited the greatest enthusiasm, and the thanes presented themselves as a rule with more than the number of men they were bound to furnish. Wulf rode on fast to London. As soon as he arrived there he went to the armourer's shop. Ulred paused at his work as he entered. "Welcome back, my lord Wulf!" he said. "So you have come safe through the two great battles in the North. Has Osgod fared equally well, I see that you have come without him?"

"Not equally well, Ulred. He fought with me at Fulford and received no serious hurt, but at Stamford Bridge he was wounded so sorely that for a time we thought it would go hard with him; but he has rallied and is doing well, and save that he will come home without his left arm, he will, I trust, soon be recovered. No man fought more stoutly than he did at Stamford Bridge, and the king himself noticed his valour. Although his wound was but five days' old when we started, he would have come south at once if I would have suffered him, though he must assuredly have been carried the whole way in a litter. It troubled him greatly to hear that we should be face to face with the Normans, and he not there to strike a blow for England."

"I am glad to hear that the boy lives," the armourer said; "for indeed when I saw you alone my first thoughts were that he had fought his last battle. We have terrible news from the South. The Normans are plundering and slaying from Beachy Head well-nigh to Dover, and the people are flying before them in crowds. However, matters will be changed as soon as the king returns to town. London will send her militia in full strength, and we hear that the thanes of the West are hurrying hither. 'Tis a pity indeed that Harold was drawn off north, for had he been here the Normans would have had to fight their best before they established themselves on our shores."

"They could have landed in any case, Ulred. It was not the King of Norway and Tostig, but the impatience of our sailors and troops, that left our shores unguarded. Harold tried his best to keep them together, but in vain. However, they rallied quickly when they heard of the landing in the North, and are coming in freely now."

"Will the troops of Northumbria be here?"

"I doubt it greatly, Ulred. They are not true men, Edwin and Morcar; they surrendered York before an arrow was shot against its walls, and received Harold Hardrada as their king. They would be equally willing to acknowledge William of Normandy so that they might but preserve their earldoms under him. They have promised to send their whole forces forward without delay, but I have no belief that they will be here. I am going to Steyning as soon as I have eaten a meal and rested for a few hours. I shall miss Osgod sorely. I trust that it will not be long before I have him by my side."

"When will the army be back here, master?"

"In three days at most, I imagine. There will be but short stay here before Harold marches south to meet the Normans. The news of the wanton destruction they are making has roused him to fury, and he will assuredly lose no time, even though he have but half the force of England behind him."

"It is as well to have something to fall back on," the armourer said. "It is not by one battle that England is to be conquered, and even if we lose the first we may gain the second. We can stand the loss better than the Normans, for doubtless William has brought all his strength with him, and if beaten must make his way back to his ships, while Harold would in a short time find himself at the head of a larger army than that with which he may first meet them. Was the slaughter as great as they say at Stamford Bridge?"

"It was terrible, Ulred; and though the Norsemen suffered vastly more than we did, the ranks of the housecarls, on whom the brunt of the fighting fell, have been sorely thinned. We shall feel their loss when we meet the Normans. Against their heavily-armed troops and their squadrons of knights and horsemen one of the Thingmen was worth three untried peasants. Had we but half the number of our foe, and that half all housecarls, I should not for a moment doubt the issue."

"London will put a strong body in the field, and though we have not the training of the Thingmen you may trust us to fight sternly, Master Wulf; and if we are beaten I will warrant that there will not be many of us to bring the tidings back."

"Of that I am sure, Ulred. The citizens have more to lose and better know what they are fighting for than the country levies, and as you say, I am sure they will do their part stoutly. Well, I must stay here no longer. I shall sleep for two or three hours, and then take a fresh horse from the king's stable and to-morrow shall be at Steyning. By nightfall I shall be on my way back with every man on the estate, a hundred and fifty besides the housecarls, and two days' march will bring us here again. Ulf is well, I hope? I do not see him."

"He has but carried home some arms I have been mending. We are working night and day; since the news that the Normans had landed came, there has been no thought of bed among the armourers and smiths of Westminster and London. Each man works until he can work no longer, then throws himself down for two or three hours' sleep, and then wakes up to work again; and so it will be till the army has moved south with most of us in its ranks."

Wulf reached Steyning soon after daybreak, and as soon as the news that he had arrived went round, the tenants flocked in. His coming had been anxiously expected, for the alarm caused by the incursions all over the country by the Norman horse was intense; and although, so far, none had come west of Beachy Head, there was a general feeling that at any moment they might make their appearance. The news, therefore, that Harold was marching south with his army, and that all were to share in a pitched battle with the invader instead of being slaughtered on their hearthstones, caused a deep feeling of satisfaction. Wulf gave orders that every man should assemble in fighting array at noon, and that if, later on, news came that the enemy were approaching, the houses were to be deserted, the stacks fired, and, driving the cattle before them, the women and children should cross the hills and take shelter in the great forest beyond. A few of the older men who were unfit to take part in a long day's fighting were to aid the women in their work.

The arms of all the men were carefully inspected, and the weapons remaining in the armoury served out to those worst provided. At one o'clock the force marched off, Wulf riding at the head of the hundred housecarls, while the tenants, a hundred and fifty strong, followed in good order. Each man carried six days' provisions. They camped that night in a forest twenty miles from Steyning, marched thirty miles the next day, and early the following morning joined the great array that was gathering on the hills south of London. To his great pleasure Wulf found that Beorn had arrived the day before with his levy. They had not met since they had returned from the North with Harold.

"So you have been up there again, Wulf, and fought at Fulford and Stamford Bridge. It was very unlucky I was not in London when the army marched north; but I received no summons, and heard nothing of it until the king was well on his march. None of the thanes along the south coast were summoned."

"So I heard, Beorn. I fancy the king thought that in case of a landing by the Normans the men near the coast would all be wanted to help take the women and cattle to places of security."

"No doubt that was the reason," Beorn said. "At any rate, I am sorry I missed the fight at Stamford Bridge. The other seems to have been a bad affair."

"Very bad; we suffered terribly. So much so, indeed, that the earls will have a good excuse for not getting their levies together in time for the battle with the Normans."

"They are false loons," Beorn said; "and brothers-in-law as they are of his, it would have been well had the king after Stamford Bridge had their heads smitten off for their traitorous surrender to the Norsemen."

"I have no doubt they will hold aloof now, Beorn, until they see how matters go in the South, and if we are worsted they will hasten to make their peace with William, and to swear to be his liegemen, just as they swore to be liegemen to Harold Hardrada. But they will find out their mistake in the end. William has promised to divide England among his needy adventurers if he wins, and Edwin and Morcar will very speedily find that they will not, in that case, be allowed to keep half the country as their share."

It was a great host that was gathered ready for the march south. Gurth had brought down the fighting men of East Anglia; the thanes of the West were there with their tenants; the Bishop of Winchester, Harold's uncle, not only brought the tenants of the church lands, but he himself with twelve of his monks had put on armour under their monkish robes. The Abbot of Peterborough headed a contingent from the Fen Country; the men of London under the sheriff of the Mid Saxons were there, and prepared to die in defence of the royal standard, which it was the special privilege of London to guard. In the Abbey of Westminster, where Harold had received his crown, and in every church of London, mass was celebrated day and night, and was attended by crowds of troops and citizens.

Harold himself snatched a day from the cares of preparation to visit Waltham, the abbey that he had founded, and in which he had taken so lively an interest, and there earnestly prayed for victory, with the vow that did he conquer in the strife he would regard himself as God's ransomed servant, and would throughout his life specially devote himself to His service. A day or two after Wulf's arrival in London a messenger came from William of Normandy calling upon Harold to come down from his throne, and to become, as he had sworn to be, the duke's man. Harold in reply sent back a full answer to William's claims. He admitted that Edward had promised the crown to William, but he said that according to the law of England a man might at any time revoke his will, and this Edward had done, and had named him as his successor. As to the oath he himself had sworn, he maintained that it was an extorted oath, and therefore of no binding force. Finally, he offered rich gifts to William if he would depart quietly, but added that if he was bent on war he would meet him in battle on the coming Saturday.

It is probable that William's insolent message was meant to have the effect of inducing Harold to march against him. The Norman position was a very strong one, and had been carefully fortified, and he hoped that Harold would attempt to storm it. Gurth urged his brother to remain in London, while he himself went with the army to battle. A large number of the levies had as yet not come in, and with these, should the first battle be unsuccessful, another army could be gathered to continue the struggle. Moreover, whether the oath Harold had sworn was binding or not, he had sworn, and it were better that another who was perfectly free in his conscience should lead the English to battle.

Then, too, Gurth urged, if he himself was slain, it would matter comparatively little, while Harold's death would jeopardize the whole kingdom. He prayed him therefore to stay in London, and to gather another and greater force, and to lay waste the whole land between London and the coast, so that the Normans, whether successful or not in their first battle, would be starved into a departure from the land. The counsel of Gurth was approved of by the thanes, but Harold rejected it. He declared that he would never let his brothers and friends go forth to danger on his behalf while he himself drew back from facing it, neither could he bring himself to harm the lands or the goods of any Englishman.

For six days Harold remained in London waiting, but in vain, for the forces from the North to join him, and on the Thursday morning set out with his army in order to meet the invaders on the day he had named. Accounts differ very widely as to the strength of that army. Norman writers, in order to glorify their own victory, speak of it as one of prodigious numbers. English writers, on the other hand, endeavour to explain the defeat by minimizing the number of those who followed Harold's standard. Doubtless the English king, knowing the proved valour of his housecarls, and fresh from the crushing defeat inflicted on the Norsemen, considered the numbers to be sufficient. His military genius was unquestionable, and next only to William the Norman he was regarded as the greatest general in Europe. As there was no occasion for haste so long as the Normans remained at Hastings he would not have moved forward with a force he deemed insufficient, when he knew that in another week its numbers would have been doubled.

On the day that the king made his last visit to Waltham, Wulf rode over to Croydon in compliance with an entreaty he received from Edith.

"When does the army march?" she asked anxiously as she entered.

"The day after to-morrow, lady."

"And my lord goes with it?"

"He does. I myself think that Gurth's counsel was good, and that it were best for England that he remained at Westminster; and yet I can understand well that he himself would feel it a shame did he remain behind."

"I feel sore misgivings," Edith said, bursting into tears. "When he marched north against the King of Norway and Tostig I felt no doubt he would return victorious; but night after night I have had evil dreams, and though I pray continually my spirit has no relief. I have never feared for him before. I have always felt sure that whoever died Harold would be spared for the sake of England, but I have no such feeling now. It seems to me that I sacrificed him and myself in vain when I bade him leave me and marry the sister of the Northern earls. No good has come of it. They are behaving now as traitors, and he has lost his life's happiness. And yet I did it for the best."

"It was a noble sacrifice, lady, and come what may you have no cause to regret it."

"The queen is not with him," Edith said bitterly.

"No, she is at Oxford. You must not think, lady, that the king has been unhappy since he came to the throne. He has been so incessantly occupied with work that he has had no time for domestic happiness, even if it had been within his reach. His thoughts are ever on England, and he has no thought of self. Labouring ever for the good of his subjects, he has his happiness alike in their love, and in the knowledge that he is doing all that man can for their welfare. If he dies, he will die the death not only of a soldier but of the noblest king that ever sat on the English throne, and at all times he will be enshrined in the hearts of the English people, whether Normans or Englishmen reign over the land."

"That is true, and I must take comfort from it, Wulf; but it was not for this that I sent for you, but to ask you where the battle is likely to be fought."

"Near Hastings, assuredly," Wulf replied.

"I shall travel south to-morrow. I have had a message from the king praying me to see him, but that would be too much for me. He is another woman's husband and I dare not meet him, it were sin for me to do so; but I would fain be nearer to the scene of battle, so that in a few hours I might journey there, in order that, if my lord dies, I might see him once again. I know the superior of a convent at Lewes, and there I will betake myself. Thence, as I believe, it is some sixteen miles to Hastings, and so far as I have heard the Norman plunderers have not gone so far west. Should aught happen to him, will you send a speedy messenger to me?"

"Should I live through the fight I will do so, lady, but even should I not return the news will travel swiftly; but God forfend that so great a loss should fall upon England."

"Amen," Edith murmured, "and yet I fear. Thanks, Wulf, for coming, perchance we may not meet again. I am thinking of entering a convent, probably that at Lewes. The struggle and pain here is well-nigh too great for me, but in the walls of a cloister I may find peace. If my fears are fulfilled I shall assuredly do this, and when I return to the convent I shall leave it no more. My life is over. I have a happy past to look back upon, in that am blest, and shall be happier than those who have no such consolation. Moreover, I can still be proud of Harold, and may love him as I might love the memory of a husband who is lost. God bless you, Wulf, and protect you through the coming battle!"

Wulf rode sadly back to the camp. Although he had denied it to Edith, he could not but admit to himself that the sacrifice that she and Harold had made had, so far, been unavailing. It had failed to draw the Northern earls closer to the king. The marriage had been productive of no happiness to Harold, and the only reward he had gained had been in the sympathy of the people, who knew well enough that he had sacrificed his love for the good of his country.

The army marched rapidly. Beorn and Wulf rode together, and talked over the chances of the coming battle.

"I cannot blame Harold for not remaining behind," Wulf said, "though it were certainly more politic for him to have stayed in London. As he could not do so, I think it would have been well had he bidden Gurth remain behind to gather another army with which to meet the Normans should we be defeated; or if he could not spare Gurth he might have left Leofric behind. It is assuredly a mistake for the three brothers all to come, for should all fall England would no longer have a head."

"Surely no such misfortune as that will befall us, Wulf."

"I know not. They will fight side by side, and should one fall all may perish together. One at least ought to remain behind. It matters not how many of us are killed, so that one of Godwin's sons is left to rally the kingdom. You may be sure that if we are conquered the victors will be in but poor condition to meet another foe; but if there is no one to gather an army and unite all England against the Normans they will eat us up piecemeal."

"We must not think of so terrible a thing, Wulf. It is not like you to look at the dark side. Why, when we were in Wales, and in as bad a plight as could well be, you always made light of danger, and managed affairs as if we were certain to succeed. Why should we be defeated? Why should the king be killed? He went through the terrible fight at Stamford Bridge without a scratch. We have seen the Normans at work, and know that they are not such terrible fellows; and as for their duke, I would assuredly rather meet him in battle, doughty as he may be, than have faced Harold Hardrada with his two-handed sword."

"I have every hope of winning the day, Beorn, but still I do regret much that Gurth and Leofric are both here. Do you remember that in Wales we agreed that it was always well to have a way of retreat in case of defeat? Well, I feel that defeat this time will mean not only the defeat of an army but the ruin of England."

On Friday afternoon the army reached rising ground near the village of Senlac, which Harold had beforehand fixed upon as the place where he would give battle to the invaders. Kent and Sussex he knew well. They had been the home of his family, and he owned vast estates there. Doubtless in the long weeks of waiting for the coming of the Norman fleet he had fixed upon this spot as one well suited for a battle. It was necessary that the English should fight on the defensive. The Normans were strong in cavalry, while the English were unaccustomed to fight on horseback, and would have been at a grievous disadvantage had they attacked the enemy.

The hill offered many advantages to a force standing on the defensive. The great eastern road passed close to its foot, and its possession barred the passage of the invaders in that direction. The ground between it and the sea was marshy and broken, and its occupation by an English force left the Normans no choice but to come out and attack them.

The sides were steep and the ground rose rapidly in the rear, so that the Norman cavalry could not attack from behind. It was, indeed, a sort of peninsula running southward from the main range of hills.

The moment the troops reached the ground the royal standard was planted, and the men set to work to fell trees and to form a triple palisade along the accessible sides of the hills. The force at Harold's command must have been far nearer to the estimate given of its strength by the English chroniclers than by the Normans, for the space occupied was insufficient for the standing room of such an army as that enumerated by the latter writers.

Harold relied almost entirely upon the housecarls. The levies might be brave, but they were undisciplined, and might easily be thrown into disorder; they would, too, be impatient under the trial of a long day's battle. It is even said that he sent away some of the ill-armed levies, who came flocking in from the country round, eager to revenge the injuries received at the hands of the Normans. It was upon the shield-wall, the favourite formation of the English, that he relied to win the battle. It was their national mode of fighting. It was that in which Alfred had led the Saxons to victory over the Danes. It was that in which they clashed against the shield-wall of Norway and shattered it, and he might well hope that the barons of Normandy and the adventurers from all parts of Europe who fought under William's banner might well try in vain to break it.

In the evening a messenger arrived from William, again bidding Harold resign the kingdom or meet the duke in single combat, the crown of England to be the prize of the victor. Harold refused the challenge. He had proved his personal courage too often for it to be supposed that he declined from any feeling of cowardice, but he knew well that the issue could not be thus decided. Were he to fall, the people would still refuse to accept William as their king; were William to fall, the host that had gathered for the plunder of England would still give battle. Nothing was therefore to be gained by the proposed combat.



Chapter XXI.


Hastings.

The fiction of the Norman historians, that while the Normans passed the night preceding the battle in prayer, the English spent it in feasting, is even more palpably absurd than the many other falsehoods invented for the purpose of damaging the character of Harold. The English army had marched nearly seventy miles in the course of two days, and had in addition laboured incessantly for many hours in erecting the palisades and in digging ditches. We may be sure that after two such days the great mass of the army lay down dog-tired directly their work was done, and slept till morning. Harold and his thanes had shared in their labours, and knowing the terrible work that awaited them in the morning, would most surely be disposed to get as long a sleep as possible to prepare for it.

But what is most opposed to the Norman story is the fact that Harold was a sincerely and deeply religious man, far more so than his rival. The life of the one man was in accordance with his professions -- he was gentle and merciful, ever ready to forgive his enemies, averse to bloodshed, and so true a friend of the church that the whole of the prelates and clergy set the interdict of the pope at naught for his sake. The only exception in his clemency to the conquered was in the case of the Welsh, and in this instance the stern measures he adopted were in the end the most merciful. No oaths could bind these marauders, and the stern punishment he inflicted was the means of procuring for the West of England a respite from their incursions that lasted for three generations.

William of Normandy, on the contrary, was absolutely merciless in warfare. He was not cruel for the sake of cruelty, but where he deemed that the policy demanded it, he was ruthless, and spared neither age nor sex. He was lavish to the church, but it was rather because he needed and obtained its aid than from any feeling of real piety.

In point of ability, both civil and military, the Duke of Normandy and Harold of England were perhaps about equal; in point of nobility of character there was no comparison between them. We may be sure that the night before the battle Harold prayed as earnestly as he had prayed at Waltham for the aid of Heaven.

Wulf and Beorn lay down among the thanes, after Harold, sitting with them round a fire, had explained his plans for the battle. So calmly and confidently did he speak, and so strong was their position, that even those who had, like Wulf, doubted the wisdom of an advance until the whole force of England had assembled, now felt something like an assurance of victory, and all lay down to sleep with the belief that the victory at Stamford Bridge would be repeated.

On waking, Wulf visited his men. They were already astir, and he was astounded at seeing among them the towering figure of Osgod.

"Why, what means this, Osgod?" he exclaimed. "Did I not order you to rest quietly at York?"

"That did you, my lord," Osgod said, "and no man obeys your orders more readily than I, and anything that you bid me do I am willing to do if possible; but in this it was not possible, for I could not remain at York, either in rest or quiet. I should have had fever in my blood, and would by this time have been lying as deep in the earth as Harold of Norway himself. Therefore, in order to get the rest and quiet you had ordered, it was necessary for me to come south. As you had left me well supplied with money, I was able to do so in comfort, and though I could well enough walk I have had myself carried in a litter by easy stages. I reached London on Wednesday night, having been a fortnight on the way, and I arrived here an hour since. Each day I walked a little, so as to keep my health and exercise my limbs, and so well have I succeeded that my wound has well-nigh healed; and although I doubt whether I shall be able to use a heavy axe, I trust I shall be able to strike hard enough with the right hand to split a few Norman helms."

"But the exertion may set your wounds bleeding afresh, Osgod," Wulf said, unable to repress a smile at Osgod's argument.

"Methinks there is no fear of that. The most nights I have slept at monasteries, and have inquired from the monks, whom I told that I must needs stand by your side to-day, whether I should be fit. They said at first that there would be some risk in the matter, but that if I continued to take rest and quiet as I was doing, and the wound continued to heal favourably, it was possible, if I abstained from actual fighting, I might do so; but of late they have spoken more confidently. I told the monk who seared my arm to do it heartily, for a little pain more or less was of small account, so that he made a good job of it. And so, what with the rest and quiet and my mind being at ease, it went on so well that a monk who examined it at Westminster on Wednesday evening told me that save for the healing of the skin the wound was pretty nigh cured, and that he thought there was no chance whatever of its breaking out afresh. He bandaged it tightly to prevent any rush of blood into the veins, and though when I drove an axe just now into that stump yonder, I felt that I had not got back my strength fully, I expect when I warm to the work I shall strike as strongly as most."

"Well, at any rate you must take care of yourself, Osgod. You can aid me in keeping our men steady, but I charge you not to fight yourself unless you see the line waver. Then you can, of course, throw yourself into the fray."

"I will keep myself back for that, master; but I am sure we shall all have to do our best before sunset, and as all will be risking their lives there is no reason why I should not do so as well as the rest."

The troops made a hearty breakfast from the food they carried, and quenched their thirst at the little stream that ran down by the side of the slope, then they were told off to the ground they were to occupy.

At nine in the morning the vanguard of the Norman army appeared over the brow of a rise, and the English at once took up their positions. In the centre were the housecarls of the royal house and those of the thanes, together with the men of Kent, whose right it was ever to be in the front of a battle, and the London citizens under their sheriff. All these were armed and attired like the housecarls. In the centre of this array flew the royal standard, and around it were the three royal brothers, Aelfwig their uncle, with his monk's cowl over his helmet, and their nephew, Hakon, the son of Sweyn. The housecarls were in a triple line. To the left and right of them were the levies, as brave as their more heavily armed comrades, but altogether without discipline, and armed in the most primitive manner. A few only carried swords or axes, the majority had spears or javelins. Many had only forks or sharp stakes, while some carried stone hammers and axes, such as were used by their primitive ancestors.

As the Norman army wound down from the opposite hill and formed up in the order of battle, Harold rode along in front of his line exhorting all to stand firm.

"They were there," he said, "to defend their country, and to defend their country they had but to hold the hill. Were they steadfast and firm they could assuredly resist the attack of this host who came to capture and plunder England."

The order in which the Normans prepared for battle was similar to that of the English. Both commanders had been well informed by spies of the strength and position of their opponents, and the duke placed his tried Norman troops in the centre to match themselves against the English housecarls. His Breton contingent was on his left, while on the right were the French, the Flemings, and the other foreign adventurers who had come to fight under his banner. In the front line were the archers and slingers, who were to open the battle and shake the line of the defenders. Behind these came the infantry, who were to hew down the palisades and clear a way for the cavalry charge full into the centre of the English host.

A Norman trumpet gave the signal for the commencement of the battle, and the archers along the whole line poured a storm of arrows into the English. It was unanswered, for there were few bowmen among the defenders of the hill, and the distance was too great for the javelin-men to hurl their missiles. After the archers had shot several volleys of arrows they fell back, and the infantry advanced against the hill; but before they did so Taillifer, a Norman minstrel, dashed forward on horseback, and spurring up the ascent, tossing his sword in the air and catching it as it fell, rode up to the English line. One man he pierced with a lance, another he cut down with his sword, and then fell dead under the blow of a heavy axe. This mad exploit had scarce terminated when the Norman infantry advanced up the hill. They were greeted with a shower of stones and javelins, which slew many, but with unbroken front they pressed upwards until they reached the palisade. Here a desperate struggle began. The Norman sword and spear were met by the axes of the housecarls, and the clubs, spears, and forks of the levies. In vain Norman, Breton, Frenchmen, and Fleming strove to break the English line. The high position of the defenders gave them a great advantage over their assailants, among whose crowded ranks the javelin-men did great execution, while the Normans could receive little aid from their archers. Both sides fought with obstinate valour. The Norman battle-cry was "God help us!" the English "God Almighty and the Holy Cross!" The latter invocation being to the relic at Waltham, which was the king's special object of devotion.

With jeering cries too they greeted the efforts of their assailants to cross the palisade and break their line. At last the Norman infantry fell back broken and baffled, having suffered terrible loss, and now the knights and horsemen, who formed the backbone of William's army, rode up the hill. The duke himself, as well as his brother Odo, Bishop of Bayeau, who fought beside him, had laid aside their Norman swords, and were armed with heavy maces, weapons as formidable as the English axe. But the valour of the horsemen, the strength of their armour, the length of their lances, and the weight of their horses, availed no more against the shield-wall of the housecarls than the infantry had done. The superior height and strength of the English, and the sweep of their terrible battle-axes, counterbalanced the advantage the horses afforded to the Normans, and the hitherto irresistible chivalry of Normandy and France were, for the first time, dashed backwards by trained infantry.

In front of the English line the ground was thickly covered with fallen men and horses. There were but few wounded among them, for where the English axe fell, whether on horse or rider, it did its work thoroughly. But the English, too, had suffered. The action of swinging the axe with both arms above the head left the neck and upper part of the body exposed, and many had fallen pierced through and through by the Norman spears. A great shout of triumph rose from the English line as the Norman horsemen, unable to do more, fell sullenly back down the hill. As in the centre the king with his thanes and housecarls had repelled the attack of the Normans, so on the flanks the English levies had held their ground against the Bretons and French; but, carried away by their exultation, the levies on the right, forgetful of Harold's express orders that no man was to stir from his place until he himself gave the signal for pursuit, broke their line, and rushing down the hill fell on the retreating Bretons.

Unable to withstand the onslaught, and already disheartened by their failure, the Bretons fled in wild alarm, and rushing towards the centre for protection threw the Normans also into confusion. The panic spread rapidly, the host wavered, and had already begun to fly, when William, throwing off his helmet, rode among them, and exhorting some and striking others with a lance he had caught up, at last restored order, and the Breton infantry rallied and fell upon their pursuers, killing many and driving the rest back up the hill.

Again the Norman infantry and cavalry together advanced up the hill, and the terrible struggle recommenced. William and his brother the bishop performed prodigies of valour, but not less valiantly fought Harold of England and his brothers. The palisade was by this time destroyed in many places, and desperate hand-to-hand contests now took place. Cutting his way through meaner foes the duke strove to reach the royal standard and encounter Harold himself. He was nearing his goal, when Gurth sprang forward, eager above all things to protect Harold from harm. He hurled a javelin at William, but the dart struck the Norman's horse only, and it fell beneath him. William leapt to his feet, and springing upon Gurth smote with his heavy mace full on his helmet, and the noble Earl of East Anglia fell dead at his feet. Almost at the same moment his brother Leofwin, fighting sword in hand, was slain. But the fall of the two royal brothers in no way changed the fate of the battle. The men of Kent and Essex, furious at the fall of their beloved earls, fought even more fiercely than before to avenge their deaths.

William had remounted, but his second horse was also slain. Eustace of Boulogne offered him his horse, and himself mounting that of one of his followers they fell together upon the English line, but all the valour of the duke and his chivalry failed to break it. On the French left the Bretons had, indeed, succeeded in completely destroying the palisade, but the levies stood firm, and no impression was made upon their solid line. The attack had failed, and even William saw that it was hopeless any more to hurl his troops against the shield-wall, but the manner in which the English irregulars had been induced to break their array led him to try by a feigned retreat to induce them to repeat their error. While the fight yet raged around him he sent orders to the Bretons to turn and flee, and then if the defenders pursued them to turn upon them while he ordered a portion of his Norman force to make straight for the gap as soon as the English left their posts.

The stratagem was successful. Again with exulting shouts the levies poured out in pursuit of the Bretons. These fled for some distance, and then suddenly turning fell on their pursuers. Ill-armed and undisciplined as the levies were, and unable to withstand the attack of such overwhelming numbers, they bore themselves gallantly. One party took possession of a small outlying hill, and with showers of darts and stones they killed or drove off all who attacked them. The greater part, however, made their way to broken ground to the west of the hill, and made a stand on the steep bank of a small ravine. The French horsemen charging down upon them, unaware of the existence of the ravine, fell into it, and were slaughtered in such numbers by the knives and spears of the English that the ravine was well-nigh filled up with their dead bodies.

But gallantly as the levies had retrieved their error, it was a fatal one. As soon as they had left their line, the Normans told off for the duty pressed into the gap, and were followed by the whole of their main body, and thus the English lost the advantage of position, and the contending hosts faced each other on the hill, the ground now occupied by the Normans being somewhat higher than that on which the housecarls stood. It was now about three in the afternoon, and the fight had been raging for six hours, but though thus outflanked and the order of their battle destroyed, the veterans of Harold showed neither alarm nor discouragement. Their formation was changed, the shield-wall still faced the Normans, and for a time every effort to break it failed.

In vain the Norman cavalry charged down upon it, in vain their duke plied his terrible mace. Occasionally men worn out by the long defensive battle sprang from the English ranks and engaged knight or baron hand to hand. All along the line such single-handed conflicts were going on, and the roar of battle was as loud and fierce as at the beginning of the day. So for three more hours the fight went on; with diminishing numbers, but with undiminished bravery the English still held their ground, and as twilight was now closing in, it seemed as if they would maintain it till nightfall. Then William ordered up his archers again, bade them shoot their arrows high into the air, so that they should fall among the king and his thanes grouped round the standard.

The effect was terrible. Through helm and shoulder-guard the arrows made their way; the soldiers held their shields above their heads, but the thanes had no such protection. Harold glanced up for a moment, and as if directed by the hand of fate an arrow struck him full in the eye, and he fell prostrate as if struck by a thunderbolt. A cry of horror and dismay burst from the thanes around him, but there was no time for the indulgence of grief. The Normans too had seen the king fall, and with shouts of triumph a body of knights tried to force their way in to take possession of his body. But so long as an Englishman could swing axe this was not to be, and the assault was repulsed as others had been before. Nor, when the news of Harold's fall spread, did the brave housecarls lose heart, but sternly and obstinately as ever held together.

At last the Normans burst in at the centre, each baron and knight striving to be the first to pluck down the standards, the one the king's own cognizance, the other the national banner, that waved side by side. One after another the thanes were smitten down. Not one asked for quarter, not one turned his back upon the foe.

Beorn and Wulf had, through the long fight, stood side by side, and the watchfulness with which they guarded each other had carried them so far unharmed through it.

"It is all over now, Beorn," Wulf said. "But it is not hard to die, for with Harold the cause of England is lost."

"At any rate we will sell our lives dearly," Beorn said, as he struck a Norman knight from his horse. But they were the last defenders of the standards, and the end was at hand. Blows rained down upon them. Beorn was beaten on to one knee; Wulf was so exhausted by his exertions that he could scarce swing his axe, when a Norman baron pressed his horse through the throng, and springing to the ground held his sword aloft and shouted: "Stand back! stand back! these two men hold the duke's solemn pledge for their lives!" Some of the others still pressed on, but he shouted again: "Whoever strikes at them strikes at me!"

There was still hesitation, so furious were the Normans at the resistance they had met with and the tremendous losses they had suffered. But another baron exclaimed, "De Burg is right! I heard the pledge given, and so did many of you. This is the young Saxon who saved the duke's camp from the attack by the Bretons, and bore the brunt of their assault till we had time to arm. The other brought with him the news that Harold was wrecked." The words were decisive, and the Normans turned aside their horses to attack other foes.

"Thank God I arrived in time, Wulf," Baron de Burg said. "I knew you would be near the standard, but I was fighting elsewhere when the news reached me that the line was broken and the standard on the point of capture. Are you badly hurt, Beorn?"

"I am dizzy and faint," Beorn, who had risen to his feet, replied unsteadily, "but I think not badly wounded."

"Walk by me one on each side holding my stirrup-leathers. I would place you on my horse, but it were best that I myself should be seen."

He removed his helmet, and bareheaded moved off with the young thanes walking beside him. Many Normans stopped as he made his way down the hill, but to their questions he replied, "The duke has himself guaranteed the safety of these thanes," and as he was well known to stand high in the duke's favour his word was at once accepted.

In the meantime Harold's standard, whose emblem was a fighting man, and the golden dragon, the national banner, had been carried off in triumph. Four of the Normans whose names were long held in infamy by the English discovered the body of the dying king, for it is said that he still breathed. One of these was Eustace of Boulogne, the only man in the two armies who had during the engagement shown signs of craven fear. Another was the son of that Count of Ponthieu, who had once held Harold prisoner. The others were Gifford and Montfort. One ran his spear through Harold's breast, another struck off his head with his sword, a third pierced the dead body, while the fourth further insulted the dead hero by cutting off one of his legs -- an action, however, which William when he heard of it pronounced to be shameful, and expelled its perpetrator from the army.

But though the king was dead and the standard lost, the survivors of the housecarls still fought on until darkness fell. The levies had fled just before, hotly pursued by the Norman horse. Knowing the ground well the light-armed footmen fled across a bog, and in the fast-gathering darkness their pursuers did not notice the nature of the ground, but galloping on plunged into the morass, where great numbers of them perished miserably, either suffocated in the mud or slain by the English, who turned and fell upon them with axe and spear as soon as they saw their plight. So great was the slaughter, that those who had reined up their horses in time were stricken with horror even after all the carnage they had witnessed on the field of battle.

With darkness the battle came to an end. Few indeed of the housecarls drew off under cover of the darkness; their force being almost annihilated. With them had perished almost the whole of the thanes of the South of England and East Anglia. The Sheriff of London had been carried off desperately wounded by a few of his friends, but with this exception none of Harold's companions and thanes left the field alive while daylight lasted. A few only the next morning were found breathing among the mass of dead, and some of these survived and returned at last to their homes: for William, satisfied with the complete victory he had gained, issued orders that all found alive on the field were to be well treated. He felt that he was now King of England, and that clemency was his best policy. Permission was given to the women who flocked in from the country round, to search for the bodies of their friends and to remove them for burial. He also commanded a search to be made for the body of Harold, but during the night, while the exhausted soldiers slept heavily after their labours, the camp-followers had been busy with the work of plunder, busiest round the spot where the standards had stood, for here were stores of gold bracelets and rings, the emblems of authority of the thanes, to be collected, and rich garments to be carried off. Thus then, the heaps of corpses that marked the spot where the fighting had all day been heaviest, were unrecognizable, so terrible had been the wounds dealt by sword, battle-axe, and mace.

De Burg had kept Wulf and Beorn with him all night, and they had lain down and slept together. In the morning he committed them to the charge of some of his personal followers, while he went to the duke to inform him of what he had done.

"Thank you, De Burg," William said; "they are two brave young fellows. I marked them in the fight more than once when I was near the standard, and I should have grieved if ill had befallen them, for they did me loyal service. I had given my word that they should retain their estates in case I ever came to the throne here. I know not what to do with them. Were I to let them go now, they would assuredly take part in any further resistance that the English may offer to me. I will not ask them now to swear allegiance to me, for fresh from the battle where they have lost so many friends and the earl they loved so loyally, they would assuredly refuse."

"If you will grant me a short leave I will take ship back to Normandy and place them in the care of my wife, where they can remain until matters have settled down here."

"It is a good idea, De Burg; do so without delay. Methinks that after yesterday there will be no real resistance offered to me. Harold and his brothers and all the leading thanes lie dead. There is no one left to lead the people or organize a resistance, therefore I can spare you for a time."

Thanking the duke, De Burg returned to his captives and told them what had been arranged.

"We owe you our heartiest thanks, Lord de Burg, for your kindness," Beorn said. "Assuredly so long as England resists we will not acknowledge William of Normandy as king, but when resistance ceases, we will of course take the oath to him if only for the sake of our people; partial risings could but bring down his vengeance and cause suffering and ruin to all concerned. Therefore, we gratefully accept your offer, but first of all we beg you to let us go to the spot where our housecarls fought. You remember Wulf's man, Osgod?"

"That do I indeed," De Burg replied. "The great fellow who fought by his side that night against the Bretons, and saved my son's life. Was he there?"

"He was," Wulf said, "though greatly against my wishes; for he had lost an arm in the fight at Stamford Bridge, and though it is little more than a fortnight since, he had himself carried down here, contrary to my orders, and insisted upon joining in the battle. I would fain search for his body and give him burial."

"I will come with you at once," the Norman said, "I too owe him a debt of gratitude."

The housecarls of Steyning had fallen to a man where they stood, and among them after some searching they came upon the body of Osgod, distinguished alike by its bulk and the loss of an arm. His axe lay with a broken shaft by his side. His helmet was cleft asunder, and his face covered with blood.

"His body is yet warm," Wulf said, as he lifted his arm. "I believe he still lives."

De Burg called upon two Norman soldiers near to aid, and with their assistance Wulf and Beorn carried Osgod down to the stream, where they washed the blood from his face and bathed the wound in his head.

"He is certainly alive," Beorn said. "Doubtless he was stunned by the blow, and has remained unconscious from the loss of blood."

De Burg sent for a flask of wine, and a little of this was poured through Osgod's lips. Presently there was a deep sigh and a slight motion of the figure, and then Osgod opened his eyes.

At first he seemed bewildered, but as his eyes fell on Wulf a look of pleasure came into them, and he smiled faintly.

"I am alive, Osgod, and glad indeed to find that you are also. Beorn has also escaped. Take a draught of wine; you have lost a lot of blood and had none to spare."

They lifted him into a sitting position, and held the cup to his lips while he drank a long draught.

"That is better," he murmured. "I can feel it going through my veins. I shall be able to wield an axe yet again. This comes of fighting with a weapon you don't know. The shaft broke as I was guarding my head, and I don't remember anything after."

"It saved your life though, Osgod, for it broke the force of the blow which would otherwise have cleft your skull. As it is, it has not gone very deep, and the blood you have lost has run chiefly from a wound on your left shoulder."

"How is it that you are here?" Osgod asked, looking round at the Normans.

"We are prisoners, though we have not surrendered," Wulf replied. "We were saved by our good friend Lord de Burg, who has joined us in our search for you. We are to be taken to Normandy as prisoners, and to remain in charge of Lady de Burg."

"You shall go too, Osgod," De Burg said. "You will find it hard to be nursed here, and my wife will see that your wounds are well cared for. Your master will stay with you for the present, for I have matters to see about before we start for the coast."

In half an hour he returned. "I have to ask you to perform a last service to your dead king," he said. "The bodies of Gurth and Leofwin have been found and borne away by your people for burial, but none can find the body of Harold. All the dead that were near the standard were removed last night by the soldiers, and among the great pile of dead none can recognize that of your king."

Well as they knew him, Wulf and Beorn were unable to recognize the body of Harold among the ghastly heap of mutilated corpses. After a time Wulf said:

"There is one who might recognize it when all others failed. It is Edith, whom he so long loved as his wife. She may recognize it by some mark or sign unknown to others. If you will give me leave I will ride to Lewes, where she is staying, and bring her hither."

"Certainly, Wulf; I will obtain a safe conduct for you from the duke."

Wulf had ridden, however, but a mile along the western road when he saw a litter approaching borne by four men. He reined in his horse by its side. An order was given from within, and as the bearers lowered it to the ground Edith stepped out. She was deadly pale. Her eyes were red with weeping, and she seemed to Wulf to have aged years since he saw her a week before.

"My presentiments have come true, Wulf," she said. "It was no surprise to me when last night the news came that the battle was lost and Harold slain. I had looked and waited for it. You were coming to fetch me?"

"Yes, lady; Harold's body has not been found. Early this morning two monks of Waltham, who had followed the army and seen the fight afar off, came into camp, and with them Gytha, Harold's mother. She saw the duke, and begged for Harold's body, offering its weight in gold if she might carry it for burial to the Abbey of Waltham. The duke refused, saying that an excommunicated man could not be buried in a holy place; she might remove the bodies of her other two sons, but Harold's, when found, should be buried by the seacoast. The monks searched in vain for the body. Beorn and I have done the same, but have failed to recognize it in so vast a heap of slain."

"I shall know it," Edith said. "Among a thousand dead I should know Harold."

"It is a terrible sight, lady, for a woman to look upon," Wulf said gently.

"I shall see nothing but him," she replied firmly.

He accompanied her back to the battle-ground, where the two monks joined her. Wulf, who was greatly shaken by the sight of her set and white face, left her with them.

What the eye of friendship had failed to accomplish, that of love detected unerringly. There were marks on Harold's body by which Edith recognized it. One of the monks bore the news to the duke, who charged Sir William Malet to superintend the burial, and to do it with all honour. The remains were collected and reverently placed together. They were wrapped in a purple robe, and laid on a litter. Beorn and Wulf and the two monks lifted it; Edith walked behind, followed by Lord de Burg and several other Norman knights and barons who had known Harold in Normandy, and could admire and appreciate the valour of the dead hero. The little procession went down to the shore, where Norman soldiers had already dug a grave, and there by the coast he had defended so well Harold was laid to rest, and over his body a great cairn of stones was raised by order of the duke.



Chapter XXII.


The Lord Of Bramber.

Edith stood by while the Norman soldiers piled the stones over the grave. No tear had fallen from her eyes from the time that she had reached the field of battle. Her face was as pale as marble, and looked almost as rigid. When the last stone was placed on the top of the cairn she turned to Wulf and Beorn:

"Farewell, Wulf! farewell, Beorn! I am glad you were here. I am glad that beside me stood two of his most trusted thanes, and two of the monks from the abbey he founded, and whose welfare was so dear to him. I go to Lewes, and when the doors of the convent close on me I shall be dead to the world. Would that I were lying beneath that cairn by the side of my dear lord. I cannot weep for him now, the springs of my heart seem frozen, but I have time for that. Farewell, thanes! I shall remember you in my prayers." So saying she turned away, and walked back to the litter.

"Poor lady!" Beorn exclaimed as he watched the litter, escorted by the two monks, carried along the road.

"Poor lady indeed!" Wulf repeated; "and yet there are thousands in England and Normandy who were widowed yesterday, and maybe she is better off than many. She lost Harold the day she resigned him to another, and it was harder perhaps to be parted from him in that fashion than to know that he is dead now. She can think of him as his true widow, for assuredly the queen who never cared aught for him is a widow but in name. Before, Edith was tortured by the desire to see him and to comfort him, and yet his marriage stood as a gulf between them, a gulf that she would never have passed. Now she can think of him as her very own, as the man who had loved her even as she had loved him. It is a grief, a terrible grief, but one without bitterness. But see, Lord de Burg is coming this way, and as there is a litter behind him I suppose all is ready for our departure."

"I am ready, young thanes," De Burg said as he came up. "We ride at once for Pevensey, whither an order was sent some hours ago for a ship to be in readiness to sail for Normandy."

Three horses were led up and mounted. They rode away, followed by an armed party and the litter on which Osgod was laid.

"You have done your last duty to your king," the Norman said. "It is a fit grave for a hero, and assuredly Harold was one. Maybe that it is not his last resting-place. The duke at present doubtless felt constrained at first to refuse him Christian burial, for had he granted Gytha's request, it would have been an acknowledgment that the charges brought against him were unfounded, and the excommunication of no avail; but I doubt not that in time he will allow his body to be taken to his abbey at Waltham. Now," he said less gravely, in order to turn their thoughts from the sad scenes they had witnessed, "what think you of the future, will the Northern earls head a national movement against us?"

"They are foul traitors!" Beorn exclaimed passionately; "and I would that Wulf and I could meet them in fair lists and fight them."

"They will do nothing," Wulf said more quietly. "They will hasten to make the best terms they can for themselves, and will ask to be permitted to hold their earldoms as his vassals. But they will not long enjoy their treachery; they are ever intriguers, and as soon as they see their opportunity will conspire against William as they conspired against Harold. Thank heaven they will receive scantier mercy at his hands than they received at the king's. As for the South and East, who is to lead them? There is no one left to whom they can look for guidance; doubtless in some places they will resist, but such resistance can only bring ruin upon those who attempt it. Maybe some will take to the forests or the great eastern marshes, and may perhaps hold out for months, or even years. But what can it avail in the end? Had Harold escaped alive there would have been many a battle as obstinate as that of yesterday to fight before England was conquered. Had any of the greater thanes escaped men would have flocked to them, but they are all gone, save the few that were found well-nigh lifeless this morning. Perhaps it is better as it is; for now that William is victorious he will soon receive large bodies of reinforcements, and as resistance would be vain, it were best that no resistance were made. Duke William has shown himself a wise and just ruler in Normandy, and will doubtless prove himself the same in England if he be not angered by revolts and risings. It is hard that Englishmen should be ruled by a foreigner, but it is no new thing for us. We Saxons conquered the Britons, and in turn Danish kings have ruled over us; but Saxon and Dane have become almost one, and the old grudges have died out. Maybe in time you Normans also may become English."

"You would take the oath of allegiance to William then, Wulf?"

"Not now, my lord, but when England accepts him as her king I should be willing to hold my lands from him as I have held them before from our kings, that is, if the lands remain mine."

"They will remain yours," Lord de Burg said confidently. "The duke's promise was publicly made, and he will certainly adhere to it; even if he wished it, he could not, after charging Harold with perjury, break his own promise."

The sun was sinking when they reached Pevensey, for the search for Harold's body and the building of his cairn had occupied many hours. They went at once on board one of the ships De Burg had himself furnished for the expedition, and two days later landed at Rouen. They had brought horses with them, and the two young thanes at once rode with the baron to his chateau, leaving Osgod to be brought after them in his litter. Lord de Burg was received with the greatest joy by his wife, Guy, and Agnes. They had been in a state of terrible anxiety for the last twenty-four hours, for a swift ship had been despatched by the duke with the news of the victory, at daybreak after the battle, and it was known that the fight had been long and desperately contested, and that a great number of barons and knights had fallen. As soon as the first outburst of delight was over the baron called in Wulf and Beorn, who had not followed him into the room, feeling that he would prefer to greet his family alone. Guy gave an exclamation of surprise and pleasure as they came forward.

"These are my prisoners," the baron said with a smile, "if I can call prisoners those who have never surrendered. The duke has intrusted them to my keeping, and has ordered that you shall hold them in safe custody."

"Lord de Burg does not tell you, lady, that he saved our lives, which but for him were assuredly lost. We were well-nigh spent, and were surrounded by a ring of foes when he broke in and stood beside us proclaiming that the duke himself had given a pledge for our safety."

"I have paid part of the debt we owe," the baron said, "though I saved them at no cost to myself, while Wulf defended Guy at the risk of his life."

"How long do you stay with us, my lord?"

"As long as I can, wife. I went, as you know, unwillingly to the war, but when all the Norman barons followed the duke I could not hold back. But I trust to have no more of it; so terrible a field no man living has seen, and in truth until twilight fell it seemed that we should be beaten, with such obstinacy and endurance did the English fight. We won, but it was a victory over the dead rather than the living. Of Harold's regular troops no man turned, no man asked for quarter, they fell where they stood; and even the irregulars, who had fought with equal bravery, when, as night fell and all was lost, they fled, inflicted well-nigh as heavy a blow upon us as had been dealt during the day. I have no animosity against them, they are valiant men, and were in their right in defending their country, and I would that I could stay peacefully here until the last blow has been struck. I am well content with my estates, and need no foot of English land, no share in English spoil I must fight for my liege lord as long as fighting goes on, but that over I hope to return here and live in peace. At any rate I can tarry quietly here for a week. Certainly no force can be raised in time to oppose the duke's advance on London, and my sword therefore may well rest in its scabbard. I suppose, thanes, you will not object to give me your parole to attempt no escape?"

"Willingly, my lord," Beorn said. "If, contrary to our opinion, England should rise and fight one more battle for freedom, we will give you due notice that we shall if possible escape and cross the sea to join our countrymen."

"That is fair enough," De Burg said with a smile, "and the moment you give me notice I will clap you into so firm a cage that I warrant you will not escape from it; but I trust the necessity will not arise. Now, Guy, take your friends to their chambers and see to their comfort. I will not tell the story of the battle until you return, for doubtless you are burning to hear it, and in truth it will be famous in all times, both as one of the sturdiest fights ever heard of, and because such great issues depended on its results."

When Guy returned with his friends and a meal had been eaten, De Burg told the story of the battle of Senlac.

"Such is the story as far as I know it," he added in conclusion, "but in truth beyond the beginning and the end, and the fact that we twice fell back and at one time were flying in headlong rout to our ships, I know nothing. All day I was striving to break through a living wall, and striving in vain. I can see now the close line of shields, the helmet covered faces above them, and the terrible axes rising and falling, cleaving through helmet and hauberk as if they had been pasteboard. It may well-nigh be said that we have no wounded, for each man struck fell in his track as if smitten by lightning. Can you add more, thanes?"

Beorn shook his head.

"It is like a dream," Wulf said. "We never moved through the long day. At times there was a short lull, and then each man was fighting as best he could. I know that my arms grew tired and that my axe seemed to grow heavier, that horse and foot swept up to us, and there was occasionally breathing time; that the royal brothers' voices rose ever cheeringly and encouragingly until Gurth and Leofwin fell, and after that Harold's alone was heard, though I think it came to my ears as from a distance, so great was the tumult, so great our exertions. When Harold died I knew that all was lost, but even that did not seem to affect me. I had become a sort of machine, and fought almost mechanically, with a dim consciousness that the end was close at hand. It was only at the last, when Beorn and I stood back to back, that I seemed myself again, and was animated with new strength that came, I suppose, from despair."

"It was an awful day," De Burg said. "I have fought in many battles under the duke's banner, but the sternest of them were but paltry skirmishes in comparison to this. Half of the nobles of Normandy lie dead, half the army that filled the mighty fleet that sailed from St. Valery have fallen. William is King of England, but whether that will in the end repay Normandy for the loss she has suffered seems to me very doubtful. And now let us to bed. I sleep not well on shipboard, and in truth I had such dreams of death and slaughter that I ever awoke bathed with sweat, and in such fear that I dared not go to sleep again."

At the end of a week the baron sailed again for England. To the two young Englishmen the following weeks passed pleasantly. Ships came frequently from England with news of what was doing there. William had tarried for some time at his camp at Hastings, expecting to receive the submission of all England. But not an Englishman came to bow before him. The Northern earls had hurried to London as soon as they heard of the defeat at Senlac and the death of the king and his brothers, and a Witan was instantly summoned to choose his successor to the throne.

Edwin and Morcar thought that the choice of the nation would surely fall upon one or other of them, as in rank and position they were now the first men in the realm. They exerted themselves to the utmost to bring this about, but no true-hearted Englishman could forgive either their acceptance of Harold Hardrada as their king, or the long and treacherous delay that had left Southern England to stand alone on the day of battle. The choice of the Witan fell on the young Edgar, the grandson of Edmund Ironside, the last male survivor of the royal blood. Edgar, however, was never crowned, as that ceremony could only take place at one of the festivals of the church, and it was therefore postponed until Christmas. London was eager for resistance. Alfred had fought battle after battle against the Danes, and though without their natural leaders, the people throughout Southern England looked forward to a long and determined struggle. With the army of the North as a rallying centre a force more numerous than that which Harold had led might soon be gathered. But these hopes were dashed to the ground by the treacherous Northern earls. Had one of them been chosen to sit on the vacant throne they would doubtless have done their best to maintain that throne, but they had been passed over, and oblivious of the fact that it was to the South they owed the rescue of their earldoms from the sway of the King of Norway and Tostig, they sullenly marched away with their army and left the South to its fate.

While the cause of England was thus being betrayed and ruined, William was advancing eastward along the coast ravaging and destroying. Romney was levelled to the ground and its inhabitants slain. Dover opened its gates. It is probable that most of the male population had joined Harold, and had fallen at Senlac; and that the terrible fate of Romney had struck such terror into the hearts of the inhabitants, who knew there was no army that could advance to their assistance, that they surrendered at the Conqueror's approach. To them William behaved with lenity and kindness. His severity at Romney and his lenity at Dover had their effect. There being no central authority, no army in the field, each town and district was left to shift for itself; and assuredly none of them unaided could hope to offer prolonged resistance to the Normans. As, after eight days' stay at Dover, William advanced towards Canterbury, he was met by a deputation of the citizens offering their submission, and soon from all parts of Kent similar messages came in.

Kent had done its full share in the national defence on the hill near Hastings, and was not to be blamed if, when all England remained supine and inactive, its villagers refused to throw away their lives uselessly. The duke was detained by sickness for a month near Canterbury, and there received the submission of Kent and Sussex, and also that of the great ecclesiastical city of Winchester; but the spirit of resistance in London still burned brightly, and William was indisposed to risk the loss that would be incurred by an assault upon its walls. He, therefore, moved round in a wide circle, wasting the land, plundering and destroying, till the citizens, convinced that resistance could only bring destruction upon themselves and their city, and in spite of the efforts of their wounded sheriff, sent an embassy to the duke at Berkhampstead to submit and do homage to him.

Not London alone was represented by this embassy. The young king, elected but uncrowned, was with it; two archbishops, two bishops, and many of the chief men in England accompanied it, and although they were not the spokesmen of any Witan, they might be said fairly to represent London and Southern England.

Deserted by the North, without a leader, and seeing their land exposed to wholesale ravages, the South and West Saxons were scarcely to be blamed for preferring submission to destruction. They doubtless thought that William, the wise ruler of Normandy, would make a far better king than the boy they had chosen, who was himself almost as much a foreigner as William, save that there was a strain of English royal blood in his veins. So had England accepted Canute the Dane as her king, and he had ruled as an English monarch wisely and well.

The embassy offered William the crown. The Norman prelates and priests, who held so many of the dignities in the English Church, had worked hard to incline men's minds to this end. Silent while England stood united under its king to oppose the invader, their tongues were loosed as soon as the strength of England was broken and its king dead, and they pointed out that God had clearly designated William as their king by giving him victory and by destroying alike Harold and his brothers.

William went through the farce of hesitating to accept the offer of the crown, and held a consultation with his officers as to the answer he should give. They of course replied that he should accept the offer. William, therefore, marched with his army to London, where on Christmas-day the same prelate who had anointed Harold King of England crowned William as his successor.

A few days later Beorn and Wulf with Osgod, who had now completely recovered from his wounds, set sail for England. There was no longer any reason why they should not take their oaths to serve William. He was the crowned king of England, the accepted of the people, as Harold had been, and when all Southern England had submitted it was not for them, who had received special favours at William's hand, to hold back. With them went Lady de Burg, Guy, and Agnes, with many other Norman ladies on their way to rejoin their lords in London. Baron de Burg, on the day after their arrival at Westminster, led the two young thanes to the private apartment of the king. He received them graciously.

"There are none of your nation," he said, "whose homage I more gladly accept. You fought valiantly before under my banner, and will, I am sure, be ready to do so again should occasion arise. I am thankful to my Lord de Burg that he interposed in my name and saved your lives. I have not forgotten the other part of my promise, and have this morning ordered my justiciar to add to your estates forfeited lands adjoining."

Beorn and Wulf had previously talked the matter over. Their own inclinations would have led them to refuse the offer, but as it was certain that all the land forfeited to the crown by the death of its holders in battle would be apportioned among William's Norman followers, they thought that it would be wholly for the benefit both of the families of the late thanes and for their tenants and people that they should accept any estate William might bestow on them. They, therefore, thanked the duke in suitable terms, and at once took the oaths for the lands he might be pleased to bestow on them. A week later they received the formal deeds, which in both cases more than doubled the estates they before possessed.

The same evening Lord de Burg said to Wulf, who had tarried in London, while Beorn had at once set out for Fareham: "I think the time has come, Wulf, when I can speak of a subject that has been in my thoughts for a long time, and which, although you have not spoken, has, as my wife and I have both seen, been dear to you. Normandy and England are now one, and we are vassals of the same king. As long as there was a probability that Englishmen and Normans might again be ranged in battle against each other, it was not expedient that aught should be done in the matter, but, now this obstacle is removed, I can offer you the alliance on which I am sure your heart is set, and give you the hand of my daughter in marriage."

"It is the greatest wish of my life," Wulf replied gratefully. "I should have asked you for her hand before had it not been for the position of public affairs. I love her dearly, though I have until now abstained from speaking; and yet I would not wed her unless her heart went freely with her hand."

"I think not that she will be disobedient to my wishes," De Burg said smiling. "She has proved deaf to all her Norman suitors, and although among them were some whom few maidens would have said no to, her mother and I had no wish to force her inclinations, especially as we both shrewdly suspected where her heart had been bestowed. This alliance, too, has long been the dearest wish of Guy. On the bed of sickness where he lay so long, and from which it seemed at one time that he would never rise, he often spoke to me of it. He was fondly attached to his sister, and again and again said that he wished of all things that you should some day become her husband, as he was sure her happiness would be safe with you, and that you would worthily fill his place to us, and would, when the time came, rule nobly over the lands of De Burg."

"God forbid that that should ever be the case," Wulf said earnestly. "I trust that Guy will live long, and that he will marry and leave descendants to follow him."

The baron shook his head sadly. "Guy is better," he said, "but he is still weak and fragile, and the leeches tell me that a rough winter or an illness that would be nought to others might carry him off. I have small hopes that he will ever marry. I am sure that no such thought is in his mind. He is as eager now as he was four years ago that you should be a son to us, and a husband to Agnes. He has also earnestly expressed the wish, in which I also join, that you should take our name. You English have no family names, but that will come with other Norman customs, and marrying a De Burg it would seem natural that you should yourself become Wulf de Burg."

"I should feel it a high honour. There is no more noble name in Normandy, and I trust I may prove worthy of bearing it."

"That I have no fear of, Wulf, else I should not have offered you the hand of my daughter. I will bring my wife and Guy in. I have offered you the hand of Agnes, but it is right that you should ask her mother's consent, although beforehand assured of it."

He left the room, and soon returned with Lady de Burg and Guy.

"My lord has told me," she said, before Wulf could speak, "that you would ask my consent to your marriage with Agnes. I give it you unasked, freely and gladly. I have but one regret -- that the seas will divide us."

"Not so," the baron said; "William's court will be held in London, and for years he will reside here far more than in Normandy, and will expect his nobles to be frequently with him. I certainly shall not come alone, and you will therefore have as many opportunities of seeing Agnes as if she were married to a Norman whose estates did not lie near our own."

"I thank you most deeply, Lady de Burg, for the confidence which you show in intrusting your daughter's happiness to me. I swear that with all my might and power I will strive to make her happy, and will spare her to visit you in Normandy whensoever you may wish it."

Guy came forward now and grasped Wulf's hand.

"How I have longed for this time, my brother," he said. "How I have hoped that I might at least live long enough to know that the dearest wish of my heart would be gratified. I can go hence now right willingly when God calls me, knowing that my father and mother have another son to fill my place, and that the happiness of my sister is secured."

"And now, wife, will you fetch Agnes from her chamber," the baron said.

In two or three minutes the baroness returned, leading Agnes, to whom she had told the reason of her summons. The baron stepped forward and took her hand.

"My daughter," he said, "the Thane of Steyning has asked for your hand in marriage, and your mother and I have given our free and full consent, but he would fain know from your own lips that you will come to him willingly."

"I have loved you, Agnes, since while still but a boy I first saw you, and my love has grown ever since. The happiness of my life depends upon your answer, but unless your heart goes with your hand I would rather remain unmarried to my dying day."

The girl had stood with downcast eyes and with flushed face until now. When Wulf ceased speaking she looked up into his face:

"I love you, Wulf; I have always loved you. It is for your sake that I have said no to the suitors of my own race who have sought my hand. I will be a true wife and loving to you."

"Then take her, Wulf," the baron said, placing her hand in his. "You are now her betrothed husband and our adopted son."

Wulf stooped and kissed the girl's lips, and the betrothal was completed. After some talk it was arranged that Wulf should at once journey down to Steyning, assume possession of his new estates, set the house in order, and prepare for their coming. Guy was to accompany him, and as soon as all was in readiness Wulf would come up to London and return with Lord and Lady de Burg and Agnes, who would pay a short visit and all would then cross to Normandy, for the marriage was to take place at their chateau there.

"I was sure how it would be," Osgod said when Wulf told him the news that night. "I should have been blind indeed if I had not seen it long ago. I love not the Normans, but I make exception in the case of Lord de Burg and his family. And truly it will in all respects be a good thing for your tenants. Although the duke, or I suppose I ought to say the king, promises greatly at present, there is no saying what he may do later on; and he has all these locusts to provide for. 'Tis well indeed, then, that there should be a Norman lady as well as an English thane at Steyning."

Wulf's return home gave rise to demonstrations of the greatest joy among his tenants. They had heard nothing of him since the battle, and had deemed him to have fallen with the rest of the defenders of the standard, and had been living in fear of the arrival of some Norman baron to be their lord. Wulf was greatly pleased to find that, although not one of his housecarls had returned from Hastings, the greater portion of his irregular levies had escaped at nightfall with the party who had inflicted so heavy a blow upon their pursuers. For the next few days Wulf was thoroughly occupied. The tenants of his new estates received him almost as joyfully as his own had done, for, like them, they had expected the advent of a Norman master. In one of the two estates that had fallen to him the thane he had succeeded had left no heirs; while the other thane had left a widow and a young family. Wulf arranged that these should remain in their home, receiving for their maintenance half the rents of the estate.

Guy was greatly pleased with the fair country in which his sister's lot was to be cast, but he owned frankly that the house seemed unworthy now of the large estate, and was indeed but a poor place in comparison with the noble chateau in which she had been brought up.

"That shall be remedied, Guy, as soon as matters settle down. I have laid by none of my revenues, for the keeping up of a hundred housecarls has taxed them to the utmost, but now that my income is more than doubled, and this expense has altogether ceased, I shall have funds with which I can soon begin to build. When I was young, Steyning seemed to me a fine house, but after your Norman castles it is indeed but a poor place."

When, a fortnight later, the De Burgs arrived with Wulf, while Agnes expressed herself delighted with the quaintness of the old Saxon home, her father and mother were decidedly of Guy's opinion.

"The house is a good house in its way," the Baron said, "but there will be great changes in the land. Much of it will be transferred to Norman hands, and ere long castles and chateaux like ours at home will rise everywhere, and as an English noble with broad lands it is but fit that your residence should vie with others. But this shall be my care, and shall be my daughter's special dowry. I foresee that it will be long ere matters wholly settle down. Moreover, though William's hand is strong that of his successor may be weak, and in time there will be the same troubles here among the barons that there were in Normandy before William put them down with a strong hand. Therefore, I should say we will build a castle rather than a chateau, for such I am sure will be the style of all the Norman buildings here, until England settles down to peace and quiet. I would not disturb this house, Wulf; it is doubtless dear to you, and will, moreover, serve as a dowager-house or as an abode for a younger son. We will fix on a new site altogether, and there we will rear a castle worthy of the estate. By the way, I have spoken to the king of your betrothal to my daughter, and he is highly pleased. He says that it is his earnest wish that his Norman nobles shall marry English heiresses, both because they will thus come into possession of lands without disturbing the owners, and because such mixture of blood will the more speedily weld the two peoples into one; and that, similarly, he is glad to see a Norman maiden united to an English noble of whom he has so high an opinion."

Fond as Wulf was of his old home he saw that it would be best to abandon it for a new residence more suited to the times and more in accordance with his own increased possessions and the home from which he was taking his wife. After riding round the estates Lord de Burg and he fixed upon a knoll of rising ground near the village of Bramber, and not far from the religious house where Wulf had spent so many evenings, and whose prior had been one of the first to welcome his return.

"I will charter a ship at Rouen," Lord de Burg said, "and send over a master craftsman, skilful in designing and building castles, and a large number of quarrymen, masons, and carpenters. Labour here is scarce, and the men are unskilled at this kind of work. Rough labour can doubtless be obtained, and your tenants can transport the stones from the quarry and dig the fosse. I will send over a goodly number of men. It will cost no more to employ three hundred for six months than fifty for three years."

A week later Wulf sailed for Rouen with the De Burgs. Beorn accompanied him, as well as Osgod, to be present at the wedding, which took place at Rouen Cathedral. A month later Wulf returned with his wife to Steyning. Already an army of men were at work at Bramber. The tenants all gave their assistance readily, and far beyond the amount their feudal tenure required, for they saw the advantage it would be to them to have a strong castle in their midst to which they could retire in case of danger. Labourers had been engaged in large numbers from the country round by the master craftsmen. The outlines of the castle had been traced, and the ground dug for its foundations, while already the broad deep fosse which was to surround it had been dug to a depth of several feet. The stones had to be brought from a considerable distance, but as at this time of year there was little work for the carts, those belonging not only to the tenants of the estate, but to the cultivators for miles round were engaged in the service.

In six months a stately pile had risen in the midst of the tranquil glade. When it was ready for occupation Lord and Lady de Burg and their son came over, and great festivities were held when Wulf de Burg (now Lord of Bramber) moved into the castle.

Soon after the birth of their first son Wulf and his wife received a hasty summons to cross the sea, and arrived in time to stand by the death-bed of Guy. Wulf had been greatly moved by the storm of war that had swept over the North of England, and the terrible vengeance taken by William there. He had no pity for the traitor earls, but he grieved for the men who, but for their treachery, would have fought at Hastings. He regretted deeply the isolated risings in various parts of the country, whose only effect was to bring ruin upon whole districts and to increase the sternness and rigour of William's rule.

Wulf's after-life was divided between England and Normandy, as he became a baron of the latter country at the death of Lord de Burg. He fought no more in England, but more than once followed William's banner in his struggles with his rebellious sons and turbulent nobles. He lived to see the animosities between Englishmen and Normans beginning to die out, and to find our kings relying upon sturdy English men-at-arms and bow-men in their struggles with French kings and with the Norman barons who held so large a portion of English soil. Osgod became the seneschal of the castle, and held it for his lord during his absences in Normandy. Wulf took an interest in the fortunes of Ulf, who in the course of time succeeded to the business of Ulred, and became one of the most skilled and famous armourers in London. Beorn married the former heiress of one of the estates William had granted him, and his firm friendship with the Lord of Bramber remained unbroken to the end of their lives.

<eob>

Roumanian Fairy Tales

By

Mite Kremnitz, J. M. Percival



Stan Bolovan.


Once upon a time, something happened. If it hadn't happened, it wouldn't be told.

At the edge of the village, where the peasants' oxen break through the hedges and the neighbors' hogs wallow in the ground under the fences, there once stood a house. In this house lived a man, and the man had a wife; but the wife grieved all day long.

"What troubles you, dear wife, that you sit there drooping like a frost-bitten bud in the sunlight?" her husband asked one day. "You have all you need. So be cheerful, like other folks."

"Let me alone, and ask no more questions!" replied the wife, and became still more melancholy than before.

Her husband questioned her the second time, and received the same reply. But, when he asked again, she answered more fully.

"Dear me," she said, "why do you trouble your head about it? If you know, you'll be just sorrowful as I am. It's better for me not to tell you."

But, to this, people will never agree. If you tell a person he must sit still, he is more anxious to move than ever. Stan was now determined to know what was in his wife's mind.

"If you are determined to hear, I'll tell you," said the wife. "There's no luck in the house, husband, -- there's no luck in the house!"

"Isn't the cow a good one? Are not the fruit-trees and bee-hives full? Are not the fields fertile?" asked Stan. "You talk nonsense, if you complain of any thing."

"But, husband, we have no children."

Stan understood; and, when a man realizes such a thing, it isn't well. From this time, a sorrowful man and a sorrowful woman lived in the house on the edge of the village. And they were sorrowful because the Lord had given them no children. When the wife saw her husband sad, she grew still more melancholy; and the more melancholy she was, the greater his grief became.

This continued for a long time.

They had masses repeated and prayers read in all the churches. They questioned all the witches, but God's gift did not come.

One day, two travelers arrived at Stan's house, and were joyfully received and entertained with the best food he had. They were angels in disguise; and, perceiving that Stan and his wife were good people, one of them, while throwing his knapsack over his shoulder to continue his journey, asked his host what he most desired, and said that any three of his wishes should be fulfilled.

"Give me children," replied Stan.

"What else shall I give you?"

"Children, sir, give me children!"

"Take care," said the angel, "or there will be too many of them. Have you enough to support them?"

"Never mind that, sir, -- only give them to me!"

The travelers departed; but Stan accompanied them as far as the high-road, that they might not lose their way among the fields and woods.

When Stan reached home again, he found the house, yard, and garden filled with children, in all not less than a hundred. Not one was larger than the other; but each was more quarrelsome, bolder, more mischievous and noisier than the rest. And, in some way, God made Stan feel and know that they all belonged to him and were his.

"Good gracious! What a lot of them!" he cried, standing in the midst of the throng.

"But not too many, husband," replied his wife, bringing a little flock with her.

Then followed days which can only be experienced by a man who has a hundred children. The house and village echoed with shouts of "father" and "mother," and the world was full of happiness.

But taking care of children isn't so simple a matter. Many pleasures come with many troubles, and many troubles with many joys. When, after a few days, the children began to shout, "Father, I'm hungry!" Stan began to scratch his head. There did not seem to him to be too many children, for God's gift is good, however large it may be; but his barns were too small, the cow was growing thin, and the fields did not produce enough.

"I'll tell you what, wife," said Stan one day, "it seems to me that there isn't much harmony in our affairs. As God was good enough to give us so many children, He ought to have filled the measure of His goodness, and sent us food for them, too."

"Search for it, husband," the wife answered. "Who knows where it may be concealed? The Lord never does a thing by halves."

Stan went out into the wide world to find God's gift. He was firmly resolved to return home laden with food.

Aha! The road of the hungry is always a long one. A man doesn't earn food for a hundred greedy children in a trice. Stan wandered on, on, on, till he had fairly run himself off his feet. When he had thus arrived nearly at the end of the world, where what is mixes with what is not, he saw in the distance, in the middle of a field which lay spread out as flat as a cake, a sheep-fold. By it stood seven shepherds, and in the shadow within lay a flock of sheep.

"Lord, help me," said Stan, and went up to the fold to see whether, by patience and discretion, he might not find some employment there. But he soon discovered that there was not much more hope here than in the other places whither he had journeyed. This was the state of affairs: every night, at precisely twelve o'clock, a furious dragon came and took from the herd a ram, a sheep, and a lamb, three animals in all. He also carried milk enough for seventy-seven lambkins to the old she-dragon, that she might bathe in it and grow young. The shepherds were very angry about it, and complained bitterly. So Stan saw that he was not likely to return home from here richly laden with food for his children.

But there is no spur more powerful than for a man to see his children starving. An idea entered Stan's head, and he said boldly, "What would you give me, if I released you from the greedy dragon?"

"One of each three rams shall be yours, one-third of the sheep, and one-third of the lambs," replied the shepherds.

"Agreed," said Stan; yet he felt rather anxious, lest he might find it too hard to drive the flock home alone.

But there was no hurry about that. It was some time before midnight. And besides, to tell the truth, Stan did not exactly know how he was to get rid of the dragon. "The Lord will send me some clever plan," he said to himself, and then counted the flock again to see how many animals he would have.

Just at midnight, when day and night, weary of strife, for a moment stood still, Stan felt that he was about to see something he had never beheld before. It was something that can not be described. It is a horrible thing to have a dragon come. It seemed as if the monster was hurling huge rocks at the trees, and thus forcing a way through primeval forests. Even Stan felt that he should be wise to take the quickest way off, and enter into no quarrel with a dragon. Ah! but his children at home were starving.

"I'll kill you or you shall kill me!" Stan said to himself, and remained where he was, close by the sheep-fold.

"Stop!" he cried, when he saw the dragon near the fold; and he shouted as though he was a person of importance.

"H'm," said the dragon: "where did you come from, that you screech at me so?"

"I am Stan Bolovan, who at night devours rocks and by day grazes on the trees of the primeval forests; and if you touch the flock, I'll cut a cross on your back, and bathe you in holy water."

When the dragon heard these words, he stopped in the midst of his career; for he saw that he had found his match.

"But you must first fight with me," replied the dragon, hesitatingly.

"I fight with you?" cried Stan. "Beware of the words that have escaped your lips. My breath is stronger than your whole body." Then, taking from his knapsack a piece of white cheese, he showed it to the dragon. "Do you see this stone?" he said. "Pick one up from the bank of yonder stream, and we'll try our strength."

The dragon took a stone from the shore of the brook.

"Can you squeeze buttermilk out of the stone?" asked Stan.

The dragon crushed the stone in his hand, so that he crumbled it into powder. But he squeezed no buttermilk from it.

"It can't be done," he said rather angrily.

"I'll show you whether it can be done," replied Stan, and then squeezed the soft cheese in his hand, till the buttermilk trickled down between his fingers.

When the dragon saw this, he began to look about him to find the shortest road to run away; but Stan placed himself before the forest. "Let us have a little reckoning about what you have taken from the fold," he said. "Nothing is given away here."

The poor dragon would have taken flight, if he hadn't been afraid that Stan might blow behind him, and bury him under the trees in the forest. So he stood still, like a person who doesn't know what else to do.

"Listen!" he said, after a while. "I see that you are a useful man. My mother has long been looking for a servant like you, but has not been able to find one. Enter our service. The year has three days, and each day's wages is seven sacks of ducats!"

Three times seven sacks of ducats! A fine business! That was just what Stan needed. "And," he thought, "if I've outwitted the dragon, I can probably get the better of his mother!" So he didn't waste many words about the matter, but set off with the monster. A long, rough road; but still it was too short, since it led to a bad end. It seemed to Stan as if he had arrived almost before he started.

The old she-dragon, old as Time itself, was waiting for them. She had made a fire under the huge caldron, in which she meant to boil the milk and mix it with the blood of a lamb and the marrow from its bones, that the liquid might have healing power. Stan saw her eyes glistening in the darkness when they were still three gun-shots off. But, when they reached the spot and the she-dragon perceived that her son had brought her nothing, she was very angry. This she-dragon was by no means lovable. She had a wrinkled face, open jaws, tangled hair, sunken eyes, parched lips, and a breath reeking with the smell of onions.

"Stay here," said the dragon. "I'll go and make arrangements with my mother."

Stan would willingly have stood still further off, but he had no choice now that he had once entered upon this evil business. So he let the dragon go on.

"Listen, mother!" said the dragon, when he had entered the house. "I've brought you a man to get rid of. He's a terrible fellow, who eats pieces of rock and squeezes buttermilk out of stones." Then he told her what had happened.

"Just leave him to me," she said, after hearing the whole story. "No man ever slipped through my fingers."

So the matter remained as it had first been settled. Stan Bolovan became the servant of this monster and his mother. A terrible fix! I really don't know what will come of it.

The next day, the she-dragon gave him his task. They were to give a signal to the dragon world with a club sheathed in seven thicknesses of iron. The dragon raised the club and hurled it three miles, then he set off with Stan, that he might also throw it three miles, or, if possible, further still. When Stan reached the club, he began to look at it rather anxiously. He saw that he and all his children together could not even lift it from the ground.

"Why are you standing there?" asked the dragon.

"Why, you see, it's such a handsome club. I'm sorry," replied Stan.

"Sorry? Why?" inquired the dragon.

"Because," answered Stan, "I'm afraid you'll never see it again in your whole life, if I throw it; for I know my own strength."

"Don't fear. Just throw it," replied the dragon.

"If you really mean it, we'll first go and get provisions enough to last three days; for we shall have to travel at least three days, if not longer, to get it."

These words frightened the dragon, but he did not yet believe that it would be so bad as Stan said. So they went home for the provisions, though he wasn't at all pleased with the idea of having Stan serve his year in merely going after the club. When they got back again to it, Stan sat down on the bag of provisions and became absorbed in staring at the moon.

"What are you doing?" asked the dragon.

"Only waiting for the moon to sail by."

"Why?"

"Don't you see that the moon is directly in my way?" said Stan. "Or do you want me to fling the club into the moon?"

The dragon now began to be seriously anxious. It was a club that had descended to him from his ancestors, and he wouldn't have liked to lose it in the moon.

"I'll tell you what," he said. "Don't throw the club. I'll do it myself."

"Certainly not. Heaven forbid!" replied Stan. "Only wait till the moon passes by."

Then a long conversation followed; for Stan would not consent to have the dragon throw the club again, except on the promise of seven sacks of ducats.

"Oh, dear! mother, he's a tremendously strong man," said the dragon. "I could scarcely prevent him from throwing the club into the moon."

The she-dragon began to be anxious, too. Just think of it! Would it be a joke to have a person able to throw any thing into the moon? She was a she-dragon of true dragon blood, however, and the next day had thought of a still harder task.

"Bring some water," she said early in the morning, and gave each twelve buffalo skins, ordering them to fill them by evening, and fetch them all home at once.

They went to the well; and, before one could wink, the dragon had filled the twelve skins, and was in the act of carrying them back. Stan was tired, he had scarcely been able to drag the empty skins along. A chill ran through his veins, when he thought of the full ones. What do you suppose he did? He pulled a worn-out knife blade from his belt, and began to scratch the earth around the well with it.

"What are you doing?" asked the dragon.

"I'm not a blockhead, that I should go to the labor of filling the skins with water," replied Stan.

"But how will you carry the water to the house, then?"

"How? Just as you see," said Stan. "I'm going to take the well, you goose!"

The dragon stood with his mouth wide-open in amazement. He wouldn't have had this done on any account, for the well was one that had belonged to his ancestors.

"I'll tell you," he said anxiously, "let me carry your skins home, too."

"Certainly not. Heaven forbid!" replied Stan, digging on around the well.

Now, another long discussion followed; and this time, too, the dragon could only persuade Stan by promising him seven sacks of ducats.

On the third day, that is the last one, the she-dragon sent them into the forest for wood.

Before one could count three, the dragon tore up more trees than Stan had ever seen before in his whole life, and piled them up together. But Stan began to examine the trees, chose the very finest, climbed up into one and tied its top with a wild grape-vine to the next. So, without saying a word, he continued to fasten one splendid tree to another.

"What are you doing there?" asked the dragon.

"You see what I am doing," replied Stan, working quietly on.

"Why are you tying the trees together?"

"Why, to save myself unnecessary work in pulling them up one by one," said Stan.

"But how are you going to carry them home?"

"I shall take the whole forest, you goose! Can't you understand that?" said Stan, continuing to fasten them together.

The dragon now felt as if he wanted to take to his heels, and never stop until he reached home.

But he was afraid that he should suddenly find Stan pulling the whole forest down on his head.

This time, as it was the end of the year's service, it seemed as if the discussion would never cease. Stan did not want to listen at all, but had set his mind upon flinging the forest on his back at any rate.

"I'll tell you what," said the dragon, trembling with fear, "your wages shall be seven times seven sacks of ducats. Content yourself with that."

"Well, be it so, as I see you are a good fellow," replied Stan, and agreed that the dragon should carry the wood for him.

The year was now over. Stan was anxious only about one things -- how he was to drag so many ducats home.

In the evening, the dragon and his mother sat talking together in their room; but Stan listened in the entry.

"Woe betide us!" said the dragon: "this fellow upsets us terribly. Give him money, even more than he has, only let us get rid of him."

Ah, yes! but the she-dragon cared for money.

"Let me tell you one thing," she said: "you must kill this man to-night."

"I am afraid of him, mother," he answered in terror.

"Have no fear," replied his mother. "When you see that he is asleep, take your club and strike him in the middle of the forehead."

So it was agreed. Ah, yes! but Stan always had a bright idea at the right time. When he saw that the dragon and his mother had put out the light, he took the pig's trough, and laid it bottom upward in his place, covered it carefully with a shaggy coat, and lay down himself under the bed, where he began to snore like a person who is sound asleep.

The dragon went out softly, approached the bed, raised his club, and struck one blow on the spot where Stan's head ought to have been. The trough sounded hollow, Stan groaned, and the dragon tiptoed back again.

Stan then crept out from under the bed, cleaned it, and lay down, but was wise enough not to close an eye all night long.

The dragon and his mother were rigid with amazement when they saw Stan come in the next morning as sound as an egg.

"Good morning!"

"Good morning; but how did you sleep last night?"

"Very well," replied Stan. "Only I dreamed that a flea bit me just here on the forehead, and it seems as if it still pained me."

"Just listen to that, mother!" cried the dragon. "Did you hear? He talks about a flea, and I hit him with my club!"

This was too much for the she-dragon. She perceived that it isn't worth while to argue with such people. So they hastened to fill his sacks, in order to get rid of him as quickly as possible. But poor Stan now began to perspire. When he stood beside the bags, he trembled like an aspen leaf, because he was unable to lift even one of them from the ground. So he stood staring at them.

"Why are you standing there?" asked the dragon.

"H'm! I'm waiting," replied Stan, "because I would rather stay with you another year. I'm ashamed to have any body see me carry away so little at one time. I'm afraid people will say, 'Look at Stan Bolovan, who in one year has grown as weak as a dragon.'"

Now, it was the two dragons' turn to be frightened.

They vainly told him that they would give him seven -- nay, three times seven or even seven times seven -- sacks of ducats, if he would only go away.

"I'll tell you what," said Stan, at last. "As I see you don't want to keep me, I won't force you to do so. Have it your own way. I'll go. But, that I need not be ashamed before the people, you must carry this treasure home for me."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when the dragon picked up the sacks and set off with Stan.

Short and smooth, yet always too long, is the road that leads home. But, when Stan found himself close to his house, and heard his children's shouts, he began to walk slower. It seemed too near; for he was afraid that, if the dragon knew where he lived, he might come to take away the treasure. Only he was puzzled to find any way of carrying his money home alone.

"I really don't know what to do," he said, turning to the dragon. "I have a hundred hungry children, and fear you may fare badly among them, because they are very fond of fighting. But just behave sensibly, and I'll protect you as well as I can."

A hundred children! That's no joke! The dragon -- though a dragon of dragon race -- let the bags fall in his fright. But, from sheer terror, he picked them up again. Yet his fear did not gain the mastery till they entered the court-yard. When the hungry children saw their father coming with the loaded dragon, they rushed toward him, each one with a knife in the right hand and a fork in the left. Then they all began to whet the knives on the forks, shrieking at the top of their lungs, "We want dragon meat!"

This was enough to scare Satan himself. The dragon threw down the sacks, and then took to flight, so frightened that since that time he has never dared to come back to the world.



The Wonderful Bird.


Once upon a time, something happened. If it had not happened, it would not be told.

There was a good, pious emperor, who had three sons. Among many other benefits bestowed upon the inhabitants of his empire he built a church, about which marvelous stories were told, for he adorned it with gold, precious stones and every thing the workmen of that country regarded as beautiful and valuable. Within and in front of this church were numbers of marble columns, and it was supplied with the finest paintings, silver chandeliers, huge silver lamps, and the rarest books. The more the emperor rejoiced in its beauty, the more sorrowful he felt that he could not finish it, for the steeple continually fell down.

"How is it that this sacred church can not be completed?" he asked. "I have spent all my property and it is not yet done." So he ordered a proclamation to be sent throughout the empire, stating that any architect who could finish the church steeple would receive great gifts and honors. Besides this, a second proclamation was issued, commanding prayers to be read and services held in all the churches, that God might take pity on him and send him a good architect. The third night the monarch dreamed that if any one would fetch the wonderful bird from the other shore and put its nest in the steeple, the church could be finished. He told this dream to his sons, and they vied with each other in offering to set out and devote themselves to their imperial father's service.

The emperor replied: "I see, my sons, that you all desire to fulfill your duty to God, but you can't all three go at once. My oldest son shall set out first, if he does not succeed, the second one, and so on until the Lord takes pity upon us."

The younger sons silently submitted; the oldest one made his preparations for the journey. He traveled as best he could, and when he had passed the frontiers of his father's empire, found himself in a beautiful grove. After lighting a fire he stood waiting until his food was cooked. Suddenly he saw a fox, which begged him to tie up his hound, give it a bit of bread and a glass of wine, and let it rest by his fire. Instead of granting the request the prince released the hound, which instantly pursued the animal, whereupon the fox, by a magic spell, transformed the emperor's son into a block of stone.

When the sovereign saw that his oldest son did not return, he listened to the entreaties of his second son, and gave him permission to set forth to find the wonderful bird. After making his preparations and taking some provisions with him, this prince also departed. On the spot where his brother had been turned to stone, the same thing happened to him, because he also refused the fox's entreaties, and tried to catch it, to get its skin.

The emperor grew very thoughtful, when after a long time his sons failed to return, either with or without the wonderful bird.

At last the youngest said: "You see, father, it is now a long time since my brothers set out to find the wonderful bird, and they haven't come home yet; give me some money and clothes for the journey that I may try my luck also. If I succeed, you will rejoice, because your dream will be fulfilled, and if I do not, you will suffer no mortification from it."

"Your older brothers have apparently been unable to get this wonderful bird," replied the emperor; "nay, perhaps they have even lost their lives, they have been absent so long. I am old; if you go too, who will help me in the cares of government; if I die, who is there to ascend the throne except you, my son? Stay here, my dear child, do not leave me."

"You know, my royal father, that I have never swerved a hair's breadth from your commands, and if I now venture to urge my petition it is only because, if possible, I would fain fulfill a wish that gives you no rest, which you have cherished so many years and striven to realize at so great a cost."

After many entreaties, the emperor yielded. The prince chose from the imperial stables a horse that pleased him, took a dog for a companion, supplied himself with sufficient food and departed.

After some time had passed, the emperor's two older sons suddenly arrived with the magic bird and a young girl, who was placed in charge of the poultry-yard. Every body wondered at the beauty of the bird, whose plumage glittered with a thousand hues, each feather shining like the sun, and the church-steeple did not fall after the bird and its nest were placed within. One thing, however, was noticed; the bird seemed dumb, it never uttered a note, and all who saw it grieved that so beautiful a creature should have no song; even the emperor, spite of all the pleasure he took in the church and steeple, was sorrowful because the bird did not sing.

People began to forget the youngest son, so great was the rejoicing over the bird that seemed to keep the steeple from falling, and thus enabled the workmen to finish the church; but the emperor grieved because the prince was not there to share his subjects' pleasure.

One day the poultry-keeper came to him and said: "May thy face shine, mighty emperor, the whole city is marveling at the singing of the magic bird -- a shepherd entered the church early this morning, and the bird instantly began to sing as if it would burst its throat, and is so happy that it can hardly keep in its nest. This has happened to-day for the second time. While the shepherd is in the church the bird never stops singing, but as soon as he goes away, it is silent."

"Let the shepherd be brought before me at once."

"Your majesty, the shepherd seems to be a stranger; no one here knows him. Your majesty's sons, I hear, have set guards to arrest him."

"Silence," said the emperor; "do not mention my sons; it is not seemly for you to speak against them."

The sovereign sent some of his most trusty servants to keep watch, seize the shepherd as soon as he entered the church and the bird began to sing, and bring him before him. But, not content with this, he went himself the next holiday to hear the bird's wonderful singing with his own ears, and see the shepherd. If he had not been present, a violent conflict would have arisen between his own people and the spies sent by his sons, who evidently wished to lay hands on the shepherd. The emperor ordered that he should be brought to the palace, for a strange feeling stirred in his heart when he saw the timid youth with the figure of a hero.

When he came out of church, the monarch went directly home to his palace, for his heart told him that there must be something unusual about this shepherd. On seeing him, he said: -- 

"Tell me, my son, from what part of the country do you come? Have you any parents, and how did you get here?"

"My story is a long one, most noble emperor. I have parents and brothers. I shall need more time to tell you how I came hither, but if it is your majesty's will, I am ready. I will come to your majesty early to-morrow morning, it is too late to-day."

"Very well, my brave fellow, I will expect you at dawn to-morrow."

Early the next morning the shepherd came to await the emperor's commands; but as soon as the emperor heard that he had arrived, he summoned him.

"Tell me, my son, what is the reason the magic bird sings as soon as you enter the church, and stops when you go out."

"To understand that and other things, your majesty, let me tell you my whole story."

"I will listen; tell me anything you please."

The shepherd then began: -- 

"I have a father, and brothers. I left my home to do something to please my father, who was sad because he had a wish that could not be fulfilled. After a journey of several days I reached a beautiful meadow, from which branched several roads. Intending to spend the night there, I lighted a fire, took out some of the provisions I had brought with me, and was just sitting down to eat them, when I suddenly saw a fox beside me. Whence it came I did not know; it seemed as if it had sprung up out of the earth.

"'Please let me warm myself by your fire,' it said. 'See, I am so cold that my teeth chatter. Give me a bit of bread and a glass of wine, that I may satisfy my hunger and thirst, and tie your dog, so I can eat in peace and rest without fear.'

"'Very well,' I replied, 'come and warm yourself. Here are my provisions and my flask, eat and drink as much as you choose.'

"I tied my dog, and we sat down by the fire and talked together. Among other things, I told the fox where I was going, and even asked if it could tell me what I should do to accomplish the task I had voluntarily undertaken.

"'Have no anxiety about that,' replied the fox. 'We'll set out together early to-morrow morning, and if I don't help you to the goal, never trust me again.'

"We sat by the fire, feasting like two friends, then the fox bade me good-night, and vanished like a shadow. I wondered how it had been possible that I did not see what direction the animal took, and while racking my brains to find out how it had managed to go and come unperceived, I fell asleep. When the fox came at dawn next morning, it found me gazing in astonishment at several blocks of stone, which resembled two men, two dogs, and two horses. As soon as I saw the animal, we prepared to set out.

"The fox turned three somersaults and suddenly changed into a handsome hero. On the way he told me that the place where I had spent the night was part of his property, that he was married and had several children, but had been condemned to wear the form of a fox until some human being would take pity on him and receive him, let him warm himself by the same fire, give him a bit of bread and glass of wine. As I was this man, he was now released from the spell, and would go with me and never leave me until I had accomplished my object. This event pleased me, and we journeyed on and on all through the long summer day until late at night when we reached a mountain meadow, where we encamped. My traveling companion told me that the next day we should be obliged to pass through the lands of several dragons, and he thought we should there find what we sought.

"The following morning we entered the dragons' country, though somewhat timidly, and about noon reached the dragon-palace. It is impossible to describe the magnificent things we saw there. Gardens with all sorts of flowers and fruits, rooms that seemed lined with silver, so that they shone in the sun like mirrors, walls covered with paintings and carved flowers. Every corner of the palace was gilded, and fountains cast jets of water into the air. Luckily for us, the dragons were not at home when we arrived. On the threshold we met a beautiful girl, a girl who looked as sweet as if she were made of sugar, and who advised us not to enter the court-yard in the dragons' absence, or we should meet with some misfortune. Then she wept for joy at seeing people from the place from whence the dragons had stolen her. When we asked her about the wonderful bird, she said it was in the possession of some other dragons, relatives of those on whose lands we were.

"'Go there,' she added, 'for with God's help, I hope you will succeed, and when you return, take me with you.'

"After she had told us how we could enter the dragons' court-yard and what we must do, I swore by what was dearest to me in the world, my father, that I would not leave her in the dragons' power, but take her away. Then we continued the journey. To tell the truth, I loved her as soon as I saw her.

"When we reached the borders of the next dragon-kingdom, we stopped to rest, but at dawn the following day we crossed the frontier and by noon reached their palace, which was even more beautiful than the first one. As soon as I had dismounted from my horse, I went to the stable, but my companion turned back, for this was what the girl had advised. The horses were at their cribs. One turned its head and looked at me. I patted its eyes, pulled its ears, threw a bridle over its neck, mounted it, and in riding by, took the cage with the magic bird that hung in the entry."

"You brought the wonderful bird?" cried the emperor. "Then you are my son, whom all believe dead."

"Even so, father." And after kissing the emperor's hand, he begged him to send for the poultry-keeper. When she came, the shepherd said, "This is the girl of whom I told you."

"How is that possible!" replied the emperor. "How did she become a poultry maid?"

"She'll tell you that herself. I don't know. So, as I was saying," he continued, "after I had snatched the cage I fled as fast as I could on the horse I had taken from the dragons, but the other horses began to neigh and make such a noise that my hair fairly bristled, yet I held firm. The dragons chased me until I reached my comrade, who was waiting for me on the frontier. If it had not been for him, they would have seized me, and who knows what would have become of me then. But my companion stretched out his hand, shouting, 'Stop!' The dragons seemed to be suddenly turned to stone; not another step forward did they take. After embracing and kissing me he admired the bird's beauty. The dragons did every thing in their power to get it from me, and made all sorts of promises, but when they saw they could not persuade me, begged me at least to give them the horse. I perceived it would not be right to leave them in such a sad state, so I returned the horse and went on with my companion and the bird, but the dragons almost stared their eyes out after it.

"When we reached the other dragon palace, the girl was waiting for us at the gate. Cracking her whip three times the whole building changed into an apple, which she put in her pocket. I passed my arm around her, and we set out. But oh! dear, when the dragons discovered it! How they chased us, roaring so that our blood curdled in our veins. I summoned all my courage, spurred my horse, and fled like the wind with my companion. But the dragons came as fast as thought. When my comrade saw this, and perceived that there was no possibility of escape, he stopped, made a sign and turned them into blocks of stone. Then we continued our journey till we reached the field from which we had started and which was part of the fox's property. After we had rested and I had thanked God that we had accomplished our task, I asked my comrade what those stone pillars meant.

"He answered: 'If you know you will regret it, and if you don't know, you will also regret it.'

"'Pray tell me.'

"'These are your brothers,' he answered. 'Instead of kindly granting my request, as you did, they set their hounds on me, which condemned me to wear the loathsome fox-skin still longer, so I turned them to stone.'

"'For my sake,' I entreated, 'for the sake of our friendship, make them men again as they were before.'

"'I prize your friendship greatly,' he replied, 'so let it be as you wish -- but you'll repent it.'

"In an instant he made a sign with his hand, the stones suddenly shook, and my brothers remained motionless with amazement, when they saw us before them. We took leave of my comrade and set out on our way home. But see what a fine trick my brothers played me.

"'Brother,' they said, after we had ridden about a mile, 'we are tired by the long distance, and it is very warm. Let us go to a pond we know here and each drink a little to cool ourselves.' I agreed, and we went there. The oldest drank, so did the second one, but when I was going to drink too, lying face downward at the edge of the pond, so that I could reach the water with my lips, as they had done, I suddenly felt a terrible burning sensation in both feet, and when I turned to see the cause, could not get up; my brothers had cut off both my feet, and then hurried off, without listening to my complaints and entreaties.

"I spent three days and nights beside the pond. When my good horse saw a dragon coming, it lifted me by my clothes with its teeth, ran as far as it could and kicked so violently that no wild beast could approach us.

"At last, on the fourth day, I met a blind man groping his way along. 'Who are you?' I asked.

"'A poor, maimed fellow,' said he. Then, after he had told me that his brothers, out of envy, had put out his eyes, I told him that my brothers had cut off my feet.

"'I'll tell you what!' he exclaimed. 'We'll take an oath of brotherhood. I have feet, you have eyes, so I'll carry you on my back. I'll walk for you, and you shall see for me. A huge scorpion lives close by, whose blood cures all kinds of diseases.'

"I accepted his offer, and we went to the scorpion's house. He was not at home, so the blind man put me behind the door, telling me to kill him with my sword as soon as he came in; then he hid himself behind the stove. We did not wait long before the scorpion entered in a great rage, for he had noticed that somebody had broken into his house. When I saw him my heart shrunk till it was no bigger than a flea, but as he came in I waited till he was close by me, then struck one blow that chopped all three of his heads off at once.

"I instantly smeared myself with the hot blood and as soon as it touched my feet they stuck as fast as if they had never been cut off. I also smeared the blind man's eyes, and his sight returned. After thanking God, each set out on his own way.

"I did not want to go home at once, but thought it best to hire out as a shepherd and leave God to arrange things so that the criminals' guilt should appear. I was not disappointed in my confidence, for you see His power is great and His judgment just."

"Now tell me how you became a servant and poultry-maid," said the emperor to the maiden.

"After your imperial majesty's oldest sons had cut off their youngest brother's feet, one of them took me, the other the wonderful bird. I thought my heart would dissolve with grief because I was obliged to part from your majesty's youngest son, whom I loved because he was such a noble man. They proposed that I should love one of them, and promised that he would marry me as soon as we reached the emperor's court. After refusing all their offers, I preferred to take service as your majesty's poultry maid, rather than go any where else, for I knew God would not let a man who did right perish, and now I thank Him for having shown me that a good deed is never lost."

"Can you prove," asked the emperor, "that you are the girl and no one else?"

"This apple will show every one that I am she," replied the girl, drawing it from her bosom. "Your older sons knew nothing about it, or they would have taken it from me."

With these words she went out of doors, cracked a little whip three times over the apple and a magnificent palace, more splendid than any in the kingdom, instantly arose.

The emperor himself was astonished. He wished to celebrate his youngest son's return, but the latter said, "Father, before we thank God that I have come home alive, let us three brothers submit to His judgment."

The emperor could make no objection. The brothers were led before him and he ordered the older ones to kneel and ask the youngest son's forgiveness. But he replied: "If God forgives you, I will also."

As they could not avoid it, they went in front of the church, and set out three bee-hives at equal distances apart. Each brother stood with his feet in one, and hurled a stone into the air from a sling. The elder brothers' stones in falling back struck them so hard on the head that they were killed, but the youngest brother's fell in front of him.

Many had assembled to witness this trial. After the wedding was over and the emperor had married his son to the poultry-maid, he came down from the throne and gave it to the prince, who, if alive, reigns there still.

I was present at these events, and now tell them to those who listen.



The Twins With the Golden Star.


Once upon a time something happened. If it hadn't happened, it wouldn't be told.

There was an emperor, who ruled over a whole world, and in this world lived an old shepherd and shepherdess, who had three daughters, Anna, Stana, and Laptitza.[1]

[Footnote 1: Little Milk-white, from "Lapte" -- milk.]

Anna, the oldest sister, was so beautiful that the sheep stopped feeding when she went among them; Stana, the second, was so lovely that the wolves watched the herd when she was the shepherdess, but Laptitza, the youngest, who had a skin as white as the foam of milk, and hair as soft as the wool of the lambkins, was as beautiful as both of her sisters put together, beautiful as only she herself could be.

One summer day, when the sunbeams were growing less scorching, the three sisters went to the edge of the forest to pick strawberries. While searching for them, they heard the tramp of horses' hoofs, as if a whole troop of cavalry were dashing up. It was the emperor's son, hunting with his friends and courtiers, all handsome, stately youths, sitting their horses as if they were a part of their steeds, but the handsomest and proudest of all rode the most fiery charger, and was the emperor's son himself.

When they saw the sisters, they curbed their horses and rode more slowly.

"Listen to me, sisters," said Anna; "if one of those youths should choose me for his wife, I'd knead a loaf of bread which, when he had eaten it, would make him always feel young and brave."

"And I," said Stana, "would weave my husband a shirt, in which he could fight against dragons, go through water without being wet, or fire without being burned."

"But I," said Laptitza, the youngest sister, "would give my husband two beautiful sons, twin boys with golden hair, and on their foreheads a golden star, a star as bright as Lucifer."

The youths heard these words, and turning their horses dashed toward the maidens.

"Sacred be thy promise, thou shalt be mine, fairest empress," cried the emperor's son, lifting Laptitza with her berries upon his horse.

"And thou shalt be mine!" "And thou shalt be mine!" said a second and third youth; so bearing their lovely burdens on their steeds, all dashed back to the imperial court.

The three weddings were celebrated the very next day, and for three days and nights the festival was held throughout the empire with great pomp and splendor. After three days and nights the news went through the whole country that Anna had gathered grain, ground, boiled, and kneaded it, and made a loaf of bread, as she had promised while picking strawberries. Then, after three more days and nights, tidings went through the land that Stana had collected flax, dried, and hackled it, spun it into linen, wove the cloth, and made her husband a shirt as she had promised while seeking for her strawberries. Laptitza alone had not yet kept her word, but great things require time.

When seven weeks had passed, counting from the wedding day, the emperor's son, now emperor, appeared before his brave companions and the other courtiers with a very joyous face, and in a much softer voice than ever before informed them that henceforth he should not leave the court for a long time, his heart moved him to stay with his wife night and day.

So the world, the country, and the whole empire rejoiced in the expectation of seeing something never beheld before.

But many things happen in this world, among them much that is good and much that is evil.

The emperor had a step-mother, who had brought with her to the palace a daughter of her first husband, a girl with beautiful hair. But woe betide those who have such relationships.

The step-mother had intended that her daughter should become the emperor's wife and empress of the whole country, instead of little Milk-white, the shepherd's daughter. Therefore she determined that if things fell out as Laptitza had promised, the emperor and the world should believe they did not happen according to the prediction.

But the step-mother could not carry out her plan, because the emperor remained with his wife day and night. Yet she thought that gradually, by coaxing and cunning, she might get rid of him, and then Laptitza would be left in her care and she would provide for every thing.

But she could not get rid of the emperor by means of a few coaxing words. The wind blew them away, and all her craft was useless. Time passed, the day for the fulfillment of Laptitza's promise was drawing near, and still the emperor never left his wife.

When the step-mother saw that no plot succeeded, she felt as if a stone were lying heavy on her heart, and sent a message to her brother, whose kingdom was very near, to ask him to come with his soldiers and summon the emperor to a war.

This was a clever plan and, as will be seen, not an unsuccessful one. The emperor fairly leaped into the air in his rage, when he heard that hostile soldiers were on the march to attack his country, and that something would occur which had not happened for a long time -- a battle, a terrible battle, a battle between two emperors. The young husband saw that there was no help for it, he must do what needed to be done.

That is the way with emperors. No matter how much they wish to guard their wives -- if they hear of war, their hearts fairly leap in their bodies, their brains swell almost to bursting, their eyes grow dim, and leaving wife and children in God's care, they dash like the wind to battle.

The emperor departed at the first sign of peril, moved as swiftly as one of God's judgments, fought as only he could fight, and at dawn on the morning of the third day was back again at the imperial court, his heart soothed by the battle, but full of unsatisfied longing to know what had happened during his absence.

And -- this had happened. Just at dawn on the morning of the third day, when the stars were paling in the sky, and the emperor was only three steps from the palace-gate, the Lord's gift came down to the earth, and Laptitza's promise was fulfilled -- two beautiful twin princes, exactly alike, each with golden hair and a golden star on his forehead.

But the world was not to see them!

The step-mother, as wicked as her thoughts, hastily put two puppies in the place of the beautiful twins, and buried the golden-haired children at the corner of the palace, just under the emperor's windows.

When the monarch entered the palace he saw and heard nothing except the two puppies the step-mother had put in the twins' place. No words were wasted. The emperor saw with his own eyes, and that was enough. Laptitza had not kept her promise, and there was nothing to be done except mete out her punishment.

He could not help it, and though his own heart was torn, commanded that the empress should be buried to her breast in the earth and so remain before the eyes of the world, in token of what befell those who tried to deceive an emperor.

The next day the step-mother's wish was fulfilled. The emperor married a second time, and again the wedding festivities lasted three days and three nights.

But God's blessing does not rest upon unjust deeds.

The two princes found no rest in the earth. Two beautiful aspens sprang up where they were buried, but when the step-mother saw them she ordered them to be pulled up by the roots. The emperor, however, said: "Let them grow, I like to see them before the window. I never beheld such aspens before."

So the trees grew, grew as no other aspens ever had grown, every day a year's growth, every night another year's growth, but in the dawn of morning, when the stars were paling in the sky, three years' growth in a single moment. When three days and three nights had passed, the two aspens were lofty trees, lifting their boughs to the emperor's window, and when the wind stirred the branches, he listened to their rustling all day long.

The step-mother suspected what they were, and pondered all day trying to find some way to get rid of the trees at any cost. It was a difficult task, but a woman's will can squeeze milk from a stone, a woman's cunning conquers heroes -- what force can not accomplish, fair words win, and when these fail, hypocritical tears succeed.

One morning the empress sat down on the side of her husband's bed and began to overwhelm him with loving words and tender caresses. It was a long time before the thread broke, but at last -- even emperors are mortal!

"Very well," he said, reluctantly, "have your own way; order the aspens to be cut down, but one must be made into a bedstead for me, the other for you."

This satisfied the empress. The aspens were cut down, and before night the beds were standing in the emperor's room.

When he lay down, he felt as if he had become a hundred times heavier, yet he had never rested so well; but it seemed to the empress as if she were lying on thorns and nettles, so that she could not sleep all night long.

When the emperor had fallen asleep, the beds began to creak, and amid this creaking the empress fancied she heard words that no one else understood.

"Is it hard for you, brother?" asked one of the beds.

"No, it isn't hard for me," replied the bed in which the emperor was sleeping, "I am happy, for my beloved father rests upon me."

"It's hard for me," replied the other, "for on me lies a wicked soul."

So the beds talked on in the empress's ears until the dawn of morning.

When daylight came, the empress planned how she could destroy the beds. At last she ordered two bedsteads exactly like them, and when the emperor went hunting, placed them in his room without his knowledge; but the aspen beds, down to the very smallest splinter, she threw into the fire.

When they were burned so entirely that not even a bit of charcoal remained, the empress collected the ashes and scattered them to the winds, that they might be strewn over nine countries and seas, and not an atom find another atom through all eternity.

But she had not noticed that just when the fire was burning brightest two sparks rose, and soaring upward, fell again into the midst of the deep river that flowed through the empire, where they were changed into two little fishes with golden scales, so exactly alike that nobody could help knowing they were twin brothers.

One day the imperial fishermen went out early in the morning, and threw their nets into the water. Just at the moment the last stars were fading, one of the men drew up his net and beheld what he had never seen before: two tiny fishes with golden scales.

The other fishermen assembled to see the miracle, but when they had beheld and admired it, determined to carry the fish alive to the emperor for a gift.

"Don't take us there, we've just come from there, and it will be our destruction," said one of the fishes.

"But what shall I do with you?" asked the fisherman.

"Go and gather the dew from the leaves, let us swim in it, put us in the sun, and don't come back again till the sunbeams have dried the dew," said the second little fish.

The fisherman did as he was told, gathered the dew from the leaves, put the little fish into it, placed them in the sun, and did not come back till the dew was all dried up.

But what had happened! What did he see?

Two boys, handsome princes with golden hair and a golden star on their foreheads, so exactly alike that no one who saw them could help knowing that they were twin brothers.

The children grew very rapidly. Every day enough for a year, and every night enough for another year, but in the dawn of morning when the stars paled in the sky, enough for three years in a single moment. Besides, they grew as no other children ever had grown, three times as fast in age, strength, and wisdom. When three days and nights had passed, they were twelve years in age, twenty-four in strength, and thirty-six in wisdom.

"Now let us go to our father," said one of the princes to the fisherman.

The fisherman dressed the lads in beautiful clothing, and made each a lambskin cap, which the boys drew low over their faces, that no one might see their golden hair and the golden star on their foreheads, and then took the princes to the imperial palace.

It was broad daylight when they arrived.

"We want to speak to the emperor," said one of the princes to the guard, who stood armed at the door of the palace.

"That can't be done, he's at table," replied the soldier.

"Just because he is at table," said the second prince, passing through the door.

The guards ran up and tried to drive the boys out of the court-yard, but the boys slipped through their fingers like quicksilver. Three paces forward, three up, and they were standing before the great hall, where the emperor was dining with all his court.

"We want to come in," said one of the princes sharply, to the servants who stood at the door.

"That can't be done," one of the lackeys answered.

"Indeed! We'll see whether it can be done or not," cried the other prince, pushing the men aside right and left.

But there were a great many lackeys, and only two princes. A tumult and uproar arose outside, that resounded through the palace.

"What is going on out there?" asked the emperor angrily.

The princes stopped when they heard their father's voice.

"Two boys are trying to enter by force," said an attendant, approaching the emperor.

"By force? Who seeks to enter my palace by force? Who are these boys?" cried the emperor in the same breath.

"We know not, your majesty," replied the lackey, "but there must be something uncommon about them, for the lads are as strong as young lions, they overpowered the guard at the gate, and have given us plenty to do. Besides, they are proud, they don't lift their caps from their heads."

The emperor flushed scarlet with rage.

"Throw them out!" he cried. "Set the dogs on them."

"Never mind, we will go," said the princes, weeping at the harsh words, as they went down the steps again.

As they reached the gate, they were stopped by a servant, who was out of breath from running to overtake them.

"The emperor has commanded you to come back, the empress wants to see you."

The princes hesitated, then turned, climbed the stairs, and still with their caps on their heads appeared before the emperor.

There stood a long, wide table, at which sat all the imperial guests; at the head was the emperor, and beside him the empress, reclining on twelve silk cushions.

As the princes entered, one of these twelve cushions fell to the floor, only eleven remaining under the royal lady.

"Take off your caps!" cried a courtier.

"To wear the head covered is a token of rank among men. We wish to be what we are."

"Why, yes!" exclaimed the emperor, softened by the musical words that fell from the boys' lips. "Remain what you are, but who are you? Whence do you come, and what do you want?"

"We are twin brothers, members of a family that is broken in twain, half in the earth, half at the head of the table; we come from whence we went, and have reached the place whence we came; we have had a long journey, have spoken in the sighing of the wind, given a voice to wood, sang in the ripples of the water, but now we wish to chant in human language a song you know without knowing it."

A second cushion fell from under the empress.

"Let them go home with their nonsense!" she said to her husband.

"Oh! no, let them sing," replied the emperor. "You only wanted to see them, but I wish to hear them. Sing, boys!"

The empress was silent, and the princes began to sing the story of their lives.

"There was once an emperor," they began, and a third cushion fell from under the empress.

When they described the emperor's departure to the war, three cushions fell at once, and when the princes had finished their song not a single one remained. But when they took off their caps and showed their golden hair and the golden star on their foreheads, guests, courtiers and emperor closed their eyes, that they might not be dazzled by so much radiance.

*    *    *    *    *

Afterward, what ought to have been from the beginning, happened.

Laptitza sat at the head of the table beside her husband, but the step-mother's daughter served as the humblest maid in the palace, and the wicked step-mother was fastened to the tail of a wild mare and dragged around the earth seven times, that the whole world might know and never forget, that whoever plans evil comes to a bad end.



Youth Without Age and Life Without Death.


Once upon a time something happened whose like never occurred before -- if it had not happened it would not be told -- since the flea had one foot shod with ninety-nine pounds of iron and jumped into the skies to get us fairy tales.

There was once a mighty emperor and empress. Both were young and handsome, and as they desired the blessing of children they did every thing that was necessary to secure it, that is they went to the witches and philosophers and asked them to read the stars to find out whether they would have children or not. But it was all in vain. Finally the emperor heard that a very wise old man lived in a neighboring village, and sent for him. The messengers returned with the answer: "Let him who needs me come to me." So the emperor and empress set out for the wise man's house, taking with them several of their courtiers, attendants, and soldiers. When the old man saw them in the distance, he rose, went to meet them, and said at once:

"Welcome! But what do you want to know, oh, emperor! your wish will bring you sorrow."

"I am not here to question you about that," replied the emperor, "but to learn whether you have any plants you can give us that will bestow the blessing of children."

"I have," the old man answered, "but you will possess only one child. He will be a handsome, lovable boy, yet you will not be able to keep him long."

After the emperor and empress had obtained the herbs they joyfully returned to the palace. The whole empire, the courtiers, and all the attendants rejoiced too. But when the hour of its birth came, the child began to scream in a way no magic arts could silence. The emperor commenced to promise it all the good things the world contained, but it was impossible to quiet it.

"Hush, father's pet," said the emperor, "I will give you this or that kingdom; hush, my son, I will give you this or that princess for your wife." At last, when he saw the child would not stop, he added: "Hush, my boy, I will give you youth without age and life without death."

Then the prince stopped crying; the courtiers beat drums and blew trumpets, and there were great rejoicings throughout the empire for a whole week.

The older the boy grew, the more thoughtful and reflective he became. He went to the schools and the philosophers and gained every kind of learning, so that the emperor died of joy and came to life again. The whole realm was proud of having a prince so wise and learned, a second King Solomon. But one day, when the lad had just reached his fifteenth year and the emperor sat at a banquet with the nobles and grandees of the country, the handsome prince rose, saying: "Father, the time has come, you must now give me what you promised at my birth!"

When the emperor heard this he grew very sorrowful and answered: "Why, my son, how can I give you an impossible thing? If I promised it to you then, it was only to hush you."

"If you can't give it to me, father, I shall be obliged to wander through the whole world till I find what was promised to me, and for which I was born."

Then all the nobles and the emperor fell at his feet and besought him not to quit the country, because, as the courtiers said, his father was growing old, and they would place him on the throne and give him the most beautiful princess under the sun for his wife. But it was impossible to shake his resolution, he remained as firm as a rock. After his father had seen and duly considered all these things, he gave his consent and prepared to supply the prince with provisions and whatever else he might need for his journey.

The young hero went to the imperial stables, where the finest steeds in the whole realm were standing, to choose one of them; but when he laid his hand on the horse's tail he knocked it down, and so they all fell, one after another. At last, just as he was going out, he let his eyes wander around the building once more and saw in one corner a sick, weak horse, covered with sores. He went up to it, and when he grasped it by the tail, the animal turned its head, saying:

"What do you command, my master? I thank God that He has permitted a hero's hand to touch me once more."

And, planting its feet firmly, it remained standing. The young prince told it what he intended to do, and the horse replied:

"To obtain your wish, you must ask your father for the sword, lance, bow, quiver of arrows, and garments he wore when a youth; but you must take care of me with your own hands for six weeks and give me oats boiled in milk."

When the prince begged the emperor for the articles the horse had advised, the monarch called the major-domo of the palace and ordered him to open all the chests of clothing, that his son might choose what he pleased. The young hero, after rummaging them three whole days, at last found in the very bottom of an old trunk the weapons and garments his father had worn in his youth, but the arms were covered with rust. He set to work to clean them with his own hands and in six weeks, during the time he was taking care of the horse, he succeeded in making the weapons as bright and shining as a mirror. When the horse heard from the handsome prince that the clothes and arms were cleaned and ready, it shook itself once. All the sores instantly fell off and there it stood, a strong, well-formed animal, with four wings. When the hero saw this, he said:

"We'll go in three days!"

"May you have a long life, master. From to-day I shall be at your service," the horse answered.

On the morning of the third day there was great mourning throughout the whole court and empire. The handsome prince, clad like a hero, holding his sword in his hand and riding the horse he had chosen, took leave of the emperor, the empress, the great nobles and lesser grandees, the army, and all the attendants, who, with tears in their eyes, implored him to give up the journey and not risk his life; but setting spurs to his steed, he dashed through the gate like the wind, followed by the carts loaded with provisions and money, and the two hundred horsemen the emperor had commanded to accompany him.

After reaching the boundaries of his father's country and arriving at the wilderness, the prince distributed all his property among the escort, bade them farewell, and sent them back, keeping for himself only as much food as the horse could carry. Then he turned toward the east and rode for three days and three nights, till he came to a wide plain where lay a great many human bones.

When he stopped here to rest, the horse said: "You must know, master, that we are on the land of a Woodpecker Fairy who is so wicked that nobody can enter her domain without being murdered. She was once a woman, but the curse of her parents, whom she angered by her disobedience, turned her into a woodpecker. She is with her children now, but you will meet her to-morrow in yonder forest; she will come to kill you. She is terribly big, but don't be frightened; hold the bow ready to pierce her with an arrow, and keep your sword and lance in hand, so that you can use them in case of need."

Then they went to rest, taking turns in watching.

At dawn the next morning they prepared to pass through the forest; the prince saddled and bridled the horse, drew the girths tighter than usual, and mounted. Suddenly he heard a tremendous crashing. "Make ready, master," said the horse, "the Woodpecker Fairy is coming." As she approached, she moved so fast that she tore the trees down; but the horse leaped upward like the wind, so that it was almost over her, and the prince shot off one of her feet with an arrow. Just as he was about to discharge the second arrow, she cried:

"Stop, my young hero, I'll do you no harm." And seeing that he did not believe her, she gave him the promise written with her own blood.

"Your horse can not be killed, my young hero," she added, "it is enchanted; if it hadn't been for that, I would have roasted and eaten you. Know that until to-day no mortal man has ventured to cross my boundaries as far as this; a few bold wights who dared to make the trial, reached the plain where you saw so many bones."

They now went to the fairy's house, where she entertained them as guests. But while sitting at the table enjoying the banquet, the Woodpecker Fairy moaned with pain, so the prince pulled the foot he had shot off out of the traveling bag where he had put it, fastened it on, and it instantly healed. The hostess, in her joy, kept open house for three days, and begged the emperor's son to choose one of her daughters, all three of whom were beautiful as fairies, for his wife. He would not do that, but told her what he was seeking, and she replied:

"With your horse and your heroic courage, I believe you will succeed."

After three days had passed, the prince prepared to continue his journey and departed. He rode on, and on, and on; the road seemed to grow longer and longer, but when he had finally crossed the frontiers of the Woodpecker Fairy's kingdom, he entered a beautiful meadow, one side of which was covered with blooming plants, but the other was scorched.

The prince asked why the grass was singed, and the horse answered:

"We are now in the domain of the Scorpion Witch; she is the Woodpecker Fairy's sister, but they are both so wicked that they can't live together. Their parents' curse has fallen upon them, and so, as you see, they have become monsters; their enmity goes beyond all bounds; they are always trying to get possession of each other's lands. When this one is very angry she spits fire and pitch; she must have had some quarrel with her sister, and, to drive her out of her kingdom, has burned the grass on which she was standing. She is even worse than her sister, and has three heads. We will rest awhile now, and be ready at the first peep of dawn to-morrow."

The next day they prepared themselves just as they did when they expected to meet the Woodpecker fairy, and set out. Soon they heard a howling and rustling unlike any thing ever known before.

"Make ready, master, the Scorpion Witch is coming."

The Scorpion Witch, with one jaw in the sky and the other on the earth, approached like the wind, spitting fire as she came, but the horse darted upward as swiftly as an arrow, and then rushed over her a little on one side. The hero shot an arrow and one of her heads fell, but when he was going to strike off another, the Scorpion Witch entreated him to forgive her, she would do him no harm, and to convince him of this she gave him her promise, written in her own blood.

Like the Woodpecker Fairy, she entertained the prince, who returned her head, which grew on again, and at the end of three days he resumed his travels.

When the hero and his horse had reached the boundaries of the Scorpion Witch's kingdom they hurried on without resting till they came to a field covered with flowers, where reigned perpetual spring. Every blossom was remarkably beautiful and filled with a sweet, intoxicating fragrance; a gentle breeze fanned them all. They remained here to rest, but the horse said:

"We have arrived so far successfully, master, but we still have one great peril to undergo and, if the Lord helps us to conquer it, we shall really be valiant heroes. A short distance further on is the palace where dwell Youth without Age and Life without Death. It is surrounded by a high, dense forest, where roam all the wild animals in the world, watching it day and night. They are very numerous, and it is almost beyond the bounds of possibility to get through the wood by fighting them; we must try, if we can, to jump over them."

After resting about two days they prepared to continue their journey, and the horse, holding its breath, said:

"Buckle my girth as tight as you can, and when you have mounted hold fast to my mane and press your feet close to my neck, that you may not hinder me." The prince mounted, and in a moment they were close to the forest.

"Master," said the horse, "this is the time that the wild beasts are fed; they are all collected together, now we'll jump over."

"Forward," replied the handsome prince, "and may the Lord have mercy on us."

They flew upward and saw the palace, which glittered so that it would have been easier to look at the sun. They passed over the forest, and, just as they were descending at the palace steps, one of the horse's hoofs lightly touched the top of a tree, which put the whole woods in motion. The wild animals began to howl till it was enough to make one's hair bristle. They hastily alighted, and if the mistress of the palace had not been outside feeding her chickens (for that is what she called the wild beasts), they would certainly have been killed. She spared their lives out of pure pleasure, for she had never before seen a human being. Restraining the savage beasts, she soothed them, and sent them back to their haunts. She was a tall, slender, lovely fairy, quite too beautiful. When the young hero saw her, he stood still as though turned to stone. But as she gazed at him she pitied him and said:

"Welcome, my handsome prince. What do you seek here?"

"We seek Youth without Age and Life without Death."

Then he dismounted from his horse and entered the palace, where he found two other ladies, both of the same age, the elder sisters of the first one. He began to thank the fairy for having delivered him from danger, but she and her sisters, to show their joy, had a handsome banquet served in golden dishes. They gave the horse liberty to graze wherever it chose, and afterward made it acquainted with all the wild beasts, so that it might rove about the forest in peace. The ladies entreated the prince to stay with them, saying that it was so tiresome to be alone. He did not wait to be asked a second time, but accepted the offer with the satisfaction of a man who has found precisely what he sought.

By degrees they became accustomed to live together; the prince told them his story and related what he had suffered before meeting them, and after some time he married the youngest sister. At their wedding permission was granted to him to go wherever he liked in the neighborhood; they only begged him not to enter one valley, which they pointed out, otherwise some misfortune would befall him; it was called, they said, the Valley of Lamentation.

The prince spent a very long time at the palace without being aware of it, for he always remained just as young as he was when he arrived. He wandered about the woods without ever having a headache. He amused himself in the golden palace, lived in peace and quiet with his wife and her sisters, enjoyed the beauty of the flowers, and the sweet, pure air. He often went hunting; but one day, while pursuing a hare, he shot two arrows at it without hitting the animal. Angrily chasing it he discharged a third arrow, which struck it, but in his haste the luckless man had not noticed that he had passed through the Valley of Lamentation while following the game.

He picked it up and turned toward home, but was suddenly seized with a longing for his father and mother. He did not venture to speak of this wish to his wife, yet by his grief and restlessness both she and her sisters instantly perceived his condition.

"Oh! luckless prince, you have passed through the Valley of Lamentation," they said in terror.

"I did so, my dear ones, without meaning to be so imprudent, but now the longing to see my parents is killing me! Yet I can not forsake you. I have already spent several days with you and have no cause to complain. So I'll go and see my parents once more, and then come back to you, never to leave you again."

"Do not quit us, beloved prince! Your parents died two or three hundred years ago, and if you go, we fear you yourself will never return; stay with us, for a presentiment of evil tells us that you will perish!"

All the entreaties of the three ladies, as well as those of the horse, were unable to quiet the young hero's longing for his parents, which was fairly consuming him alive.

At last the horse said: "If you don't listen to me, master, whatever happens to you will be your own fault. I'll tell you something, and if you accept my condition, I'll take you back."

"I'll accept it with many thanks," replied the prince; "let me hear it."

"As soon as you reach your father's palace you will dismount, but I am to return alone in case you stay even an hour."

"Be it so," the prince agreed.

They made their preparations for the journey, the prince embraced the ladies and after having bade them farewell he rode away, but they sobbed and wept bitterly when he left them.

They reached the country which had once been the kingdom of the Scorpion Witch, but found cities there; the woods had become fields; the prince questioned one person and another about the Scorpion Witch and her house, but they answered that their grandfathers had heard from their great, great grandfathers that such silly tales had once been told.

"How is that possible!" replied the prince, "I came through this region myself only a short time ago," and he told them all he knew.

The people laughed at him as if he were a lunatic or a person talking in his sleep, and the prince angrily rode on without noticing that his hair and beard were growing white.

When he reached the realm of the Woodpecker Fairy, the same questions and answers were exchanged. The prince could not understand how these places had altered so much in a few days, and again rode angrily on. He now had a white beard that reached to his waist, and he felt as if his feet were beginning to tremble.

Quitting this country he arrived in his father's empire. Here he found new people, new towns, and every thing so much changed that he could not recognize it. At last he came to the palace where he was born. When he dismounted, the horse kissed his hand, and said:

"I wish you good health, master, I'm going back to the place from which I came. If you want to go too, mount quickly, and we'll be off."

"Farewell, I too hope to return soon."

The horse darted away with the speed of an arrow.

When the prince saw the ruined palace and the weeds growing around it, he sighed deeply and with tears in his eyes tried to remember how magnificent these places had once been. He walked around the building two or three times, tried to recollect how every room, every corner had looked, found the stable where he had discovered the horse, and then went down into the cellar, whose entrance was choked up with fallen rubbish.

He groped hither and thither, holding up his eyelids with his hands, and scarcely able to totter along, while his snowy beard now fell to his knees, but found nothing except a dilapidated old chest, which he opened. It seemed empty, but as he raised the lid a voice from the bottom said: "Welcome, if you had kept me waiting much longer, I too should have gone to decay."

Then his death, which had become completely shriveled in the chest, seized him; but the prince fell lifeless on the ground and instantly crumbled into dust.

Into the saddle then I sprung, The tale to tell to old and young.



The Little Purse with two Half-pennies.


There was once an old man and an old woman. The old woman had a hen and the old man had a rooster; the old woman's hen laid two eggs a day and she ate a great many, but she would not give the old man a single one. One day the old man lost patience and said: "Listen, old crony, you live as if you were in clover, give me a couple of eggs so that I can at least have a taste of them."

"No indeed!" replied the old woman, who was very avaricious. "If you want eggs, beat your rooster that he may lay eggs for you, and then eat them; I flogged my hen, and just see how she lays now."

The old man, being stingy and greedy, listened to the old woman's talk, angrily seized his rooster, gave him a sound thrashing and said:

"There, now, lay some eggs for me or else go out of the house, I won't feed you for nothing any longer."

As soon as the rooster escaped from the old man's hands it ran off down the high-road. While thus pursuing its way, lo and behold! it found a little purse with two half-pennies. Taking it in its beak, the bird turned and went back toward the old man's house. On the road it met a carriage containing a gentleman and several ladies. The gentleman looked at the rooster, saw a purse in its bill, and said to the driver:

"Get down and see what this rooster has in its beak."

The driver hastily jumped from his box, took the little purse from the rooster's bill, and gave it to his master. The gentleman put it in his pocket and drove on. The rooster was very angry and ran after the carriage, repeating continually:

"Kikeriki, sir, Kikerikak, To me the little purse give back."

The enraged gentleman said to the coachman as they passed a well:

"Take that impudent rooster and throw it into the well."

The driver got down from his box again, seized the rooster, and flung it down the well. When the rooster saw that its life was in such great danger, what was it to do?

It began to swallow the water, and drank and drank till it had swallowed all the water in the well. Then it flew out and again ran after the carriage, calling:

"Kikeriki, sir, Kikerikak, To me the little purse give back."

When the gentleman saw this, he was perfectly amazed and said:

"Hoho! This rooster is a perfect imp of Satan! Never mind! I'll wring your neck, you saucy cockerel!" When he reached home he told the cook to take the rooster, throw it on the coals burning upon the hearth, and push a big stone in front of the opening in the chimney. The old woman did what her master bade her.

When the rooster saw this new injustice, it began to spit out the water it had swallowed till it had poured all the water from the well upon the burning coals. This put out the fire, cooled the hearth, and made such a flood on the kitchen floor that the cook fainted away from pure rage. Then the rooster gave the stone a push, came out safe and sound, ran to the gentleman's window, and began to knock on the panes with its bill, screaming:

"Kikeriki, sir, Kikerikak, To me the little purse give back."

"Heaven knows that I've got a torment in this monster of a rooster," said the gentleman. "Driver, rid me of it, toss it into the middle of the herds of cows and oxen; perhaps some bull will stick its horns through it and relieve us." The coachman seized the rooster and flung it among the herds. You ought to have seen the rooster's delight. It swallowed bulls, oxen, cows, and calves, till it had devoured the whole herd and its stomach had grown as big as a mountain. Then it went to the window again, spread out its wings before the sun so that it darkened the gentleman's room, and once more began:

"Kikeriki, sir, Kikerikak, To me the little purse give back."

When the gentleman saw this he was ready to burst with rage and did not know what to do to get rid of the rooster. He stood thinking till at last an idea entered his head:

"I'll lock it up in the treasure-chamber. Perhaps if it tries to swallow the ducats one will stick in its throat, and I shall get rid of the bird." No sooner said than done. He grasped the rooster and flung it into the treasure-chamber. The rooster swallowed all the money and left the chests empty. Then it escaped from the room, went to the gentleman's window, and again began:

"Kikeriki, sir, Kikerikak, To me the little purse give back."

As the gentleman saw that there was nothing else to be done he tossed the purse out. The rooster picked it up, went about its own business, and left the gentleman in peace. All the poultry ran after the rooster so that it really looked like a wedding; but the gentleman turned green with rage as he watched, and said sighing:

"Let them all run off to the last chick, I'm glad to be rid of the torment; there was witchcraft in that rooster!"

But the puffed-up rooster stalked proudly along, followed by all the fowls, and went merrily on and on till he reached the old man's house and began to crow: "Kikeriki!"

When the old man heard the rooster's voice he ran out joyfully to meet the bird, but looking through the door what did he see? His rooster had become a terrible object. An elephant beside it would have seemed like a flea; and following behind came countless flocks of birds, each one more beautiful and brilliant than the other. When the old man saw the rooster so huge and fat, he opened the gate for it. "Master," said the bird, "spread a sheet here in the middle of the yard."

The old man, as nimble as a top, laid down the sheet. The rooster took its stand upon it, spread its wings, and instantly the whole yard was filled with birds and herds of cattle, but it shook out on the sheet a pile of ducats that flashed in the sun till they dazzled the eyes. When the old man beheld this vast treasure he did not know what to do in his delight, and hugged and kissed the rooster.

But all at once the old woman appeared from somewhere, and when she saw this marvelous spectacle her eyes glittered in her head, and she was ready to burst with wrath.

"Dear old friend," she said, "give me a few ducats."

"Pine away with longing for them, old woman; when I begged you for some eggs, you know what you answered. Now flog your hen, that it may bring you ducats. I beat my rooster, and you see what it has fetched me."

The old woman went to the hen-coop, shook the hen, took it by the tail, and gave it such a drubbing that it was enough to make one weep for pity. When the poor hen escaped from the old woman's hands it fled to the highway. While walking along it found a bead, swallowed it, hurried back home as fast as possible, and began to cackle at the gate. The old woman welcomed it joyfully. The hen ran quickly in at the gate, passed its mistress, and went to its nest -- at the end of an hour it jumped off, cackling loudly. The old woman hastened to see what the hen had laid. But when she glanced into the nest what did she perceive? A little glass bead. The hen had laid a glass bead! When the old woman saw that the hen had fooled her, she began to beat it, and beat till she flogged it to death. So the stupid old soul remained as poor as a church-mouse. From that time she might live on roast nothing and golden wait a while, instead of eggs, for she had abused and killed the poor hen, though it was not at all to blame.

But the old man was very rich; he built great houses, laid out beautiful gardens, and lived luxuriously. He made the old woman his poultry-maid, the rooster he took about with him everywhere, dressed in a gold collar, yellow boots, and spurs on its heels, so that one might have thought it was one of the Three Kings from the Christmas play instead of a mere ordinary rooster.



Mogarzea and His Son.


There was once a young lad who had neither father nor mother. Every thing his parents had left him was in the care of guardians, and at last he could bear their unjust reproaches no longer, but went out into the wide world, entered a path leading to a glade in the forest, and followed it a long way.

When, in the evening, he grew tired and found no place to rest, he climbed a hill and gazed around him in every direction to try to discover a light; after a long search he saw the flicker of a tiny spark and went toward it. He walked and walked half the night, then he came to a huge fire, by which a man as big as a giant was sleeping. What was the youth to do? After thinking a while, he crept into one leg of the man's trowsers and spent the rest of the night there.

When the man rose the next morning, to his great astonishment, he saw the youngster drop out of his breeches.

"Where did you come from?" he asked.

"I was sent to you for a son last night," replied the lad.

"If that is true," said the big man, "you may tend my sheep, and I'll give you something to eat, but beware that you don't cross the boundaries, or woe betide you!"

He pointed out to the boy the end of his land, and then added:

"God be with you!"

The lad tended the flock all day, and when he returned in the evening found the fire lighted, and helped the giant milk the sheep.

After their work was done, they sat down to supper, and while they were eating the boy asked:

"What is your name, father?"

"Mogarzea," replied the big fellow.

"I wonder you don't get tired of staying here alone in this wilderness."

"Then you wonder without cause. Don't you know that the bear never dances willingly?"

"Yes, you're right there," replied the boy. "But I see that you are always dull and sad. Tell me your story, father."

"What can be the use of telling you things that would make you sorrowful too?"

"Never mind, I should like to know them. Are you not my father? Do you suppose you have me as a son for nothing?"

"Well then, if that's true and you wish it, listen to my story.

"My name, as I have already told you, is Mogarzea; I am a prince, and set out to go to the Sweet-milk Lake, which is not far from here, to marry a fairy. I had heard that three fairies lived there. But Fortune did not smile upon me; wicked elves attacked me and took away my soul. Since that time I have settled here to dwell with my sheep on this little patch of land, without being able to take pleasure in any thing, without having a moment's happiness, or even once enjoying a laugh.

"The abominable elves are so quarrelsome that they let no one who crosses their frontiers go unpunished. That's why I advise you to be on your guard, lest something should happen to you also."

"All right, all right, just let me alone, father," replied the youth, and they went to rest.

When day dawned, the lad rose and set off with the flock. I don't know how or why, but he could not feel content to gaze at the elves' beautiful meadows, while the sheep were grazing on Mogarzea's barren ground.

On the third day, when he was standing in the shade of a tree playing on the flute, for he was, as it were, a master of the art of flute playing, one of the sheep strayed away into the flowery meadows, others followed, then others, till, when the youth noticed them, a number of the animals had crossed the boundaries.

Still playing on his flute, he went to drive back the sheep which had left the flock, but he suddenly saw before him three merry maidens, who stopped him and began to dance around him. When the lad discovered the state of affairs, he summoned up his courage and blew with all his might. They danced until the evening.

"Let me go now," he said, "poor Mogarzea will be hungry; to-morrow, if you wish, I'll play still better."

"We will let you go," they replied, "but you know that if you don't come you will not escape our punishment."

So they agreed that he was to come directly to them the next morning, sheep and all, then each went home. Mogarzea wondered why the milk had increased so much, and was not satisfied until the lad assured him that he had not crossed the boundaries. They ate their supper and went to rest.

The youth did not wait till it had become perfectly light, but at the first streak of dawn set off with the sheep straight to the elves' meadows. When he began to play on his flute, the elves instantly appeared and danced and danced till evening. Then the youth pretended to drop the flute and, as if by accident, stepped upon it and broke it.

If you could have seen how he bewailed it, how he wrung his hands and wept over the loss of his companion, you would surely have pitied him. Even the elves were touched with compassion and tried to comfort him.

"I wouldn't care so much," he said, "only I shall never find another flute that will sound as merry as this one, for it was made out of the heart of a seven-year-old cherry tree."

"We have, in the court-yard, a cherry tree that is just seven years old; if you want it, come, we'll cut it down and you can make yourself another flute."

They all went there, felled the cherry tree, and for fear of touching the pith while stripping off the bark, the youth requested all the elves to help.

After having made a cleft in the trunk with his ax, large enough for them to get their fingers in, he told them to take hold of it in order to break it apart solely by the strength of their arms, that the blade of the ax might not touch the pith of the wood. They were actually stupid enough to do so as they stood around the trunk, and, while saying "pull," he drew out the ax and caught their fingers in the crack.

In vain the elves begged him to release them, in vain they said that they were almost faint with pain; the lad would not even listen to the fine promises they made, but remained as cold as a stone.

Finally he asked them for Mogarzea's soul.

"It is in a bottle on the window-sill," they said.

After he had fetched it, he inquired how he could restore it to its place, and the elves explained, hoping he would then release them from their torture.

"You have tormented many people so that they suffered terrible agony all their lives; now you too can suffer for one night, it won't make the sky fall."

With these words he took the sheep and Mogarzea's soul and departed; but the elves wailed so that any one's heart might have been torn with pity. When he reached home, Mogarzea scolded him for being late. The boy's only reply was to ask him to lie down on his back, then climbing upon his breast he jumped up and down several times, until the lazy soul the elves had conjured into him darted out and the youngster gave him his own to swallow; holding his mouth and nose with his hands he made him drink the water that had been in the bottle, and then put on a plaster he had brought from the elves.

He had scarcely got it on, when Mogarzea sprang up like a deer and said:

"Whether you are my son or not, what do you want as a reward for what you have done?"

"Tell me where the Milk Lake is, and what I am to do to obtain one of the three fairies who are there for my wife, and let me be your son forever."

Mogarzea granted the lad's wishes and they sat down to supper without his wondering how the sheep gave so much milk; all night long they amused themselves by shouting, singing and dancing.

Noticing that dawn was approaching before they had gone to rest, they resolved to set out together to pay a visit to the cheated elves, -- and did so. When Mogarzea saw them, he took them, log and all, on his back and went to his father's kingdom, where every body rejoiced when he came home as brave and cheery as ever. But he pointed out his deliverer, who was following behind with the sheep.

Then they all thanked the lad for his cleverness in rescuing Mogarzea from misfortune, and the festivities at the palace lasted three whole days.

After these three days had passed, the boy took Mogarzea aside and said:

"I want to go now; please tell me where the Sweet-milk Lake is, and, God willing, I'll come back again with my wife."

At first Mogarzea tried to detain him, but finding it no use to talk till he was tired, he told him what he had heard -- he had seen nothing, on account of the elves.

The boy took his flute and some food for the journey, and then, departing, walked three long summer days until the evening, before he reached the Milk Lake, which was in a fairy's kingdom. Early the next morning he began to play on his flute at the edge of the lake, -- and what did he see? A beautiful fairy, whose hair was exactly like gold, and whose clothes were more costly than any he had ever seen; she was more dazzling than the sun as she began to dance. The boy stood motionless with his eyes fixed upon her, but when the fairy noticed that he was no longer playing she vanished. The next day she did the same thing. On the third, still playing, he approached, and as in the pleasure of dancing she did not notice it, he suddenly rushed upon her, clasped her in his arms, kissed her, and snatched the rose from her head.

She screamed and then begged him to give her back the flower, but he refused. Even wood and stone might have wept over her grief, as she lamented and entreated. But when he fastened the rose in his hat, she followed him.

Finding that he could not be persuaded to restore the rose, they agreed to be married. So they went to Mogarzea, to be wedded by the emperor, and remained there, but every year in the month of May they returned to the Milk Lake to bathe their children in its waves.

After the emperor's death Mogarzea divided the kingdom with his preserver.



Cunning Ileane.


Once upon a time something happened. If it had not happened, it would not be told.

There was once an emperor who had three daughters; the oldest was beautiful, the middle one more beautiful, but the youngest, Ileane, was so fair that even the sun stopped to gaze at her and admire her charms.

One day the emperor received the news that his neighbor, a mighty monarch, was no longer friendly, but wanted to fight with him on account of a great imperial feud. The emperor consulted the old men of the country, and, seeing there was nothing else to be done, he commanded his valiant soldiers to mount their horses, take their weapons, and prepare for the terrible battle which was to be fought.

Before mounting himself, the emperor called his daughters, addressed a few fatherly, touching words to them, and gave each one a beautiful flower, a merry little bird, and a rosy-cheeked apple.

"Whoever has her flower wither, her bird mope or her apple rot, I shall know has not kept her faith," said the wise emperor; then mounting his steed he wished them "Good-health" and set off with his brave soldiers on their toilsome way.

When the neighboring emperor's three sons heard the news that the emperor had quitted his home and gone to the war, they made an agreement among themselves and sprang on their horses to ride to the palace and vex the monarch by making his three daughters faithless to his trust. The oldest prince, a brave, spirited, handsome fellow, went first to see how matters stood and bring tidings afterward to the others.

Three days and three nights the champion stood under the wall, but not one of the girls had appeared at the windows. In the gray dawn of the fourth day he lost patience, plucked up his courage, and tapped on the oldest princess's window.

"What is it -- what is it? What is wanted?" asked the royal maiden, roused from her sleep.

"It is I, little sister," said the prince, "I, an emperor's son, who have stood under your window three days for love of you."

The princess did not even approach the window, but replied in a prudent tone:

"Go back home by the way you came; may flowers spring up before you and thorns remain behind."

After three more days and nights the prince again knocked on the girl's window. This time the princess approached it, and said in a more gentle voice:

"I told you to go back home by the way you came; may thorns spring up before you and flowers remain behind."

Once more the prince waited three days and three nights under the maiden's window. In the gray dawn of the tenth day, that is after thrice three days and thrice three nights had passed, he smoothed his hair and for the third time tapped on the window.

"What is it? Who is it? What is wanted?" asked the princess, this time somewhat more sternly than before.

"It is I, little sister," said the prince. "For thrice three days I have stood longingly under your window. I would like to see your face, gaze into your eyes, and watch the words flow from your lips!"

The princess opened the window, glanced angrily at the handsome youth, and said in a scarcely audible voice:

"I would willingly look into your face and say a word or two to you, but first go to my younger sister -- then come to me."

"I'll send my younger brother," replied the prince. "But give me one kiss to make my way home pleasanter."

And almost before he had spoken, he snatched a kiss from the beautiful girl.

"May no second one fall to your lot," said the princess, wiping her mouth with her embroidered sleeve. "Go back home by the way you came; may flowers spring up before you and flowers remain behind."

The prince went back to his brothers and told them all that had happened, and the second took his departure.

After this prince had stood under the second princess's window nine times nine days and nine times nine nights and tapped for the ninth time at her window, she opened it and said to him kindly:

"I would like to look at you and say a word or two to you, but first go to my youngest sister, then come to me."

"I'll send my youngest brother," said the prince. "But give me one kiss, that I may hurry the faster."

He had scarcely said it, when he stole a kiss.

"May no second one fall to your lot," said this royal maiden too. "Go back home by the way you came, may flowers spring up before you and flowers remain behind!"

The prince returned to his brothers, told them all that had happened, and -- for the third time -- a hero departed, the youngest son. When he reached the palace where the three sisters lived Ileane was standing at the window, and when she saw him, said merrily:

"You handsome champion with the royal face, where are you hurrying, that you urge on your steed so hotly?"

When the prince saw Ileane's face and heard Ileane's words, he stopped, gazed at her, and answered boldly:

"I'm hurrying to the sun to steal one of its rays, to give to its sister and take her home, where she shall become my bride. Now, little sister, I will stop on my way to look at you, gaze at the radiance of your face, say a word to you and steal a word in reply."

Ileane cleverly answered: "If your nature is like your words, if your soul is like your face, proud and beautiful, and mild and gentle, I will gladly call you into the house, seat you at a banquet, give you food and drink and kisses."

The prince sprang from his horse as he heard these words, and answered boldly:

"My nature will be like my speech, my heart like my face; let me in, seat me at the banquet, you shall never repent it from dawn till nightfall."

He had scarcely uttered the words when he leaped upon the window-sill, jumped through the window into the room, went through the room to the table, and took his place at the very top, where the emperor had sat when he was a bridegroom.

"Stop, stop!" said Ileane. "First let me see whether you are what you ought to be, and then we'll talk and begin our love-making. Can you make roses grow on burdocks?"

"No!" said the prince.

"Then the thistle is your flower," said clever Ileane. "Can you make the bat sing in a sweet voice?"

"No!" said the prince.

"Then night is your day," said clever Ileane. "Can you make apples grow on wolf's-bane?"

"That I can!" said the prince.

"Then that shall be your fruit!" replied the beautiful and cunning Ileane. "Sit down at the table."

The prince took his place. Ah! but Ileane was indeed cunning Ileane. Ere he had fairly seated himself, he dropped, chair and all, into the deep cellar where the emperor's treasures were kept.

Ileane now began to scream: "Help!" and when all the servants came rushing in to see what had happened, she told them she had heard a noise and was afraid that some one had got into the cellar to rob the emperor of his treasures. The servants did not waste many words, but instantly opened the iron door and went into the cellar, where they found the prince and brought him in disgrace to be sentenced.

Ileane pronounced judgment.

Twelve girls under punishment for some offense were to carry him out of the country, and when they had reached the frontier with him, each one was to give him a kiss.

The order was obeyed. When the prince reached home and joined his brothers, he told them the whole story, and after every thing had been related their hearts were filled with rage. So they sent word to the two older princesses that they must arrange to have Ileane go to the three princes' court, so that they might revenge themselves upon her for the insult she had offered them. When the oldest daughter received this message from the prince she pretended to be sick, called Ileane to her bedside, and told her that she could not get well unless Ileane brought her something to eat from the princes' kitchen.

Ileane would have done any thing for her sister's sake, so she took a little jug and set off for the court of the three princes, to beg or steal. When she reached the palace, she rushed breathlessly into the kitchen and said to the head-cook:

"For heaven's sake, don't you hear the emperor calling you? Make haste, and see what is the matter."

The cook took to his heels and ran as fast as he could, as though he had received an imperial command. Ileane, left alone in the kitchen, filled her jug with food, emptied all the dainty dishes that were on the fire upon the floor, and went away.

When the princes heard of this insult they were still more enraged than before, sent another message to the two sisters and again prepared a revenge. As soon as the second sister received the news, she, too, pretended to be ill, called Ileane to her bed, and told her that she could not get well unless she tasted the wine in the princes' cellar. Ileane would have done any thing for her sister, so she took the little jug and prepared to go again.

When she reached the court she rushed into the cellar, and, panting for breath, said to the head-butler:

"For heaven's sake, don't you hear the emperor calling you? Make haste and see what is the matter." The butler took to his heels and ran as if he had received an imperial command. Ileane filled her jug with wine, poured out the rest on the cellar floor, and then hurried home.

The princes sent a third message to the two princesses and told them they must send Ileane in a different way from what they had done before. This time both the princesses feigned illness, called their sister to them, and told her that they could not get well unless Ileane brought them two of the princes' apples.

"My dear sisters," replied Ileane, "I would go through fire and water for you, how much more willingly to the princes." Taking the little jug she set off to find, seize, and bring back the fruit and save her dear sisters' lives.

When the youngest prince learned that Ileane was coming to the garden to steal the golden apples, he gave orders that, if groans were heard there, nobody must dare go in, but let the person who was wailing, moan in peace. Then he hid huge knives, swords, spears, and many other things in the earth under the tree that bore the golden apples, concealing them so that only the sharp points rose out of the ground. After he had finished, he hid himself in a clump of bushes and waited for Ileane. She came to the gate, and seeing the two huge lions that kept guard there flung each of them a piece of meat; the lions began to tear it, and the princess went to the apple tree, stepped cautiously between the knives, swords, spears, and other things, and climbed into it.

"May this do you much good, little sister," said the prince. "I'm glad to see you in my garden."

"The pleasure is mine," replied Ileane, "since I have so brave and handsome a prince for my companion. Come, climb the tree and help me pick some apples for my dear sisters, who are dangerously ill and have asked for them."

The prince wanted nothing better -- he meant to pull Ileane from the tree among the knives.

"You are very kind, Ileane," he replied, "be kinder still and give me your hand to help me up into the tree."

"Your plan is wicked," thought Ileane, "but it shall work your own misfortune." She gave him her hand, pulled him up the trunk to the branches, and then let him drop among the knives, swords, spears and other such things, which had been put there for her own destruction.

"There you are," she said, "now you will know what you meant to do."

The hero with the black soul began to shriek and groan -- but nobody came to help him; they left him, according to his own orders, to moan in peace, and he was obliged to bear his terrible sufferings patiently.

Ileane took her apples, carried them home, gave them to her sisters, and then went back to the imperial palace and told the servants to go and rescue their master from his great danger.

The prince, who had been so abominably treated, sent for the most skillful witch in the whole country to come and give him a cure for his wounds. But Ileane had gone to the witch first and offered her a great deal of money to let her, Ileane, go to the court in her place. So Ileane went to the palace disguised as the witch. She ordered a buffalo hide to be soaked in vinegar three days and three nights, then taken out and wrapped around the wounded youth. But the prince's cuts only burned the more, and his sufferings became still more unbearable. When he saw that he was in a bad way, he sent for a priest that he might relieve his heart before he died and give him the sacrament. But Ileane was not idle. She went to the priest, offered him a large sum of money, and induced him to let her go to the palace instead. So Ileane arrived at the court disguised as a priest.

When she approached the prince's bed he was at the point of death, there were scarcely three breaths left in him.

"My son," said the false priest, Ileane, "you have summoned me to confess your sins to me. Think of the hour of death, and tell me all you have on your heart. Are you at variance with any one? Yes, or no?"

"With no one," replied the prince, "except Ileane, the youngest daughter of the emperor, our neighbor. And I hate her out of love and longing," he continued. "If I should not die, but recover, I will ask the emperor for her hand in marriage, and if I don't kill her the first night she shall be my faithful wife according to the law." Ileane heard these words, said a few in reply, and then went home. Here she soon understood why her sisters were wailing and lamenting, for they had heard that the emperor was returning home from the great war.

"You ought to rejoice," said Ileane, "when you hear that our kind father is coming home safe and well."

"We should rejoice," replied the sisters, "if our flowers had not withered, our apples had not rotted, and our birds had not stopped singing; but now we have reason to cry."

When Ileane heard these words she went to her room, saw the flower sprinkled with dew, the bird hungry, and the apple looking as if it wanted to say: "Eat me, little sister!"

So, to help her dear sisters, she gave the flower to one and the bird to the other, keeping only the beautiful apple for herself. So they waited for the arrival of the emperor, who was very stern in his commands.

When the monarch reached home, he approached his oldest daughter and asked for the flower, the bird, and the apple. She showed him nothing but the flower, and even that was half withered. The emperor said nothing, but went to his second daughter. She showed him only the little bird, and that, too, looked drooping. Again the emperor did not speak, but silently went up to his youngest daughter, clever Ileane.

When the emperor saw the apple on Ileane's chest of drawers he could almost have devoured it with his eyes, it was so beautiful. "Where did you put the flower, and what have you done with the bird?" he asked Ileane.

Ileane did not answer, but hurried to her sisters and brought back a fresh flower and a merry little bird.

"May you prosper, my little daughter," said the emperor; "I see now that you have kept faith with me."

From Ileane the emperor went to his second daughter, and then to the eldest one.

When he questioned them about the three things he had trusted to their care, they hastily brought Ileane's flower, bird, and apple. But as God permits no falsehood to succeed, in their hands the flower withered, the bird moped, and only the apple remained fresh, rosy-cheeked, and eatable.

When the emperor saw this he understood every thing, and ordered the two older princesses to be buried to their breasts in the earth, and left there that they might be an example of the severity of an imperial punishment. But Ileane he praised, kissed, spoke to her in kind, fatherly words, and said: "May you have much happiness, my child, for you have been faithful to your duty."

After the neighboring emperor's son had recovered, he mounted his horse and set off to ask Ileane to be his wife. The old emperor, Ileane's father, after hearing for what purpose the prince had come, said to him kindly:

"Go and ask Ileane, my son and hero; whatever she wishes shall, with God's help, be done."

Ileane said nothing, but permitted the prince to kiss her. The emperor instantly understood the whole matter and said: "My dear children, I see that you ought to be husband and wife; may it prove for your good."

It was not long before Ileane married the bold, handsome, heroic youth. Her wedding was so magnificent that tidings of it spread through seven countries. Yes indeed! But Ileane had not forgotten the evil the prince had in his mind; she knew that he would try some trick upon her the first night after their marriage. So she ordered a sugar doll to be made exactly the same size as she was herself, with face, eyes, lips, and figure precisely like Ileane's. When it was finished, she hid it in the bed where she was to sleep that night.

In the evening, when the relatives and friends had gone to rest and Ileane, too, had been asleep, the prince said to his bride:

"Dear Ileane, wait a little while, I'll come back directly." Then he left the room.

Ileane did not hesitate long, but jumped out of bed, left the sugar doll in her place, and hid behind a curtain at the head of the bed.

She had scarcely concealed herself, when the prince returned to the chamber with a sharp sword in his hand.

"Tell me now, my dear Ileane," he said, "did you throw me into the cellar?"

"Yes," said Ileane, behind the curtain. The prince dealt one blow with the sword on the doll's breast.

"Did you drive me out of the country with scorn and mockery?" he asked again.

"Yes," said Ileane.

The prince cut the doll across her face.

"Did you empty my dishes of food?" asked the prince the third time.

"Yes," said Ileane.

The prince slashed the doll from head to foot.

"Did you pour out my wine?" was the prince's fourth question.

"Yes," said Ileane.

The prince cut the figure once across. Ileane began to breathe heavily as if in the agony of death.

"Did you throw me among the knives?" he asked for the fifth and last question.

"Yes," said Ileane.

The prince now thrust his sword into the figure's heart, slashed, and hacked it in all directions, with all his strength, till the tears ran down in streams. As dawn approached he began to sob bitterly. Suddenly a bit of sugar popped into his mouth.

"Ah, Ileane! you were sweet in life, and remain sweet even in death," he said, weeping still more violently.

"Sweet indeed," said Ileane, coming out from behind the curtain, "but from this hour forth I will be a hundred thousand times sweeter."

The prince seemed fairly petrified with delight, when he saw Ileane safe and well. He clasped her in his arms, and for many years they lived joyously and ruled the land in peace and happiness.



The Princess and the Fisherman.


Once upon a time something happened. If it had not happened, it would not be told.

There was once a fisherman, neither very well off nor very poor, but he was young, with a mustache that curled fiercely at the ends, you know, and a fine-looking fellow. Whenever he passed the imperial palace, the emperor's daughter sent for him, bought his fish, and gave him ten times as much money as they were worth.

Our fisherman was spoiled by this wealth, and whenever he had nice fresh fish he took them to the palace; not a day passed that the princess did not buy fish if the fisherman went by.

One day, while paying for the fish, the princess pressed his hand, the fisherman blushed as red as a beet, and cast down his eyes, but first gave her one loving glance, for he had understood that she was willing he should do so.

Then he entered into conversation with her, and took good care not to say any thing stupid.

The next time the princess bought fish he began to talk about them at great length, and made her comprehend that he had understood her feelings, and that the fire of love which was consuming her burned no less hotly in his heart than in her own.

Another time he spoke still more freely, and the princess learned that he was unmarried; she was, besides, much pleased with his clever answers, and as he was very attractive the royal maiden finally fell in love with him. She gave him a purse filled with money to purchase handsome clothes, and told him to come back afterward and show himself to her.

After he had bought garments like those worn by gentlemen, he put them on and returned to the princess. She would scarcely have recognized him, for even his gait and bearing had become as stiff as a noble's.

At last, unable to repress the love that glowed in her heart, the emperor's daughter told him that she would marry him.

The fisherman did not know much, but he was aware that such a dainty morsel wasn't meant for his bill, and he could hardly believe what he heard with his ears and saw with his eyes; but when the princess assured him that she wasn't joking, he accepted her hand, though to tell the truth with many doubts and blushes.

The marriage did not exactly suit the emperor, but as he loved his daughter and she was her parents' only child, he yielded to her wishes. The princess gave the fisherman another purse filled with money, and told him to buy himself still handsomer clothes. When he returned, in garments that fairly glittered with gold, the royal maiden presented him to the emperor, and the monarch betrothed them to each other.

Ere long a magnificent imperial wedding was celebrated. When the company sat down to enjoy the banquet, a soft-boiled egg, which, according to ancient custom, only the bride and bridegroom were permitted to eat, was brought to the wedded pair. When the husband was about to dip a bit of bread into the egg, the princess stopped him, saying: "I must dip first, because I am the daughter of an emperor, and you are a fisherman." The bridegroom made no reply, but rose from the table and vanished. The guests, who did not know what had happened, looked at one another and asked in surprise what this meant, for they had not heard that the emperor's son-in-law had formerly been a fisherman.

The bride repented her imprudence, bit her lips, and wrung her hands. She ate what she was compelled to swallow, but she might just as well have thrown it behind her, for not a morsel did her any good.

After the feast she went to her room, but all night long she could not once close her eyes or fall asleep, she was so sorrowful. She thought of her bridegroom so constantly that she was afraid she would fall ill from longing. Her principal grief was that she did not know why he had gone away without saying even one word.

The next day she went to the emperor and told him she was seized with so great a longing for her husband that she was going to follow him till she found him. The emperor tried to detain her, but she would not listen and set out on her journey.

She searched up and down the whole city, but did not find him anywhere. Then she wandered from place to place till she met him serving in a tavern.

As soon as she saw him she went up and spoke to him, but he pretended not to know her, turned his head away, made no answer, and went about his business.

The princess followed him everywhere, begging him to say just one word to her, but in vain. When the landlord saw that the stranger was to blame for the interruption in the work, he said: "Why don't you let my servant finish his work in peace? Don't you see he is dumb? Be kind enough to go away from here, if you are a respectable woman."

"He isn't dumb," she cried, "this is my husband, who deserted and fled from me on account of a fault of mine."

All the people in the tavern stood still in astonishment when they heard her words, for she was not joking; but the landlord could not believe it, he thought it would be impossible for a man who could speak to live a whole week without saying even one word, and every body really knew him as a dumb man, made him understand by signs, and liked him for his industry.

The princess then entered into an agreement with them all, that she would induce him to speak within three days if they would only allow her to stay with him, but if she did not succeed she would be hung. This agreement was put in writing and shown to the magistrates for their sanction. When the contract was concluded, the three days' trial was arranged to begin the next morning.

The fisherman at first knew nothing about this agreement, though he heard of it afterward, but the emperor's daughter never left his side.

"My beloved husband," she said, "you know I am to blame. I chose you because I loved you; I swear that I will never commit such a blunder again; have pity on me, speak one word to me, save me from the disgrace that is killing me. I know you have a right to be angry, but for the sake of my love, forgive me."

The fisherman turned his head toward her, shrugged his shoulders, and pretended that he did not know her, and did not understand what she was talking about. One day, two days passed, and he did not even say boo. When the third came the princess was terribly frightened, and wherever the dumb man went she followed, beseeching him to say one word to her.

But the fisherman, feeling that she was softening him by her entreaties, fled like a savage that she might not assail him with tears, and pretended his heart was a lump of ice; but she did not cease imploring him a thousand times, so tenderly that it would have softened even a wild beast.

At last the third day also passed, and the fisherman had not even said baa.

Every body wondered over these things. Nothing was talked of in the whole city, except the mute servant at the tavern and the beautiful, charming girl, who, it was supposed, had mistaken the dumb man for some one else, and had now brought herself into trouble.

The next day the gallows was ready, and the whole population gathered around it to witness the end of the affair.

The magistrates were summoned to the place, and, against their will, compelled to execute what was in the agreement.

The executioner came, and called upon the princess to submit to the penalty, since she had not succeeded in fulfilling the obligations she had imposed upon herself; the girl turned once more to the fisherman, and, sobbing bitterly, tried to soften his heart, but in vain. When she saw and understood that no escape was possible, she loosed her hair and let it fall over her shoulders, wailing so piteously that it was enough to make even wood and stone weep for her, and so walked toward the place of execution. All the people, old and young, were weeping around her, yet could not help her.

On reaching the gallows, she once more gazed hopefully at the dumb man, who had come with the crowd, but stood as if he were perfectly unmoved, and said to him:

"My dear husband, save me from death; you know my love for you, do not let me perish so ignominiously. Speak but one word and I shall be delivered." But the man only shrugged his shoulders and glanced backward across the fields.

The executioner stood with the noose in his hand; two assistants led her up the ladder, and the hangman slipped the rope around her neck. One moment more, and the princess would have been a corpse! But just at the instant the executioner was going to let her swing out into the empty air, the fisherman raised his hand, shouting: "Hi! hi! stop!"

They all stood motionless, tears of joy streamed from every eye as the hangman took the noose from the prisoner's neck. Then the fisherman, looking at the royal maiden, said three times:

"Will you say fisherman to me again?"

"Forgive me, my dear husband," the princess hastened to reply, "I have only said it once, and that was by mistake. I promise you not to do so again."

"Let her come down, she is my wife."

He took her by the hand, and they went home together.

Afterward they lived in peace and happiness, and if they haven't died, they are living still.

Into the saddle then I sprung, This tale to tell to old and young.



Little Wild-Rose.


Once upon a time something extraordinary happened. If it had not happened it would not be told. It was when the wolves lay down to rest with the sheep, and the shepherds feasted in the green fields with emperors and kings, when one sun rose and another set.

There was once a man, my dear good friends. This man would now -- I am telling no lie -- this man would now be a hundred years old, if not twenty more to boot; his wife, too, was older than any body I know; she was like the Friday-goddess (Venus), and from youth to age had never had a single child. Only those who know what children are in a house can understand the uncontrollable grief in the empty home of the old man and his wife. The poor old man had done every thing in his power to have his house brightened and filled with joy by what he himself so greatly desired. He had given alms to the convents and churches, he had had liturgies read in seven churches, had sent for priests with white beards, because they are the holiest men and have more earnestness in prayer, and had had masses read for all the saints and prayers for the last unction. But every thing was useless. The old wife had clung to the witches and magicians. There was not an enchanter to whom she had not gone for advice, even if he lived a week's journey off. As I said before, what wouldn't she have done! But it was vain, all was useless.

One day the old man said sadly and thoughtfully:

"Old wife!"

"What do you want?"

"Give me some provisions to take with me on my journey, for I intend to travel through the wide world, looking wherever I go to try and find a child, for my heart aches and burns when I think that the end of my life is drawing near, and no heir will have my house after me, but all my property fall into the hands of strangers. I have tried all ways, now I will take this one. And I'll tell you one thing: If I find no child, I won't come home any more."

With these words the old man took his knapsack on his back, went out of the house, and began his journey. He walked on and on and on through the kingdom and the world, as God willed. Listen, good friends, I am telling the truth. He walked on till he came to a thick forest, so dense that it seemed like a wall. Tree was intwined with tree, bush with bush, so that the sun could not even send so much as a ray of light through the foliage. When the old man saw these vast woods he thrice made the sign of the cross toward the east, prostrated himself three times, also toward the east, and then entered with great sorrow. How long a time he spent in groping about the forest I don't know, but I do know that one day he reached the entrance of a cave. This cave was hundreds and thousands of times darker than the deep forest, as dark as it is when we shut our eyes, as dark as it usually is in endless caverns. The old man crossed himself three times, fell on his knees several times, and then, with God's assistance, turned around a projection of a rock. He went about the distance of a gun-shot and saw a light in a cranny. Approaching nearer and nearer he could not believe his eyes when he saw what was standing beside it. An old hermit! He was very old, as ancient as the world. He had a white beard that reached to his knees, and when he raised his eyebrows and then lowered them again they shaded the whole cave.

The hermit stood like a pillar of stone, his eyes fixed on a psalm-book on which his elbow rested, and which was sprinkled with big red characters; it was very, very old, so old that God alone knew to what period it belonged; and on a broad stone a yellow wax-candle blazed with a red flame and a blue smoke that was as dense as a cloud. The old man approached the praying saint and, again falling on his knees, said:

"Good-evening, holy father!"

The hermit was so absorbed in his litany that he heard nothing. So our old man spoke louder. The hermit did not stir, but made him a sign with his crutch to move aside. The old man stood aloof till the hermit had finished his prayer. When it was over, he raised his eyebrows and began:

"My son, what do you seek from me in this dark, cheerless abode? For many centuries my eyes have seen no human face, and now I wonder what has led your footsteps hither."

The old man answered:

"I kiss your right hand. My unhappiness has brought me here. I have lived with my wife many years, but we have no children, and I should like to have an heir when I behold our Lord's glorious face."

The hermit took an apple, and, after having blessed it, cut it in two, and said:

"Take these two halves of the apple; give this one to your wife, eat the other yourself, and in God's name do not wander over the world so."

The old man took the gift, kissed the hermit's right hand and feet, and left the cave. Entering the dense forest, he walked a long time before he came to the meadows. There a terrible thirst and burning sensation in the throat seized upon him. What should he do, for he found no water? He did precisely what he was destined to do. He took the half apple and ate it. But instead of the half intended for him, he ate his wife's. He had scarcely swallowed it when he felt as if he could go no further. So he sank down on the grass where a quantity of yellow cheese-wort was growing, and fell sound asleep. And the angel of the Lord came down from Heaven, and watched beside him. When he awoke, what did his eyes behold? The wonder of wonders! The most marvelous of marvels! By his side, among the herbs, a little child was crying and moving its tiny hands. The angel brought some basil and some water that had been consecrated nine years, sprinkled the child, and christened it, giving it the name of "Little Wild-Rose." The old man, happier than he had ever been at the sight of the pretty little girl, took her in his arms, kissed her, and set off with her to his wife. When he reached the house he took a kneading-trough, put the little thing in it, set it on the roof, and then crawled into the cottage, saying:

"Come quick, wife, come quick, and see what a treasure of a daughter, with golden hair and eyes like stars, our Lord has given me."

When they hurried out, to see the treasure of a girl and take the trough down from the roof, they saw nothing, no trace of the child anywhere. The old man crossed himself and sighed deeply. He searched hither and thither, right and left, but the little girl was nowhere to be found. He hunted through the straw in the hut and on the ground behind it to see if she had fallen down; but if she wasn't there she wasn't, and that ended the matter, for they couldn't stamp her out of the earth.

Oh, heavens, how the old man grieved and wrung his hands in despair. How could he help being startled by such a thing! He had put the child in the trough and seen her after he had laid her in it, and knew exactly where he had left her, and now to be unable to find her just a moment after was quite too bad.

"What could have happened to the little girl? Has the angel of the Lord taken her? Have the elves and wicked gnomes stolen her away? What in the world could have occurred!" said the man, sighing. Somebody had taken her, that was plain. But neither angels nor elves nor wicked gnomes frequented the neighborhood. Now, my good friends, just listen to the amazing event. A vulture or a griffin, whichever it was, but we'll say a griffin, was passing by, and, hearing the child's cries, swooped swiftly down, seized the little one, tucked her under its right wing, soared up into the sky with her, and took her to its eyry to feed its young. After putting her in its nest, the griffin flew off again. But the young birds, instead of eating the little girl, looked kindly at her, gave her some soft bread-crumbs, made a bed for her, and covered her with their wings to protect her from the chill of the morning air.

I must now tell you that in this terrible forest, at the bottom of a well of pure poison, lived a dragon with twelve heads, and this well was not far from the tree in whose top rested the griffin's nest. This horrible dragon never let the little griffins grow up, but as soon as they were ready to fly stretched out two of its fiery heads and put an end to their lives, so that the poor old griffin had never yet, in all its life, been able to see even one of its children fly off.

The present brood were now full-grown, and were waiting for daylight to fly through the woods and mountains, when lo, just at midnight the water of the well made a splashing noise, and what appeared in the moonlight that flickered through the trees? Two fiery heads, which approached the nest, setting up such a howling and wailing that the mountains shook to their foundations and the valleys rocked to and fro like cradles. Suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, the joints of the earth and sky trembled and quaked, and the archangel, grasping a sword in his hand, appeared on a golden cloud, darting downward like a thunderbolt. Just as the dragon was going to seize the young griffins, the angel flashed his sword from east to west, and again from west to east, cutting off both heads as easily as one drinks a spoonful of water. Then two still more terrible ones came, but they were also hacked into pieces. Two others next appeared; they, too, were destroyed, and so fared all the twelve. Blood and poison flowed till the whole forest and valley were turned into a marsh, and the heads dashed against the tree which held the nest, so that the leaves fell from the boughs for ten miles around. The angel took some basil plant, and sprinkled the four quarters of the earth with water that had been consecrated in Paradise nine years before. The pools of blood all gathered into one spot, the heads lost their vitality, and the ground opened, swallowing them up with all the blood, so that the wood once more became pure and bright as God meant it to be.

When the griffin came back at dawn, found its children safe in the nest, and saw that the accursed well had disappeared, it uttered such a cry of delight that the earth for nine miles round trembled and shook.

Then it waked the young birds and said:

"Tell me quickly, my darlings, who has done me this great favor?"

The young birds shook their heads and replied: "We don't know any thing about it, we have been asleep all night."

As the griffin looked about, its glance fell upon the little girl, whose golden hair and starry eyes were glittering in the morning sunlight like the torches of Paradise, and the thought instantly darted through its mind that this beautiful light must have rendered the unspeakable benefit.

"Children," said the griffin, angrily, "you haven't eaten the little girl, what does this mean?" The young birds kept as still as mice, but the griffin straightway swallowed lovely little Wild-Rose, yet when she appeared again she was seven times as beautiful as before.

The griffin now set about a great task; all day long it brought flowers and soft green moss from the woodland meadows to make the little girl a room like a fairy's nest, and this tiny chamber, whenever the wind blew, rocked to and fro like a cradle. From this time little Wild-Rose was as dear to it as its own children, nay, she was the very apple of the griffin's eye, and it took care of her and fed her with the very best things a griffin could find.

So the little Wild-Rose with the golden hair began to grow and flourish like a stately lily. In the morning the merry dawn kissed and woke her, at noon the shadows of the leafy boughs fanned her, and in the evening she was lulled to rest by the gentle breezes and the tunes that echoed through the forest from the shepherds' pipes.

So the little girl grew in beauty till she was able to stand alone, and one day, just as the evening-star was bathing in the rosy light left by the sun when it sank behind the mountains, the Lord permitted what had been predestined to happen, though it was something that had never occurred before, since this world was created and the sun began its course through the sky. So it happened that little Wild-Rose stood up, came out of her little room, and for the first time gazed into the world. But when she looked at the evening-sky the air quivered, the rising stars trembled, and on the eastern horizon a second sun, more beautiful and a hundred times brighter than the one which had set behind the mountains, rose upward in majesty and splendor as if mounting from a sea of fire. The forests, chasms and valleys quaked, the flowers whispered sweetly to each other and turned their little heads toward the vivifying waves of light. And now behold -- the fairest flowers tried to drink in the little maid's glances, and the trees around bowed their tops to rejoice in little Wild-Rose's beauty. In short, the whole of God's creation, the birds in the sky as well as the beasts in the forest, exulted and jumped for joy over the divine miracle.

After that evening's festival, twice three days passed, then three times three, finally still more until little Wild-Rose was fourteen years old.

At fourteen little Wild-Rose was beautiful -- so beautiful that I am afraid to praise her and describe her perfections, lest you should afterward say that you had seen some one equally handsome. But there was no one like her under the sun. Lovely as she was, no human being had seen her, and she had no idea of empires and cities; she lived on sisterly terms with the flowers, danced with the butterflies, was lulled by the murmur of the brook, vied with the birds in singing. Now, my dear readers, forgive me for first telling you I would say nothing, and afterward adding a few words in praise of little Wild-Rose. Who that has ever seen her can help talking about her?

So the days passed like hours and the hours like minutes, until one day a great hunt took place in the beautiful woods.

The emperor's son went to the chase too.

Well, evidently this ought to have been. The prince, in a good or evil hour -- I don't know which I ought to say -- saw a deer bound into the thicket, and hurried after the animal faster and faster and faster, till the young hero found himself where he had never been even in his dreams -- in the very depths of the dense forest, which was still untrodden by any human foot.

When the prince discovered his situation, he stood still and listened, to try to hear some sound in this solitude; the barking of a dog, the blast of a horn, the report of a gun, any thing of the sort would have pleased the youth. But he listened in vain, utter silence and solitude surrounded him. After gazing around him for some time a dazzling light gleamed through the foliage. He glanced that way again, and felt that he must know what was there. One, two, three, and he reached the spot to see what it was. And he found -- found the tree with the dainty little swinging chamber, and the young griffins staring at him. Whatever he may have thought, he drew his bow and would have instantly shot off the heads of the whole brood, when, like a thunderbolt, a blaze of light flashed into his face, dazzling him so that he dropped the bow and covered his eyes with his hands. When he looked that way again, he saw for half a minute the face and figure of little Wild-Rose, felt as if he were in the other world, and could not help falling on the grass in a fainting-fit. When he recovered his senses he called to the young girl to come down. But how was Wild-Rose to do such a thing? She did not go to a young man, but staid quietly at home with her mamma.

When the prince saw this he went away as he had come. Yet no, not exactly as he had come, for when he arrived his heart had not been full of love and longing. Neither had he come through the bushes without any trace of path or opening. But now he tumbled about wherever he went, as though he had no eyes. Yet, however he returned, he did return, arriving just as the shepherds were driving their cattle from the pasture into the village, and there he luckily met two of his hunting companions.

Early the next morning heralds from the imperial court went through the whole country, proclaiming that whoever would promise to bring a wonder of a girl from the forest of the well with two trees, would be received by the emperor as his councilor so long as he lived and the whole court would do him honor. Lo, and behold! there came an old, lame woman, with a hump on her back and as much hair on her head as there is on the palm of the hand. "I am the person who can bring the girl from the forest of the well with the two trees," she said. The heralds looked at the old woman and burst out laughing.

"Are you from Satan's kingdom, you scare-crow?" said a herald. "Who, in the Wood Witch's name, brought you in our way, for now we shall have no luck. Begone from our sight."

But the old woman insisted that she could bring the girl from the forest. And she stuck to the heralds like a bur to a sheep.

Then the oldest herald said: "Comrades, take her with us, for the emperor said plainly that we were to bring to the court any person, no matter who, that boasted of being able to execute his command; take the old woman and put her in the carriage."

So they took the old woman and carried her to court.

"You have boasted that you could bring the girl from the forest?" asked the emperor, seated on his throne.

"Long life to your majesty. Yes, I promised to do so."

"Then set to work."

"Let that be the old woman's care, but give me a kettle and a tripod." She quickly received them and set off behind the emperor's huntsmen, her mouth chattering and the kettle rattling, as the gipsies do when they bring a bride to her wedding. The prince had not remained at home either. How could he have staid behind and not known the why and wherefore! When the party reached the forest, the hunters and the prince halted and the old woman went on, like the Wood Witch, alone.

The shrewd, cunning old woman lighted a fire under the tree where the girl was, placed the tripod over the flames, and hung the kettle on it. But the kettle stood awry and upset as fast as she put it on. Little Wild-Rose, who was looking down from her room and saw the old woman's stupidity, lost her patience and called:

"Not that way, old woman, set the tripod the other way."

"But suppose I don't know how, my darling?"

And she vainly set it up, turned it round, and straightened it, the kettle would not stand. Wild-Rose grew more and more impatient and angry.

"Haven't I already told you once that it won't stand so? Turn the handle of the kettle toward the trunk of the tree."

The old woman did exactly the opposite, and then said:

"Come down and show me, dear child."

And Wild-Rose, absorbed by that one idea, climbed quickly down the tree to teach the crone. But the old woman taught her so that she needed no second lesson. Seizing her by the arm, she lifted her on her shoulder and ran off with her to the enamored prince. When the prince saw Wild-Rose, he came to meet her, begged for her hand, and, trembling, kissed her. Then she was clothed in magnificent garments, which had been embroidered with gold and pearls by nine princesses.

She was placed in the imperial carriage, and the horses stopped only once on the way home to take breath, for they had no equals except among the steeds of the sun. When they reached the palace, the prince lifted her out, led her in, and seated her at the table as if she were a real princess. The young hero's parents gazed at her with delight, and remembered their own youth. At the end of a week a magnificent wedding was celebrated, which lasted for three days and three nights, then, after twenty-four hours' intermission, three days and three nights more were spent in splendid festivities.

I was there, too, but as I am lame in one foot, I did not arrive until the wedding was over and had great trouble in finding some clear broth, which I searched in vain for a crumb of meat and then sipped from a sieve, so you can imagine how much I had and how I spent the time.



The Voice of Death.


Once upon a time something happened. If it had not happened, it would not be told.

There was once a man who prayed daily to God to grant him riches. One day his numerous and frequent prayers found our Lord in the mood to listen to them. When the man had grown rich he did not want to die, so he resolved to go from country to country and settle wherever he heard that the people lived forever. He prepared for his journey, told his wife his plan, and set off.

In every country he reached he asked whether people ever died there, and went on at once if he was told that they did. At last he arrived in a land where the inhabitants said they did not know what dying meant. The traveler, full of joy, asked:

"But are there not immense crowds of people here, if none of you die?"

"No, there are no immense crowds," was the reply, "for you see, every now and then somebody comes and calls one after another, and whoever follows him, never returns."

"And do people see the person who calls them?" asked the traveler.

"Why shouldn't they see him?" he was answered.

The man could not wonder enough at the stupidity of those who followed the person that called them, though they knew that they would be obliged to stay where he took them. Returning home, he collected all his property, and with his wife and children, went to settle in the country where people did not die but were called by a certain person and never came back. He had therefore firmly resolved that neither he nor his family would ever follow any body who called them, no matter who it might be.

So, after he had established himself and arranged all his business affairs, he advised his wife and all his family on no account to follow any one who might call them, if, as he said, they did not want to die.

So they gave themselves up to pleasure, and in this way spent several years. One day, when they were all sitting comfortably in their house, his wife suddenly began to call:

"I'm coming, I'm coming!"

And she looked around the room for her fur jacket. Her husband instantly started up, seized her by the hand, and began to reproach her.

"So you don't heed my advice? Stay here, if you don't want to die."

"Don't you hear how he is calling me? I'll only see what he wants and come back at once."

And she struggled to escape from her husband's grasp and go.

He held her fast and managed to bolt all the doors in the room. When she saw that, she said:

"Let me alone, husband, I don't care about going now."

The man thought she had come to her senses and given up her crazy idea, but before long the wife rushed to the nearest door, hurriedly opened it, and ran out. Her husband followed, holding her by her fur sack and entreating her not to go, for she would never return. She let her hands fall, bent backward, then leaned a little forward and suddenly threw herself back, slipping off her sack and leaving it in her husband's grasp, who stood stock still staring after her as she rushed on, screaming with all her might:

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

When he could see her no longer, the husband collected his senses, went back to the house, and said:

"If you are mad and want to die, go in God's name, I can't help you; I've told you often enough that you must follow no one, no matter who called you."

Days passed, many days; weeks, months, years followed, and the peace of the man's household was not disturbed again.

But at last one morning, when he went to his barber's as usual to be shaved, just as he had the soap on his chin, and the shop was full of people, he began to shout:

"I won't come, do you hear, I won't come!"

The barber and his customers all stared in amazement. The man, looking toward the door, said again: "Take notice, once for all, that I won't come, and go away from there."

Afterward he cried:

"Go away, do you hear, if you want to get off with a whole skin, for I tell you a thousand times I won't come."

Then, as if some one was standing at the door constantly calling him, he grew angry and raved at the person for not leaving him in peace. At last he sprang up and snatched the razor from the barber's hand, crying:

"Give it to me, that I may show him what it is to continually annoy people."

And he ran at full speed after the person who, he said, was calling him, but whom nobody else could see. The poor barber, who did not want to lose his razor, followed. The man ran, the barber pursued, till they passed beyond the city limits, and, just outside of the town, the man fell into a chasm from which he did not come out again, so he also, like all the rest, followed the voice that called him.

The barber, who returned home panting for breath, told everybody he met what had happened and so the belief spread through the country that the people, who had gone away and not returned, had fallen into that gulf, for until then no one had known what became of those who followed the person that summoned them.

When a throng set out to visit the scene of misfortune, to see the insatiable gulf which swallowed up all the people and yet never had enough, nothing was found; it looked as if, since the beginning of the world, nothing had been there except a broad plain, and from that time the population of the neighborhood began to die like the human beings in the rest of the earth.



The Old Woman and the Old Man.


Once upon a time there was an old man and an old woman, who had not a single child in their old age, and it was very hard for them, because they had no help, not even to light the fire; when they came home from working in the fields, they were obliged to begin with lighting the fire and then prepare their food.

One day, when they were fretting and consulting each other, they determined to look for children whatever might happen.

The old man went one way, the old woman another, to find a child somewhere.

The old man met a dog, the old woman a mouse. When they met again the old woman asked:

"Husband, what have you found?"

"A little dog. And you, wife?"

"A little mouse."

They now agreed to adopt the mouse for a child and drive the dog away, so the couple returned with the mouse, greatly delighted because they had found what they sought, that is, a child.

On reaching home the old woman began to make a fire; then she set the pot of sour buttermilk on to boil, and left the mouse to watch that it did not fall over, while she went to work with the old man in the fields.

After she had gone, the porridge boiled and splashed over the top of the pot; the mouse, which was sitting on the hearth, said:

"Porridge, don't jump on me or I'll jump on you." But the buttermilk did not stop and still splashed over the brim. When the mouse saw this, it grew angry and leaped straight into the pot.

When the old people returned from hoeing and called their child, there was no child to be found. After searching for it a long time without success, they sat sadly down to eat their dinner. Yet they ate the porridge with great relish until, when the old woman emptied the dish she found at the bottom -- what? The little mouse, their child, dead! She began:

"Husband, husband, here it is, our child is drowned in the buttermilk."

"How is that possible, wife!" replied the bearded old fellow.

When they saw this terrible accident, they began to weep and lament bitterly; the old man in his grief tore his beard, and the old woman pulled the hair out of her head.

The old man left the house with tearful eyes and touzled beard; on the bough of a tree, in front of the hut, perched a magpie, which seeing him asked:

"Why have you pulled out your beard, old man?"

"Oh, my dear bird, how can I help tearing my beard, when my little child has drowned itself in the pot of porridge and is dead?"

When the magpie heard this, it tore out all its feathers, leaving nothing but the tail.

The old woman set off with her bald head to the well, to get a jug of water to wash the dead body of her child.

By the well stood a girl with a pitcher, who had come to draw water; when she saw the old woman she asked:

"My, old woman, why have you torn the hair out of your head till you are perfectly bald?"

"Alas, my darling, how can I help tearing my hair and making myself bald, when my little mouse is dead?"

The girl, in her grief, smashed her pitcher in two, then she hurried to the empress to tell her the story; the royal lady, as soon as she heard it, fell down from the balcony, broke her ankle, and died, while the emperor, out of love for his wife, went away and became a monk in the monastery of Lies, beyond the Country of Truth; while I

Acquaintance made with grandsires old, To whom this simple tale I told, It seemed to them such perfect chaff That its bare memory raised a laugh.



The Pea Emperor.


Once upon a time something wonderful happened. If it hadn't happened, it wouldn't be told.

There was once a good for nothing fellow, who was so poor and needy that he had not even enough to eat to be able to drink water after it. When he had wandered through all the countries in the world, he returned home somewhat more sensible. He had passed through many perils abroad, knocked his head against the top of the door, been sifted through the coarse and the fine sieve. He would now gladly have pursued some trade, but he had no money. One day he found three peas. After picking them up from the ground he took them on the palm of his hand, looked at them, pondered a long time, and then said laughing: "If I plant these seeds in the ground, I shall have a hundred in a year; if I afterward plant the hundred, I shall have thousands, and if I put these thousands in the earth I shall reap who knows how many! Then, if I go on in this way, I shall finally become a rich man. But if I could help wealth to come quicker -- let me see!"

He went to the emperor and begged him to order through the whole empire barrels in which to keep his peas.

When the emperor heard that he needed such a quantity of barrels, he thought he must be stifling in money, and was more and more convinced of it when he entered into conversation with him. What is true must remain true; he didn't keep his mouth shut, but opened it and bragged till it would have been supposed that real pearls fell from his lips.

He told the emperor what he had seen in foreign lands, related how things were here and there, spoke of this and that, till the emperor stood before him with his mouth wide open. When he saw that the emperor marveled at his statements, he bragged more and more, saying that he had palaces, herds, and other riches.

The sovereign believed the boaster's stories, and said to him:

"I see that you have traveled, know a great deal, and are cunning and experienced; if you wish, I will gladly give you my daughter in marriage."

The braggart now regretted having told so many lies, for he did not know how to escape the monarch's proposal. After reflecting a short time, he plucked up courage and said "I will gladly accept the position of son-in-law you offer, and will try to show you that I am worthy of it."

The necessary preparations were made, and after some time an imperial wedding was celebrated in the palace. Then the man remained there.

One, two, several weeks elapsed, and no trace of peas and wealth appeared. Finally the emperor began to repent what he had done, but there was no help for it and the emperor's son-in-law perceived, from the manner of the courtiers and nobles, that they had very little respect for him.

His cheeks burned with shame. He made useless plans, tortured himself to find some means of getting out of the scrape, and could not even sleep at night. One morning without any one's knowledge he left the palace at dawn, walked on till he came to a meadow, and wandered along absorbed in thought, without knowing where he was going. Suddenly a rosy-cheeked man stood before him, and asked: "Where are you going, gossip, you look as sad and thoughtful as if all your ships had sunk in the sea."

The emperor's son-in-law related his dilemma and what he was seeking, and the man replied:

"If I deliver you from your difficulty, what will you give me?"

"Whatever you ask," he answered.

"There are nine of us brothers," said the man, "and each knows a riddle. If you guess them our whole property shall be yours, but if not, your first child must be ours."

The emperor's son-in-law, utterly crushed with shame, agreed, hard as it was for him, hoping that before the child was born he might find somebody who could tell him what to do.

So they set out together, that the stranger might show him the herds of cattle he owned and his palaces, which were not far off. They also instructed the herdsmen, swineherds, shepherds, and laborers what they were to say, if any body asked to whom the flocks and herds belonged.

The emperor's son-in-law returned to the palace and said that he would take his wife home the next day. On his way back he met an old man in the fields, and, seeing how aged and feeble he was, he pitied him and offered him alms. The old man would accept nothing, but asked permission to enter his service, telling him that he would be none the worse for it, and the other received him. When the emperor heard that his son-in-law wanted to go to his own palace, he was so delighted that he commanded every thing to be arranged on a grand scale in order to accompany him with imperial honors.

Therefore, on the following day, the whole court was filled with nobles, soldiers, and attendants of all kinds. All the directions for the journey had been given by the old man who had taken service with the emperor's son-in-law; he said that he was the Pea Emperor's steward, and all praised his energy, dignity, and industry.

The emperor was in high spirits and set out with the empress, the Pea Emperor, and his bride, for his son-in-law's possessions. The old servant went before and had every thing in good order. But the poor Pea Emperor was as pale and dejected as if somebody had showered him with boiling water. He was thinking of the riddles and how he could guess them.

They drove and drove till they reached the fields. Here was a beautiful meadow, beyond it a grove like the Garden of Paradise. When the overseer of the fields saw them, he came up cap in hand.

"To whom do these estates belong, my friend?" asked the emperor.

"To the Pea Emperor," replied the man.

The emperor grew fat with joy, for he now believed that his son-in-law really was no beggar. They drove on some distance further and met numerous flocks and herds of all sorts of animals; the emperor asked one keeper after another to whom they belonged, and all replied: "To the Pea Emperor."

But when they reached the palace of the nine dragons the emperor marveled at its magnificence. Every thing was in order. They were received at the gate by a band of musicians, who played the most beautiful tunes ever heard. The interior of the palace was adorned with real gems. A magnificent banquet was hastily prepared, and they drank the finest wine.

After the emperor had wished his son-in-law every happiness, he returned to his own home greatly delighted with the riches he had seen. But the Pea Emperor was almost dead with anxiety.

Evening came. The old servant said to his master:

"Master, what you have seen of me since I entered your service must have convinced you of my fidelity. Now I assure you that I can help you still more."

"Are you telling the truth?" asked the Pea Emperor.

"Do not doubt me for an instant, master! And I ask one thing besides: let me spend the night in some corner of the chamber where you are sleeping, even if it is behind the door. Moreover, I advise you not to answer a single word, no matter who calls you by name or how great a noise is made."

"Be it so!" said the Pea Emperor. And so it was.

After they had lain down and put out the light, they heard a dull, rumbling noise like an approaching thunder storm. Then a hoarse, rough voice said:

"Pea Emperor, Pea Emperor!"

"What do you want?" replied the old man.

"I'm not calling you," it replied, "I'm calling the Pea Emperor."

"That's just the same thing," replied the old man, "my master is asleep, he's tired."

Then the noise of many voices was heard, as if people were quarreling! Again the first one repeated: "Pea Emperor, Pea Emperor!"

"What is it?" the old man answered.

"What is one?"

"The moon is one."

"Is it you, master?"

"Burst, dragon!"

Then a terrible wailing arose, as if all the spirits of evil were abroad, and another voice said:

"What is two?"

"Two eyes in the head see well."

"Is it you, master?"

"Burst, dragon!"

"What is three?"

"Where there are three grown daughters in a house, beware of putting your head in."

"Is it you, master?"

"Burst, dragon!"

"What is four?"

"The cart with four wheels runs well."

"Is it you, master?"

"Burst, dragon!"

"What is five?"

"Five fingers on the hand hold well."

"Is it you, master?"

"Burst, dragon!"

Again there was a noise like a thunder storm, and the palace shook as if the earth was quaking. And again there was a shout for the Pea Emperor. But the latter became more and more quiet, and scarcely ventured to breathe, but remained perfectly still. This time, too, the old servant answered. Another voice asked:

"What is six?"

"The flute with six holes blows well."

"Is it you, master?"

"Burst, dragon!"

"What is seven?"

"Where there are seven brothers, don't meddle with their affairs."

"Is it you, master?"

"Burst, dragon!"

"What is eight?"

"The plow with eight oxen furrows the earth well."

"Is it you, master?"

"Burst, dragon!"

"What is nine?"

"Where there are nine grown daughters in a house, it is not swept."

"Is it you, master?"

"Burst, dragon!"

The Pea Emperor, who heard all this, could not sleep all night long, even when it grew so still that one might have heard a fly buzz; he waited for daylight with the utmost impatience.

When he rose the next morning the old servant had vanished. He went out of the palace, and what did he behold? The scattered corpses of nine dragons, which he gave to the ravens. While thanking God for having preserved his life and delivered him from disgrace, he heard a sweet voice say:

"Your compassion for the poor man saved you. Always be charitable."



The Morning Star and The Evening Star.


Once upon a time something extraordinary happened. If it had not happened it would not be told.

There was once an emperor and empress who were childless. So they sought out all the wizards and witches, all the old women and astrologers; but their skill proved vain, no one knew how to help them. At last the royal pair devoted themselves to almsgiving, praying, and fasting, until one night the empress dreamed that the Lord had taken pity on her, and appearing to her, said: "I have heard your prayers, and will give you a child whose like can not be found on earth. Your husband, the emperor, must go to the brook to-morrow with a hook and line, then you are to prepare with your own hands the fish he catches, and eat it."

Before it was fairly daylight, the empress went to the emperor and woke him, saying: "Rise, my royal husband, it is morning."

"Why, what ails you to-day, wife, that you wake me so early?" the emperor replied. "Has any foe crossed the frontiers of my country?"

"Heaven forbid. I've heard nothing of that sort, but listen to my dream."

And she told him about it.

When the emperor heard her story he jumped out of bed, dressed, took the hook and line, and, gasping for breath, went to the brook. He threw in the hook and soon saw the cork on the line bob. He pulled it out, and what did he see? A big fish, made entirely of gold. It was a wonder that he did not die of joy. But what did the empress say when she saw it? She was still more out of her wits.

The empress cooked the fish with her own hands, the royal couple ate it, and the empress instantly felt that the promise would be fulfilled.

The maid-servant who cleared away the table saw a fish-bone on the empress' plate, and thought she would suck it, to know how food tastes when prepared by royal hands.

One day the empress received the gift of a beautiful boy, as handsome as a little angel. That same night the maid-servant, too, had a son who looked so exactly like the prince that they could not be distinguished from each other. The maid-servant's child precisely resembled the royal one. The prince was named Busujok,[2] the maid-servant's son was called Siminok.[3]

[Footnote 2: Busujok: Basil.]

[Footnote 3: Siminok: Geaphalium, cat's foot.]

They grew up together, were taught their lessons, and learned as much in one day as other children in a whole year. When they were playing in the garden, the empress watched them from her window with great delight.

They became tall youths and looked so much alike that people could never tell which was the prince and which the maid-servant's son. They were haughty in bearing, both were charming, winning in speech, and brave, brave to a fault.

One day they determined to go hunting. But the empress was constantly fretting herself to find some way of recognizing her own son, for as their faces were alike and their clothes precisely the same, she often could not distinguish one from the other. She therefore thought of putting some mark on the prince. So she called him, and while pretending to be playing with his hair, knotted two locks together without his knowledge. Then the youths went off to hunt.

They hurried joyously through the green fields, skipped about like lambkins, gathered flowers, sprinkled themselves with dew, watched the butterflies flit from blossom to blossom, saw the bees gather wax and honey, and enjoyed themselves to the utmost. Then they went to the springs, drank some water to refresh themselves, and gazed unweariedly at the sky, which met the earth on the horizon. They would fain have gone to the end of the world to see it close at hand, or at least far enough to reach the spot where the earth grows marshy before it comes to an end.

Next they went into the woods. When they saw the beauties of the forest, they stood still with mouths wide open in astonishment. Consider that they had not beheld any of these things in their whole lives. When the wind blew and stirred the leaves, they listened to their rustling, and it seemed as if the empress was passing by, drawing her silken train after her. Then they sat down on the soft grass, under the shade of a big tree. Here they began to reflect and consult each other about how they were to commence hunting. They wanted to kill nothing but wild beasts. They did not notice the birds which hopped around them and perched on the boughs of the trees; they would have been sorry to hurt them, for they liked to listen to their twitter. It seemed as if the birds knew this; they showed no fear, but sang as if they were going to split their throats; the nightingales, however, trilled only from their craws, that their songs might be the sweeter. While they stood there consulting, the prince suddenly felt so overwhelmed with fatigue that he could hold out no longer, but laying his head in Siminok's lap, asked him to stroke his hair.

While he was doing so, Siminok stopped and said:

"What is the matter with your head, Brother Busujok?"

"What should be the matter? How do I know, Brother Siminok?"

"Just see," replied Siminok, "two locks of your hair are tied together."

"How is that possible?" said Busujok. This discovery vexed the prince so much that he determined to go out into the wide world.

"Brother Siminok," he said, "I'm going out into the wide world, because I can't understand why my mother tied my hair while she was playing with it."

"Listen to reason, Brother Busujok, and do nothing of the sort," replied Siminok; "if the empress tied your hair, it certainly was not for any evil purpose."

But Busujok remained firm in his resolve, and when he took leave of Siminok, he said to him:

"Take this handkerchief, Brother Siminok, and if you ever see three drops of blood on it, you will know that I am dead."

"May the Lord help you, Brother Busujok, that you may prosper; but I beg you once more by my love, stay!"

"Impossible," replied Busujok.

Then the youths embraced each other, and Busujok departed; Siminok remained behind, gazing longingly after him till he was out of sight.

Siminok then returned to the palace and related all that had happened.

The empress was insane with grief. She wrung her hands and wept till it was pitiful to see her. But she did not know what to do, and at last comforted herself a little by gazing at Siminok. After some time the latter took out the prince's handkerchief, looked at it, and saw three drops of blood on it. Then he said:

"Oh! my royal brother is dead. I shall go and look for him."

Taking some provisions for the journey, he set out in search of Busujok. He passed through cities and villages, crossed fields and forests, wandering on and on till he reached a small hut. There he met an old woman, whom he asked about his brother. The crone told him that Busujok had become the son of the emperor who reigned in the neighborhood.

When Siminok reached this emperor's palace, the princess, as soon as she saw him, thought that he was her husband and came running to meet him. But he said: "I am your husband's brother; I have heard that he is dead, and came here to learn something about him."

"I can not believe it," replied the princess. "You are my husband, and I don't know why you deny it. Has my faith been put to any test, and have I ever deceived you?"

"Nothing of the sort. But I tell you truthfully that I am not your husband."

The princess would not believe this, so Siminok said:

"The Lord will show the truth. Let the sword hanging on yonder nail scratch whichever of us two is mistaken."

Instantly the sword sprang down and cut the princess' finger. Then she believed Siminok, and gave him the hospitality which was his due.

The next day he learned that Busujok had gone out hunting and had not yet returned. So he, too, mounted a horse, took some greyhounds, and rode after his brother, following the direction in which he had gone. He rode on and on till he reached a forest, where he met the Wood Witch. As soon as he saw her, he set off after her. She fled, he pursued, until perceiving no way of escape she swung herself up into a tall tree.

Siminok dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, made a fire, took out his provisions, and began to eat, occasionally tossing the greyhounds something.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I'm so cold," said the Wood Witch, "my teeth are chattering."

"Get down and warm yourself by the fire," replied Siminok.

"I'm afraid of the dogs," she said.

"Don't be frightened, they'll do you no harm."

"If you want to do me a favor," the Wood Witch answered, "take a strand of my hair and tie your dogs with it."

Siminok put the hair in the fire.

"Oh! how horribly the hair I gave you smells -- you have put it in the fire."

"Go away from here and don't talk any more nonsense," replied Siminok. "One of the hounds put its tail a little too near the fire and scorched it, that's what smells so badly. If you are cold, come down and warm yourself, if not, hold your tongue and let me alone."

The Wood Witch believed him, came down, approached the fire, and said:

"I am hungry."

"What shall I give you to eat? Take what you want of all I have."

"I should like to eat you," said the Wood Witch, "prepare for it."

"And I will devour you," replied Siminok.

He set the hounds upon her to tear her to pieces.

"Stop," cried the Wood Witch, "call off your dogs that they may not tear me, and I'll give you back your brother with his horse, hounds, and all."

Siminok called off the dogs.

The Wood Witch swallowed three times and up came Busujok, his horse, and his dogs. Siminok now set his hounds upon her, and they tore her into mince-meat. When Busujok recovered his senses, he wondered at seeing Siminok there and said:

"Welcome, I'm glad to meet you so well and gay, Brother Siminok, but I've been asleep a very long time."

"You might have slept soundly till the end of the world, if I had not come?" he replied.

Then Siminok told him every thing that had happened from their parting until that moment.

But Busujok suspected him; he thought that Siminok had won his wife's love, and would not believe him when he told him the simple truth -- that such an idea had never entered his head.

Now that Busujok had once begun to be jealous of his bride, he acted like a lunatic! So, being overpowered by evil thoughts, he made an agreement with Siminok to bandage the eyes of their horses, mount them, and let them carry their riders wherever they would.

This was done. When Busujok heard a groan he stopped his horse, untied the bandage, and looked around him. Siminok was nowhere to be seen. Just think! He had fallen into a spring, been drowned, and never came out again!

Busujok returned home and questioned his wife; she told just the same story as Siminok. Then, to be still more certain of the truth, he, too, ordered the sword to jump down from the wall and scratch the one who was wrong. The sword leaped down and wounded his middle finger.

The prince pined away, lamenting and weeping bitterly for the loss of Siminok, and sorely repenting his undue haste, but all was vain, nothing could be changed. So, in his grief and anguish, he resolved not to live any longer without his brother, ordered his own eyes and those of his horse to be bandaged, mounted it, and bade it hasten to the forest where Siminok had perished. The horse went as fast as it could, and plump! it tumbled into the very same spring where Siminok had fallen, and there Busujok, too, ended his days. But at the same time the morning star, the emperor's son Busujok, and the evening star, the maid-servant's son Siminok, appeared in the sky.

Into the saddle then I sprung, This tale to tell to old and young.



The Two Step-Sisters.


Once upon a time there was an old widower, who had one daughter; he married again and took for his wife a widow, who also had a daughter. The widow's daughter was ugly, lazy, obstinate and spiteful; yet as she was her mother's own child, the latter was delighted with her and pushed every thing upon her husband's daughter. But the old man's child was beautiful, industrious, obedient and good. God had gifted her with every virtuous and lovable quality, yet she was persecuted by her spiteful sister, as well as by her step-mother; it was fortunate that she possessed endurance and patience, or she would have fared badly. Whenever there was any hard work to be done, it was put upon the old man's daughter -- she was obliged to get dry wood from the forest, drag the heavy sacks of grain to the mill; in short, every task always fell to her lot. The whole livelong day she had no rest, but was kept continually going up stairs and down. Still the old woman and her treasure of a daughter were constantly dissatisfied, and always had something to find fault with. The step-daughter was a heavy cross to the second wife, but her own daughter was like the basil plant, which is placed before the images of the saints.

When the step-sisters went to the village in the evening to spin, the old man's daughter did not allow herself to be interrupted in her work, but finished a whole sieve full of spools, while the old woman's daughter with difficulty completed a single one. When they came home late at night, the old woman's daughter jumped nimbly over the fence and asked to hold the sieve till the other had leaped over it too. Meantime the spiteful girl hurried into the house to her parents, and said she had spun all the spools. The step-sister vainly declared that they were the work of her own hands; mother and daughter jeered at her words, and of course gained their cause. When Sunday or Friday came the old woman's daughter was brushed and bedizened as though the calves had licked her. There was no dance, no feather-plucking in the village to which the old woman's daughter did not go, but the step-daughter was sternly denied every pleasure of the kind. Yet when the husband came home, his wife's tongue ran like a mill-wheel -- her step-daughter was disobedient, bold, bad-tempered, this, that, and the other; he must send her away from home, put her out at service, whichever he chose; it was impossible to keep her in the house because she might ruin her daughter too.

The old man was a jackanapes, or, as the saying goes, under petticoat government. Every thing his wife said was sacred. Had he obeyed the voice of his heart the poor old man might perhaps have said something, but now the hen had begun to crow in the house, and the rooster was of no consequence; yet, if he had thought of opposing them, his wife and her daughter would have soon made him repent it. One day, when he was unusually angry about what his wife had told him, he called the young girl, and said: -- 

"My dear child, your mother is always saying that you are disobedient to her, have a spiteful tongue, and are wicked, so that it is not possible for you to stay any longer in my house; therefore go wherever the Lord may guide you, that there may no longer be so much quarreling here on your account. But I advise you as a father, wherever you may go, to be obedient, humble, and industrious, for here with me all your faults have been overlooked, parental affection has aided, but among strangers nobody knows what sort of people you may meet, and they will not indulge you as we have done."

When the poor girl saw that her step-mother and her daughter wanted to drive her out of the house at any cost, she kissed her father's hand with tears in her eyes, and went out into the wide world without any hope of ever returning home. She walked along the road till she chanced to meet a little sick dog, so thin that one could count its ribs.

When the dog saw her, it said: "You beautiful, industrious girl, have pity on me and take care of me, I will reward you some day."

The girl did pity the poor animal, and, taking it in her arms, washed and cleaned it thoroughly. Then she left it and went on, glad that she had been able to do a good action. She had not walked far when she came to a fine pear-tree in full bloom, but it was completely covered with caterpillars.

When the pear-tree saw the girl, it said: "You beautiful, industrious girl, take care of me and rid me of these caterpillars, I will repay you for it some day."

The girl, with her usual diligence, cleared the pear-tree from its dry branches and most carefully removed the caterpillars; then she walked quietly on to seek some place where she might enter into service.

On her way she came to a ruined, neglected fountain, which said to her: "You beautiful, industrious girl, take care of me, I will reward you some day."

The little maid cleared the fountain, cleaned it thoroughly, and then went on again. As she walked she came to a dilapidated oven, which had become almost entirely useless.

As soon as the oven saw her, it said: "You beautiful, industrious girl, line me with stones and clean me, I will repay you some day!"

The young girl knew that work harms no one, so she rolled up her sleeves, moistened some clay, stopped the holes in the stove, greased it and cleaned it till it was a pleasure to see it. Then she washed her hands and continued her journey. As she walked on, day and night, it happened, I don't know how -- that she missed her way; yet she did not lose her trust in God, but walked on and on until early one morning, after passing through a dark forest, she reached a beautiful meadow. In the meadow she saw a little house, completely overgrown with vines, and when she approached it an old woman came out kindly to meet her, and said: "What are you seeking here, child, and who are you?"

"Who should I be, good dame! A poor girl, motherless, and I may say fatherless, too, for God alone knows what I have suffered since my own mother's hands were folded on her breast. I am seeking service, and as I know nobody and am wandering from place to place I have lost my way. But the Lord guided me, so that I have reached your house and I beg you to give me a shelter."

"Poor child!" replied the old dame. "Surely God himself has led you to me and saved you from danger. I am the goddess of Sunday. Serve me to-day, and I promise that you shall not leave my house empty-handed to-morrow."

"Very well, but I don't know what I have to do."

"You must wash and feed my little children, who are now asleep, and then cook my dinner; when I come home from church I want to find it neither hot nor cold, but just right to eat."

When she had said this, the old woman set off for church. The young girl rolled up her sleeves and went to work. First of all she prepared the water for the bath, then went out-doors and began to call: "Children, children, children, come to mother and let her wash you."

When she looked up, what did she behold? The court-yard was filled and the woods were swarming with a host of dragons and all sorts of wild beasts of every size. But, firm in her faith and trust in God, the young girl did not quail, but taking one animal after another washed and cleaned it in the best possible way. Then she set about cooking the dinner, and when Sunday came out of church and saw her children so nicely washed and every thing so well done she was greatly delighted. After she had sat down to the table, she told the young girl that she might go up into the attic, choose whichever chest she wanted, and take it away with her for her wages; but she must not open it until she reached her father's house.

The maiden went to the garret, where there were a number of chests, some old and ugly, others new and beautiful. But as she was not a bit covetous, she took the oldest and ugliest of them all. When she came down with it, the goddess of Sunday frowned slightly, but there was no help for it, so she blessed the girl, who took her trunk on her back and joyfully returned to her father's house.

On the way, lo and behold! there was the oven full of beautifully risen, nicely browned cakes. The girl ate and ate, as many as she could, then took some with her for her journey and went on. Soon she came to the fountain she had cleaned, and which was now filled to the brim with water as clear as tears and as sweet and cold as ice. On the edge stood two silver goblets, from which she drank the water until she was entirely refreshed. Then, taking one goblet with her, she walked on. As she went, lo and behold! there stood the pear-tree she had cleaned, full of pears as yellow as wax, perfectly ripe, and as sweet as honey. When the pear-tree saw the girl, it bent its branches down to her, and she ate some of the fruit and took more pears to eat on the way, just as many of them as she wanted. From there she journeyed on again, and lo and behold! she next met the little dog, which was now well and handsome; around its neck it wore a collar of ducats which it gave the old man's daughter as a reward for taking care of it in its sickness.

So the young girl at last reached her father's house. When the old man saw her his eyes filled with tears and his heart throbbed with joy. The girl took out the dog's collar and the silver goblet and gave them to her father; when they opened the chest together, out came countless numbers of horses, cattle, and sheep, till the sight of so much wealth instantly made the old man young again. But his wife stood as if she were dazed, and did not know what to do in her rage. Her daughter, however, plucked up courage and said: -- 

"Never mind, mother, the world isn't emptied yet; I'll go and fetch you still greater treasures."

After saying this she angrily set off at once. She walked and walked along the same path her step-sister had followed. She, too, met the sick, feeble dog, passed the pear-tree covered with caterpillars, the dry, neglected fountain, and the dilapidated oven which had become almost useless; but when dog, tree, fountain and oven begged her to take care of them, she answered rudely and scornfully: "Do you suppose I'll soil my delicate hands! Have you often been tended by people like me?"

As they all knew that it is easier to get milk from a dry cow than to make a spoiled, lazy girl obliging, they let her go her way in peace, and no longer asked her for help. As she walked on and on, she too at last reached the Goddess Sunday. But here also she behaved sullenly, saucily, and awkwardly. Instead of cooking the dinner nicely and washing Sunday's children as thoroughly as her step-sister had done, she burned them all till they screamed and ran off as though crazed by the burns and the pain. The food she scorched, charred, and let curdle so that no one could eat it, and when Sunday came home from church she covered her eyes and ears in horror at what she found in her house. Even the gentle, indulgent goddess could not get along with such an obstinate, lazy girl as this one, so she told her to go up into the garret, choose any chest she wanted, and then in God's name continue her journey.

The girl went, took the newest and handsomest trunk, for she liked to get as much as possible of the best and finest things, but was not willing to do faithful service. When she came down she did not go to the Goddess Sunday to receive her blessing, but hurried off as if she were quitting an evil house. She nearly ran herself off her feet, in the fear that her mistress might change her mind and follow her to get her trunk back. When she reached the oven there were some nice cakes in it, but when she approached to satisfy her hunger the fire burned her and she could take none. The silver goblets were again at the fountain and the fountain was full of water to the brim, but when the girl tried to seize the cup to drink, the goblets instantly vanished, the water dried up, and the girl almost died of thirst. When she came to the pear tree it stood full of pears, but do you suppose the traveler could taste even one of them? No! The tree had made itself a thousand times as tall as before, so that its boughs touched the clouds! So the old woman's daughter might pick her teeth, she obtained nothing else. Going further on she met the dog, which again had a collar of ducats round its neck; but when the girl tried to take it off the dog bit her so that he tore off her fingers and would not let her touch him. The girl, in rage and shame, sucked her delicate little hands, but it did no good.

At last, after great difficulty, she reached her mother's house, but even here she did not find herself rolling in money, for when the old man's wife opened the chest, out came a host of dragons, which swallowed her and her daughter as if they had never been in the world. Then dragons, trunk, and all vanished.

The old man could now live in peace, and possessed countless riches; his daughter he married to a worthy, capable man. The cocks now crowed on the gate-posts, the threshold, and everywhere, but the hens no longer crowed as an evil omen in the house of the old man, who had not many days of life remaining. He was bald and bent, because his wife had quarreled with him too often and looked to see if he didn't need a drubbing.



The Poor Boy.


Once upon a time something happened. If it hadn't happened, it wouldn't be told.

There was once a poor widow, so poor that even the flies would not stay in her house, and this widow had two children, a boy and a girl. The boy was such a brave fellow that he would have torn the snakes' tongues out of their mouths, and the girl was so beautiful that the emperor's sons and handsome princes of every land were waiting impatiently for her to grow up, that they might go and court her. But when the girl had reached her sixteenth year, the same thing befell her that happens to all beautiful maidens -- a dragon came, stole her, and carried her far away to the shore of another country. From that day the widow loved her son hundreds and thousands of times better than before, because he was now her only child and the sole joy she had in the world. She watched him like the apple of her eye and would not let him go a single step away from her. But much as she loved him she was cheerless and sad, for, dear me! a boy is only a boy, but a girl is a girl, especially when she is beautiful.

The boy, seeing his mother so melancholy, tried to grow stronger and stronger, and counted the days before he should be large enough to go out into the world and seek his sister, little Rosy Cheeks, along untrodden paths filled with thorns. When he had reached his eighteenth year he made himself a pair of calf-skin sandals with steel soles, went to his mother, and said: -- 

"Mother, I have neither rest nor peace here so long as I see you so sick and sorrowful from constantly thinking of my sister; I have determined to go out into the wide world and not return till I can bring news of her. I don't know whether I shall find her, but at least I hope so, and that hope I leave with you for your consolation."

When the widow heard these words she was forced to struggle with her feelings ere she answered: "Well, my son, my child! Do what you can not help doing; when you return I shall see you again, and if you don't come back I shall not weep for you, because the journey you have in view is a long one; therefore if you are absent a long time there will always be the hope of your return."

After saying this she mixed three loaves for him with her own milk, one of meal, the second of bran, and the third of ashes from the hearth. The lad put the loaves into his knapsack, bade his mother farewell, and went out into the world like a poor boy to whom all roads are equally long, all bridges equally wide, and who does not know what direction to take. At the gate he stood still, cast one glance to the east, one to the west, one to the north, and one to the south, then took a handful of dust from under the threshold of the door, scattered it on the wind, and turned his steps in the direction that it was carried by the breeze.

The Poor Boy walked and walked, further and further, through many a rich country, till he came to a moor on which no grass grew and no water flowed. Here he stopped and pulled out his three loaves. He began with the one made of meal, because it was the handsomest, and as he ate it his strength increased and his thirst was quenched. Again the Poor Boy walked on, journeying across the wide moor a whole long summer day until nightfall, when he reached a vast forest as extensive as the heath he had passed, but which was dense, gloomy, and forsaken even by the winds. When he entered the wood, he saw by the trunk of a tree an old woman with a bent figure and a wrinkled face. The Poor Boy, who for so long a time had seen no human countenance and heard no human speech, was greatly delighted and said merrily: -- 

"Good luck, mother! But how do you happen to come here, and what are you doing in this wilderness of a forest?"

"Your words are kind!" replied the old woman sighing. "Alas, age has brought me down to this; I wanted to walk a little distance and can go no further because my feet will no longer carry me."

When the Poor Boy heard this he pitied the old woman, went up to her, and asked whence she came, where she was going, and on what business she was bent. The luckless fellow did not know that this person was no other than the Wood Witch, who waits on the edge of forests and meets those who wander in these desolate regions, in order to delude them with fair words and then lead them to destruction. When he saw her so feeble, the boy remembered his three loaves, and, as if he were going home the very next day, thought he would share his provisions with her that she might get a little strength.

"I thank you," replied the Wood Witch, who had other designs upon him in her mind; "but see, I have no teeth to chew your dry bread. If you want to do any thing to help me, take me on your back and carry me, I live close by."

"But just taste it," said the boy, who in his kindness of heart wanted to do her some good. "It is only hunger that has made you so weak, and if this doesn't help you I'll carry you as you wish."

When the Wood Witch saw the loaf made of meal she gazed at it with delight; there was something about it -- I don't know what -- that made even the Wood Witch long for a morsel. And as she bit into it her heart grew softer. After she had eaten three mouthfuls she felt as if she were a human being, like the rest of us, with her heart in the right place and a gentle temper.

"Learn, my son," she said to him, "that I am the Wood Witch, and know very well who you are, whence you come, and where you are going. It is a great task you have before you, for your sister is in the other world, which inhabitants of this earth can reach only in one way."

"And what is that?" asked the Poor Boy impatiently.

The Wood Witch looked doubtfully at him.

"I don't advise you to take it," she said, "it would be a pity to lose your young life. But who knows, perhaps you'll have good luck; I see that you have a tender heart, and whoever has that can bring many things to pass; besides, I know you -- you will have no rest till you have found her. So learn -- far away from here, after you have crossed six moors and six forests, you will meet on the edge of the seventh forest, which extends to the frontiers of the next world, an old witch; this witch has a drove of horses, and among them is an enchanted horse which can carry you to the other shore. But this steed can be obtained only by the person who knows how to choose it from the whole drove, after he has served the old witch for a year."

This was what the Poor Boy had wanted to know. He lost no more time, thanked the Wood Witch for her explanations, and set off, keeping straight through the dense forest, because his road was long and he was in a hurry. The Poor Boy walked like one who goes on a good errand, and hurried like a person who wants to get home early. How far he walked and how much he hurried any one can imagine, who remembers how long a time he himself required to cross a single moor and a single forest. But, when his strength failed, he bit off a piece of his loaf and instantly revived again.

As he came out of the sixth forest and passed near the clear waves of a brook, he saw a wasp struggling in the water and pitied the insect. So he took a dry branch and held out one end of it to the wasp, that it might crawl up on it and then use its wings. But this wasp happened to be the queen of all the wasps in the woods, and when she found herself saved by the boy's kindness she flew upon his shoulder and said:

"Wherever you go, may good-luck be your companion. Please pull out a hair from under my right wing and take good care of it, for who knows whether it will not prove useful to you some day. If you need me, shake this hair and I'll come to you, in whatever part of the world you may be."

The Poor Boy pulled out the hair, put it carefully away, and journeyed on. Who knows how far he walked before he came to a great lake, on whose shore he saw a fish flapping on the dry land. He pitied the poor creature, which had scarcely a breath of life left, so he picked it up and tossed it into the water. But this fish was king of all the fishes, and had jeweled scales and golden fins. It swam once around the lake, breathed two or three times to recover its strength, and then came back to the boy and said:

"Wherever you go, may good-luck be your companion. Please pull off a scale from under my right fin and keep it carefully, who knows whether it may not be useful to you some day. If you ever need me, rub this scale and I'll come to you wherever you may be, as far as the water extends around the earth."

The Poor Boy took the scale, put it carefully away, and journeyed on. Who knows how far he walked ere he reached the seventh moor, where no grass grew and no water flowed. There he found in his path a mole which had been surprised above ground by the daylight, and was now groping piteously about in its blindness, unable to find its burrow where its children were starving, though it was only one jump away. The youth pitied the mole, too, took it and carried it to its hill.

"Wherever you go," said the mole, "may good-luck be your companion. Please take a claw from my right paw and keep it carefully; who knows whether it may not be useful to you some day. But if you need me, scratch on the ground with this claw and I will come to you in whatever part of the earth you may be."

The Poor Boy took the claw, put it carefully away, and went on again over the endless moor toward the invisible forest that lay on the frontiers of the other world. How many days and nights he journeyed over this moor heaven only knows; but one morning, when he woke, he saw in the distance, as far off as if it were in the other world, a streak of light like the fire shepherds build at the entrance of the fold. This was the home of the witch who had the enchanted horse.

The Poor Boy was greatly delighted when he found himself so near the end of the world, and his joy increased till, on the evening of the third day, he reached the enchantress's house. Oh, dear! there he was, in the midst of the moor, just at the edge of the forest, which stretched far beyond his sight in the dusk of twilight, upon a wide plain covered with green grass, through which flowed streams of clear water, but in the middle of this plain rose a number of tall poles, on each of which was a human skull. The witch's hut stood in the midst of these poles, with a tall poplar in front of it, and on the right and left a willow tree. This proved that the Wood Witch was right -- life here was by no means merry. The Poor Boy plucked up his courage and approached to enter the hut, which stood as if deserted in the middle of the moor.

The old witch sat on a high three-legged chair in the entry, but before her stood a huge kettle on a big tripod, over a fire that burned without smoke. In one hand she held the shin-bone of a giant, which she used to stir the herbs stewing in the caldron. When the Poor Boy bade her good evening, she eyed him from top to toe.

"Welcome, my hero! I've expected you a long time, for this caldron has long been rattling and telling me continually that you were on the way."

The lad was much pleased with this kind reception, for the old woman did not seem to him at all peevish, as she looked kindly at him and spoke in a gentle voice. She, too, was glad, because she had again laid hands on a man, for the poles bearing human skulls protected her from the malicious elves, who could not pass through them; and there was still one piece of ground large enough for three heads, where poles had not yet been put.

They now agreed that the Poor Boy should watch the drove a whole year, and in payment receive the horse he himself should choose; but if he should lose the drove he was to give up his head to the witch. The old woman instantly stuck a pole in the ground and put the hero's hat on it. Then the youth ate something, that he might not go with the drove to the pasture hungry. While the boy was eating, the witch led the mares behind the hut and began to beat them with the giant's shin bone, telling them not to drink any water during the night, nor allow the others to do so, because the water from the springs in the plain would put them to sleep, and the old woman wanted the herd to graze all night. The boy knew nothing about this.

When he came to the pasture with the drove he was attacked by so great a thirst, that he would have walked from morning till night to find a drop of water; so to quench it he lay down by a spring and drank, and even while drinking he fell asleep.

When in the first gray dawn of the next morning he woke from his slumber, the drove had vanished, leaving no trace anywhere! It is only necessary to remember that the lad's cap was already hanging on the pole to understand how great was his despair. But he gazed around him in every direction without discovering even a sign of a horse; the morning twilight was fast vanishing, and he stood utterly forsaken, not knowing which way to turn. Then he recollected the service he had once rendered the wasp, and thought that a wasp flies so fast that it might discover the drove and bring him news of their hiding-place, so he took the hair he had pulled from under the wasp's right wing and shook it. Quick as thought a buzzing noise was heard from every direction -- it grew louder and louder, till one might have thought the world was going to ruin. Good gracious! There came one wasp after another, one swarm behind another, whole ranks, great clouds of wasps of all sizes, all ready to circle the earth and obey the Poor Boy's commands.

"Have no anxiety," said the Wasp Queen; "if the drove still remains on the earth, we'll bring the horses back to you ere sunrise."

Then every thing became quiet, because the wasps flew off to every quarter of the globe and scattered all over the world. Ere long a cloud of dust appeared in the distance, swept with mad haste over the wide plain in the midst of the moor, and the drove of horses, urged by the wasps' stings, dashed up so swiftly that the earth fairly groaned under their hoofs. The Poor Boy thanked the wasps for their help, and then went to the hut as if nothing had happened.

The old woman looked askance at him, said he had done well, and then beat the mares again, ordering them to hide carefully at night. That evening the lad would eat nothing, because he thought the witch's food had caused his terrible thirst the night before; but when he went with the drove to the pasture, a burning, consuming thirst seized upon him as soon as he saw the clear water, and wherever he went springs bubbled from under his feet. At last he could no longer control himself, and relying upon the aid of the wasps, lay down beside a spring and had scarcely drunk when he instantly fell asleep. This time he woke later than on the night before, because he had gone to sleep later, so he was later in shaking the hair he had pulled out from under the wasp's wing, and the swarms of wasps were later in coming to seek and drive the horses home.

But what did the youth see? Ere long one swarm after another returned, each bringing news that the drove could not be found on the surface of the earth and must have hidden somewhere in the sea.

The sun was about to rise. The Poor Boy took the fish-scale, rubbed it, and suddenly there appeared in the springs at his feet a school of tiny fish, that filled every channel, and asked what were his wishes and commands. He told them what he desired and instantly all the waters on the earth, rivers, lakes, and seas, began to swell and dash, while the wasps flew off to be ready to pounce upon the drove as soon as the fish forced the horses to appear.

The Poor Boy had scarcely time to collect his horses and take them home when the sun rose.

The old woman looked angrily at him, but said again that he had done well, and gave the mares a still more terrible beating; for the year consisted of three days, and if they did not hide successfully that night the hero might demand his wages.

The Poor Boy knew this too. So he began to eat his meal-loaf as he went with the drove to the pasture, and whenever he bit off a piece his strength increased and his thirst was quenched. Yet, whenever he saw the springs or heard the water rippling over the pebbles, he grew thirsty again, and so devoured the whole of the meal-loaf. He ought now to have taken the bran loaf, but did not venture to do so because he still had a long journey before him, and was afraid of being without food. Therefore he again relied on the aid of the wasps and fishes, lay down by a spring, and as soon as he had drunk fell asleep.

When he awoke it was broad daylight, though the sun had not yet risen. He shook the hair, but the wasps came with the tidings that the drove was not on the surface of the earth, he rubbed the fish-scale, but the fishes said the horses were not under the water either; so, in his despair, he seized the mole's claw and scratched on the ground with it.

Then you should have seen the wonder! The wasps buzzed, the fish searched all the water in the world, and the moles began to rummage the earth, furrowing it in every direction as if they meant to make it into pap. When the first sunbeams touched the top of the poplar before the hut, the drove dashed like hunted ghosts to the Poor Boy; if the horses tried to go into the water the fish scared them back, if they tried to hide themselves in the ground the claws of the moles drove them out, and so they were forced to go wherever the wasps guided them.

The Poor Boy thanked his friends for their help, and returned home just as the sun shone upon the hut. The old woman looked angrily at him, but said nothing.

But now trouble came. The year was over, and the Poor Boy began to rack his brains because he did not know which horse in the drove he ought to choose. That's the way with over-hasty people. The Wood Witch could probably have told him this, too, if he had not left her so quickly. Now he went to work hap-hazard. Still, he thought, whatever he might hit upon he should not fare badly, for on a long journey it was better at any rate to be on horseback than on foot. Besides, he had seen the old witch's horses run and knew that they were fine animals, no worthless jades. So he went through the drove, and as he walked noticed a sick filly, which he pitied because it looked so neglected, but he did not think of choosing it. But, no matter how much he turned and twisted, he always stopped beside this animal, for he was very kind-hearted and told himself that, even if he could not make much use of it, he could at least do the poor creature some service.

"Who knows," he said, "if I should comb, brush, and curry it, perhaps it may yet make a good horse!"

So he chose it, and resolved to take with him the pouch containing the comb, brush, and curry-comb, in order to carefully tend his horse.

The old witch turned green with spite when she heard that the youth had chosen this steed, for it was the very one. But what could she do? She was obliged to keep her promise. She merely advised him to select another, better animal, telling him that he would soon be without a horse, and that good work deserved good wages, but at last she gave it to him.

Still, a witch always remains a witch, and when the Poor Boy had mounted, taken leave of her, and ridden off, she went to the big caldron, took it off and mounted the tripod, then she changed herself in face and figure and hurried after with the speed of curses, to catch him, kill him, and get her horse back. The Poor Boy felt that something terrible was pursuing him, and set spurs to his steed.

"It's no use to spur me," said the horse, "we can't outrun her, so long as we are on her lands. But throw the comb behind you, to put an obstacle in her way."

Now the Poor Boy knew that he had chosen wisely when he took the sick filly. So he drew the comb out of the bag, flung it behind him, and it instantly became a long, high fence, which the witch could not climb over, so she was obliged to go a long way round, and he thus gained a start.

"Throw down the brush," said the horse, when it again heard the trampling of the tripod near them.

The rider threw the brush, which turned into a dense growth of reeds, through which the old hag forced her way with much difficulty and many a groan.

"Throw the curry-comb," cried the horse for the third time. When he had flung that down, the Poor Boy looked back and saw a whole forest of knives and swords, and among them the witch trying to get through and being cut into mince-meat.

When they reached the seventh forest, where the witch's kingdom ended, the sick horse shook itself and became a handsome, winged steed, whose like was never seen before or since.

"Now hold fast," said the horse, "I am going to carry you as never hero went from this world to the other, for I, too, have a sister there whom I seek."

The Poor Boy was dazed by the swiftness with which the horse flew over the forest and alighted in the other world through a large opening in another part of the woods. When he recovered his senses, he found himself on the shore of the other world with the horse, which now shook itself a second time, changed into a handsome prince with long, curling locks, and said:

"Wherever you go, may good luck be your companion, for you have released me from the spell the Wood Witch laid upon me. Learn that I am the son of the Red Emperor and set out to seek my sister, but on the edge of the forest I met the Wood Witch, who complained that she could walk no further and begged me to carry her on my back; but when, out of pity, I let her get on my shoulders, she changed me into a horse and condemned me to retain that form until a hero took pity on me and mounted me, that I might carry him to the other world, there I was to regain my human form."

The Poor Boy was greatly overjoyed to find himself no longer alone. He took the bran loaf, broke it in halves, and gave one portion to the prince, that they might be brothers till death. The prince tasted the bread, and as he ate his strength and his love increased. They told each other their experiences, and then went on their way.

Far, far off, just at the end of the coast-line, rose shining buildings, which must be the dragons' palaces. The country here was so beautiful, that one would have gladly traveled through it forever, it was so radiant with light, so green, so rich in flowers, birds of beautiful plumage, and tame, sportive animals. And in this country men never grew old, but remained exactly the same age as when they entered it, for here there were no days, the sun neither rose nor set, but the light came of itself, as if from a clear sky. The dragons, however, were nowhere to be seen, and the two brothers for life continued their way. After they had walked as far as a three-days' march, they reached the beautiful palaces and paused before them, because they were so marvelously lovely, with high towers, and walls built of stones as soft as velvet, covered with plates of snow that had been dried in the sun. But they seemed empty and deserted.

The Poor Boy and the prince entered, went through all the rooms filled with costly ornaments, and, seeing no one, thought that the dragon must surely have gone hunting and determined to wait for him. But they were surprised that they did not find their sisters here. Each stretched himself on one of the beautiful divans and was going to rest, when suddenly both started up, amazed by what they heard.

Dear me! It was a song, so touching that it would have softened the very stones; it made those who listened feel as if they were in heaven, and the notes were in a woman's voice. The two companions did not listen long, but hurried off in the direction from which the sound came.

This is what they saw -- in one part of the palace was a glass tower, and in this tower sat a girl spinning, singing, and weeping, but her tears, in falling, were instantly changed to pearls. This maiden was so beautiful that, if she had been in the world, two men would have killed each other for her sake. When the heroes beheld her, they stood motionless and gazed longingly at her, but the girl stopped spinning, and neither sang nor wept, but looked at them in amazement.

She was not the sister of either youth, but as usually happens in such cases, the Poor Boy supposed she was the prince's sister, and the prince thought she was the sister of the Poor Boy.

"I'll stay here," said the Poor Boy, "and you can go on, deliver my sister, and marry her."

"No, I'll stay here," replied the prince, "you can go on and release my sister, for this maiden shall be my wife."

Now came trouble! When they understood that the lovely girl was the sister of neither, the handsome heroes seized their swords and were on the point of fighting as men do fight when they are obliged to divide any thing.

"Stop," said the fair girl, "don't attack each other. It is better first to discover whether I am really what I seem to you, or, after all, only a shadow! I am the Bodiless Maiden, who will not obtain form in this world until the dragon has stolen me from the other shore. I shall then be as you see me now, shall spin, sing, and weep, because I shall think of my mother who is spinning, singing, and weeping; and your sisters, who were stolen by the two older brothers of the dragon who rules this palace spin, sing, and weep, too."

On hearing this, the two heroes wanted to set off at once, in order to lose no more time on the way.

"Stop, don't be over hasty," said the Bodiless Maiden. "You probably think that you will conquer the dragons by mere will? Great deeds await you. The old she-dragon put me here, that I might constantly spur on her youngest son, because it is written that all three brothers are to be married at the same time. The two older brothers keep your sisters prisoners, but can not wed them till the youngest son has stolen me. Whenever he comes home from hunting, he stops there where you are standing, gazes longingly at me, then arranges his weapons and feeds his horse with red-hot coals, but can't set out yet because my hour has not come. So stay and conquer him here, that he may not steal me while you are on your way, for you would then be too late in reaching your sisters. Yet mind one thing; you can not conquer him outside of his court-yard, because he is invisible. So, when he comes home, he throws his club at the gate with so much force that the earth quakes, the walls fall down, and any mortals who might be inside are buried alive. If you feel that you have strength enough to hold the gates on their hinges, so that they can not give way when he hurls the club against them, stay, otherwise go, in God's name, for it would be a pity to lose your young lives."

The Poor Boy and the prince looked at each other, understood that the deed must be done, and resolved to stay. While the Poor Boy went to the gates to hold them, the prince drew his sword and awaited the dragon in the middle of the court-yard. You can perceive that this was no joke.

Very little time passed, when suddenly, crash! the club struck against the iron-barred gates so that one might have believed the world was falling to pieces. The Poor Boy thought the muscles of his heart would crack in two under the terrible strain, and the walls would crumble to their foundations -- but he held the gates on their hinges. When the dragon saw that the palace did not fall down, he stood still in surprise.

"What does this mean?" he said. "I must have grown very weak since yesterday." He did not suspect what awaited him.

When, with some difficulty, he opened the gate, he did not notice the Poor Boy, but went straight toward the prince, who stood in mortal terror in the middle of the court-yard, for, after all, what would you expect? A dragon is a dragon, and not a girl in woman's clothes.

We won't linger over the story any longer, we know what always happens when dragons and princes meet. They began the battle. The prince was a hero, but the dragon was the youngest of three brothers! They fought with swords, who knows how long? then, when they saw that neither could conquer the other in that way, they fought hand to hand, while the Poor Boy held up the palace, that it might not fall down on their heads.

When the Poor Boy saw that his strength was failing and neither was conquering the other, he called loudly: "Seize him and throw him on the ground, I can hold out no longer."

The prince grasped the dragon, summoned up all his strength, and hurled him on the ground so that his bones cracked and he lay senseless; then he hastily took to flight, ran through the half-open gate, and pulled the Poor Boy after him; the walls fell, the huge splendid palaces toppled down, and, as it were, buried the dragon alive. Nothing remained standing except the glass tower, now empty and deserted. The Bodiless Maiden had vanished from it the very moment that there was no longer any one who could have stolen her from the other world.

The two comrades thanked the Lord that they had been able to accomplish their task so far, and journeyed on, walking and walking, till they reached the palace of the second dragon. Already in the distance they saw the glass tower and heard the wailing song; but the Poor Boy's heart beat higher, because the nearer he approached the more distinctly he recognized his sister's voice. When they reached the beautiful great palace and saw the girl in the glass tower, both rushed up to break into the turret and clasp her in their arms.

But affairs could not be managed so easily. The girl in the glass tower, who was really the Poor Boy's sister, looked at them in surprise; but when he told her that he had come to rescue her from the dragon's claws, she replied that she did not know him, and that neither in face nor form did he bear any resemblance to her brother. Great was the Poor Boy's grief when he saw that his sister wanted to have nothing to do with him, though for her sake he had crossed so many moors and encountered so many dangers, but his sorrow became still greater when she began to complain that she was dying of love for the dragon. Every day, she said, he came and gazed ardently at her, yet day after day kept her a prisoner and did not marry her. Still, this was endurable to the Poor Boy, because she was only his sister; but when the prince saw the girl, heard her voice, and perceived her love for the dragon, he became perfectly frantic.

"Well then, if you won't come, we'll carry you off by force!" he said, ready to take the whole palace on his back and fly with it to the other shore.

"Gently, gently," said the girl; "if it came to that, I need only pull a nail out of this glass wall to bring the whole palace toppling down upon your heads. But I pity your youth, and advise you not to stay here long, because my betrothed husband might catch you, and you will have no one to mourn for you."

The Poor Boy now took his ash-cake from his knapsack and said: "Sister, just taste this bread, and then say that I am not your brother."

She held out her hand and the glass walls opened; but after she had taken the bread and tasted it she felt that it had been mixed with her own mother's milk, and was seized with such terrible homesickness that one might have wept for pity. "Forward!" she said hastily, "let us fly, for if he finds us here, woe betide you."

The Poor Boy took her in his arms and kissed her, because she was his sister, but the prince embraced and kissed her, too, because -- because he was the Poor Boy's sworn brother.

Then they agreed to serve this dragon as they had served his brother, so they waited awhile, received the dragon as he deserved, conquered him, and after thanking God that they had overcome this peril too, journeyed on again to deliver the emperor's daughter.

But now came fresh trouble. The princess did not want to be rescued, and the prince had no token with him by which she might have recognized him as her brother. In vain the Poor Boy told her that if she did not come willingly, he would carry her off by force; she kept her hand on the dangerous nail and it was impossible to coax her.

I must mention that it would go hard with them if they waited for the dragon; for there were only two champions, and if one held up the palace by keeping the gates on their hinges and the other waited for the dragon in the middle of the court-yard, there was no one who could protect them from the nail.

"Let me attend to it," said the Poor Boy, who, since he had seen the princess, had grown fairly frantic. "Either his life or mine!"

As we perceive, he had determined to fight the dragon in the open ground, where he could not see him, -- a thing never heard of since fairy princes first began to fight the dragon's brood; for if it is hard to conquer a dragon at all, it is doubly difficult to vanquish one when he is invisible, and no one had ever thought of such an exploit.

The prince and the Poor Boy's sister hid themselves in a ditch near the palace, that the dragon might not see them; but the Poor Boy stationed himself a little behind the gate and waited for the dragon to hurl his club, in order to get near him, for when he no longer had a club he would be obliged to fight either with his sword or with his fists.

Ere long, crash! the club struck the iron-barred gate, but the Poor Boy was not slow, he opened the other gate and ran out with it, leaving the palace to fall in ruins behind him.

"Come on, if you have the courage to show yourself," he shouted, believing that the dragon would make some reply and thus betray himself.

But the dragon felt that he had found his match, and did not think of speaking, but, invisible to the youth, approached, drew his sword, and aimed straight at his enemy's head to hack it off, but the blow only broke the lad's jaw. The wound hurt the Poor Boy, but it pleased him, too, because he now knew where to look for his foe; so he rushed in the direction from which the blow had come, struck out, and felt that he hit flesh, struck again, and again felt that he had hit, and so continued to deal short, swift thrusts, with, which he drove the dragon before the point of his sword. Suddenly he perceived that he no longer hit any thing and the dragon had escaped, so he stood cowering, like a person who does not know from whence the next blow will come.

The dragon again aimed straight at the Poor Boy's head, and as he hacked, struck off his right ear.

"I'll pay you for that," shouted the youth, rushing upon him again. But his strength was now greatly diminished, and he only hit the dragon twice before he lost him from the point of his saber.

The princess was watching their battle from her tower, which had remained standing, and as she watched wondered at the Poor Boy's heroic courage; but when she saw the dragon aiming a third blow at the youth's head, she called: "Dear hero, turn to the right and spit three times, then you can see your foe."

When the Poor Boy heard this, he felt a hundred thousand times stronger than he had been before, and as he turned to the right, spit, and saw the dragon, he rushed upon him, seized him in his arms, and squeezed him so that he crushed all his bones and flung him on the ground as dead as a mouse.

The prince and the Poor Boy lost no time, but prepared to journey home. The princess kissed the Poor Boy and his ear and his chin instantly healed, so that he looked even handsomer than before. Then the two comrades went to the dragon's stables, which were hidden under the foundations of the fallen palace. Each took an enchanted horse, mounted, lifted his betrothed bride upon it, and hurried homeward.

If the Red Emperor had been only an ordinary mortal he would have rejoiced, but he was a sovereign to boot! He divided his empire between his son and his daughter's husband; the Poor Boy went to his poor mother's house to bring her to court and, when she had arrived, a wedding was celebrated, dear me! a wedding that will be talked about as long as the world stands.

Into the saddle then I sprung, This tale to tell to old and young.



Mother's Darling Jack


Once upon a time something happened. If it had not happened it would not be told.

There was once a man who had a child. This child was the youngest of seven which the Lord had given him, so it was destined from its birth to be lucky. It was christened John, because all dunces and upstarts are named John. The father loved little Jack like the very apple of his eye. It could not have been otherwise, since the boy was the youngest of seven children and the smallest, chubbiest, and fattest of them all. But the father doesn't count for every thing. He comes and goes, appears and vanishes, the house is only a sleeping-place for him. The mother is the real soul of the household; she bathes one, feeds another, and scrubs for a third. Jack was his mother's boy, his mother's pet, his mother's darling, his mother's handsomest and brightest child.

They say it is not well for one person to be every thing, the lowest to be highest, and the child to govern the house. Jack grew larger every day, and the larger he grew the more quarrelsome, obstinate, and consequently self-willed he became. So there was often, nay, to tell the whole truth, very often, anger in the house on the boy's account. Jack daily heard some harsh word; but as it proved that words made no impression, punishment frequently followed. Ah! but Jack was the youngest of seven. The one who punished suffered, not the one who was chastised. If the father whipped Jack, the mother wiped away his tears; if the mother slapped him, she took care not to let her husband know it. It is a bad example, when a child breaks a pot, for the mother to set to work to pick up the pieces; things are then in a bad way, and it is well not to waste another word about them.

So it ended. Jack became a very disobedient child, and disobedience avenges itself on the disobedient. If his father wanted to teach him anything, and said: "My dear Jack, look, do it so, this is right; this is the way oxen are harnessed in front of carts, this is the way the nail is driven into the wheel, this is the way sacks are carried," and other useful lessons, Jack's mind was fixed on other things, and he replied, "Oh! let me alone." And so from one "Oh! let me alone," to another "Oh! let me alone," Jack grew into a big boy without having even learned so much as that a plow has handles, a mill is not a mortar, and a cow is not an ox. And he couldn't do much in this way.

One day his father was preparing to go to the fair. Every thing was ready except one pin, which had not yet been put through the yoke.

"Father," said Jack, "I'm coming with you."

"It will be better for you to stay at home, that you may not be lost in the market," replied his father.

"I want to go -- "

"I won't take you."

"I will go."

"I won't take you."

Every body knows what forward children are. The instant they are told that a thing can't be had, they want to seize it by force. His father could not help himself, so he set Jack in the wagon and drove off with him to the fair.

"Mind," he said, "you must keep close to me." "Yes, father," said Jack, obediently, for the first time in the memory of the family. And until they reached the end of the village, Jack sat as if he were nailed to the back of the cart. At the end of the village he put out one foot, then he raised his head and began to look around him. Finally he stood up, leaned on the side of the cart, and began to watch the wheels. He could not understand how one wheel moved of its own accord, how one spoke hurried after another, constantly going forward without stirring from the spot, nay, without moving from under his own nose.

They reached the woods. Jack perked up his nose and stared with his mouth wide open. The trees on the right and left set out and ran with all their might, one after another. There must be witchcraft in it. Jack jumped out of the cart and again felt the solid ground under his feet. But he once more stood with his mouth wide open. The trees now stood still, but the cart moved on further and further. "Stop, father, stop, so I can see how the wheels turn," the boy called after a while.

But now his hair fairly bristled with fear. He heard his shout repeated from ten different directions, while his father drove on without noticing his cry. "Father!" he called again, and again he heard the word ten times. Jack was terribly frightened, and seeing that no place was as pleasant as home, began to run back there. Nothing but a cloud of dust could be seen behind him. He ran on and on toward home till he turned into the wrong road.

Now you can see how unfortunate it is for inexperienced people not to listen to the advice of wiser ones! Jack had done wrong in trying to run home when he did not know the way through the forest. He ran for a long time, then gradually slackened his pace and at last began to walk, but kept on through forest after forest, across a meadow, and through the woods again, then across another meadow, till he was completely tired out, and weary of his life.

"Lord, have mercy on me, I will always be obedient in future," he cried, at last -- and his heart must have been very heavy when he uttered such words.

After that he did not walk much further. A short distance off, on the edge of the woods, stood a village. Jack jumped for joy when he saw it, and did not stop till he was in the middle of it. Then he went from house to house, and the further he went the more he wondered that he found all kinds of houses except his own home. He did not know what to do, and began to cry.

"What are you crying about, my son?" asked a man who was coming back from the fields in front of a cart drawn by four oxen.

Jack told his story, and the man pitied him. "What is your name?" asked the kind-hearted peasant. "Jack," replied the boy.

"But your father, what is his name?"

"His name is father," the lad answered.

"What is the village where you belong called?"

"Village!" he said.

So Jack could answer no questions, and the man could do nothing to help him. He therefore took him into his service as plow-boy, for he needed just such a lad to guide the oxen while he held the handles of the plow. Thus Jack became the servant of a worthy man in the village on the edge of the forest. But he was of little use, because he had not paid attention when good instruction was given him. And whoever does not know how to do any thing well, must expect a great deal of scolding.

One day Jack's master was preparing to go to market. "Listen, Jack," he said, "grease the cart thoroughly, for we're going to market to-morrow."

Jack said "Yes," took the grease, and began to scratch his head. He did not know how to grease a cart. He had never listened when he had been told, nor looked when he might have seen it; so now he did not know what to do. Finally, from what he had hitherto learned, he recollected that the beginning of a cart is at the yoke, that is, the pole. So he thought he must commence there if he wanted to do the business thoroughly. He greased the thills, the pole, even the rack of the cart. Here he stopped, for there was no grease left. So he went to ask for some.

"Master," he said, after entering the room, "give me some more grease."

"Why in the world do you want more grease?" replied his master angrily, "I gave you enough to grease the cart three times over."

Jack said that there had only been enough for the thills, pole, and rack. When his master heard such words, he took Jack by the ear, led him out, and gave him such a beating that never again in his whole life did he forget that only the axles of a cart are to be greased. Well, what was the mother's darling to do -- he was obliged to bear it, and then pay attention, that he might learn how to grease a cart.

After the cart was ready, the oxen were put in and the master took his seat in front, but Jack crouched in the back of the cart like a little heap of misery, sobbing now and then from having wept so much. "Silence," said his master sternly, "don't let me hear another word from you!" This was the last thing before they drove off.

Jack sat as still as a mouse; he was almost afraid to breathe. At last, this grew tiresome. So he began to watch the wheels again. But he was wiser now, and did not wonder at the wheels or the trees. Yet he saw something he could not understand. Often as he had seen a wheel go round, he had never noticed the pin spring from it. The cart passed over a big stone, and, "klirr," the pin bounced out of the axle and fell on the ground. It was pretty to look at, but the lad didn't understand it. He would have liked to ask his master, but the farmer had ordered him to be silent. After some time the nut loosened. Jack thought he understood why. Directly after -- bump dropped the nut, too, and was left behind the cart. Jack started and was going to say something, but looked at his master and remembered that he had been ordered to keep still. But one thing he did understand -- if the nut had dropped on account of the nail, the wheel would come off for want of the nut. He had scarcely comprehended this, when crack! the wheel fell into the dust and was left behind the cart.

The cart moved on awhile upon three wheels, then it upset, breaking the pole in two. Now they were in a bad fix.

"There it is," cried Jack in terror, "didn't I say that would happen?"

We will waste no more words on this subject! The farmer was in such a rage! To be in the middle of the road with a broken pole is no joke. The farmer seized Jack, gave him another sound thrashing, and then told him to be off that he might cause him no more trouble. He was really in the wrong, for he had himself forbidden Jack to speak. But Jack was to blame, too -- if he had always obeyed, he would have learned long before just how far such an order went. He had been too obedient, obstinately obedient. And that isn't well either.

The farmer continued his journey as best he could, but Jack was left on foot in the middle of the road. Alas! Woe betide him, I really don't know what he is to do. He turned into a path he did not know, and hoped to reach home. Again he walked over meadows and through forests, walked for a long, long time, till his feet would scarcely carry him. This time he found a village in a beautiful meadow, and outside the village was a man watching a flock of sheep grazing.

"How do you do, good sir!"

"Thank you kindly, may you grow tall, my son."

One word led to another, and Jack briefly told the man his whole story, from beginning to end, and the peasant was pleased, because, just at that time, he needed a shepherd-boy to drive the little flock to pasture, lead them to water, and watch them that they might not mingle with others. They were a particular breed of sheep, and he would not have had them injured on any account. Such sheep, it was reported, were owned only by one emperor, from whom the peasant had obtained the single lamb. So they were sheep, well -- we can imagine how beautiful they were, since they had descended from a lamb that belonged to an emperor!

Jack was glad, too, because he found himself in luck again. So they made a bargain, and Jack became a shepherd boy.

"You must watch the sheep the whole livelong day, drive them down into the valley to drink, and when it grows dark bring them back to the fold. If it seems cold, make a fire at the entrance of the pen, and that the sheep may not freeze, drive them into the fold." These were the peasant's orders, and Jack said he would do exactly as he was told.

During the day Jack watched the sheep; when he was thirsty he led them down to drink, and as it grew dark drove them to the fold. This fold was a strange contrivance. Jack had never seen one before. It was inclosed by a fence of woven willow branches, roofed with rushes that the rain might not injure it, but in one place an opening had been left, over which was a roof made of reeds, supported by posts. "That's the entrance to the fold," said Jack to himself, delighted with his penetration.

As he was cold he made a fire in the opening, just under the reed-roof. A fire is a fine thing, and Jack warmed himself by it. Then he remembered that his master had told him he must drive the sheep into the fold, to keep them from freezing. True, he did not understand why they should be any warmer inside the fold than outside, but he did as he was ordered. Seizing the finest ram, the one which wore the big bell round its neck, he pushed it through the opening into the fold. But lo and behold! The fire was burning in the gap, and the ram was so scorched that not a thread of wool was left on its body.

"Oho, now I understand it," cried Jack, still more pleased. "The sheep must go through the fire to keep them from freezing."

And, as he felt that he was doing right, he thrust all the sheep into the fold one after the other.

Suddenly he noticed that the fence, the thatching, and the roof above the opening had all taken fire and were blazing merrily. Jack stood perfectly still. He had never seen any thing of the sort and rejoiced over carrying out his orders so well, for he perceived that the sheep could not possibly be cold in the midst of the fire. So he contentedly watched the work he had accomplished. One thing he did wish -- that his master was there, so that he might have said, "See how well I understand tending sheep."

And the wish was fulfilled. His master was just sitting at the table eating bread and onions, because it was a fast day. He looked out of the window and saw a great fire on the mountains, and gazing more attentively at it, noticed that it was in the direction of his fold. This seemed queer. With his mouth full he left the house, walked faster and faster, broke into a run, and went higher and higher up the hill-side till at last, panting for breath, he reached his fold.

Alas! Alas! What a sight! The fold burned down, the sheep of the imperial breed one and all roasted, so that one might have supposed they were nothing but overripe melons. That was a bad job, really a very bad job! Jack had done a great deal of mischief, and might be thankful to escape with a flogging. And so it happened. The farmer, enraged, nay, fairly furious, seized the cunning shepherd and beat him, beat him so that he would have nearly killed him had not Jack luckily escaped from his hands. But after he got away Jack took to his heels and ran with all his might, so that he did not look round until he was in the woods.

What was to be done then? That's the way a person fares when he has no sense! If he had behaved himself, he would have been sitting quietly in the house eating barley-sugar and milk.

Jack walked on and on through the forest, turning to the right and left, forward and backward, hither and thither, on and on he went, poor boy, trying to find some path that led home. He was so hungry and thirsty that he sucked the dew from the leaves and ate the oak-apples and acorns he found on the ground; then he grew tired and cross and frightened. Woe betide any one who loses the way in a forest!

Night came on, and darkness surprised him in the terrible woods. His hair stood on end and he was so terrified that a chill ran through every vein when he heard the wolves, bears, and all sorts of wild beasts howling and panting in the forest. There was no escape now. Then he saw a large tree with a hole in its trunk big enough to shelter him. Nearing it he noticed that this hole had been hollowed out. That was all right. He would hide in it to keep from being devoured by the wild beasts, and was so delighted to find himself safe that he no longer felt sorrowful or hungry. When we have escaped a great danger, we no longer think of small annoyances. Jack fell asleep from fatigue, and was just dreaming that he was at home eating millet and milk, when suddenly, piff, paff, puff, he heard a shot and started up in terror.

What had happened? Only a few paces from him twelve big, horrible robbers, foot-pads, had assembled with their captain, made a fire, roasted an ox, and were just tapping a cask of good wine; they were going to have a carouse. When Jack saw the ox on the spit he began to feel almost famished. Dear me! he was so hungry that he would gladly have turned into a wood-worm and gnawed the tree. The poor lad, in his inexperience, did not know what terrible people robbers are, so he came out of the hole and approached them. This was not wise. Robbers are not to be trifled with.

Jack said he would like something to eat too. The robbers all stared at him, then drew their knives and swords and began to whet them to cut him in pieces and kill him before you could say Jack Robinson. That's the way with robbers. They don't stand on much ceremony.

"Stop," said one of them. "Might not this boy be useful to us?"

"How?" asked another.

"Perhaps he's the seventh child, then he can find the iron-wort for us," said the first speaker.

"That's true!" they all shouted.

So they questioned Jack, and were wild with delight when they learned that he actually was the seventh of seven children. The point in question was this -- the robbers had learned that the emperor had received an immense sum of money, all in gold, from a merchant who had long been his debtor; the wicked men wanted to steal this treasure. But the emperor had put it in a room closed with seven iron-barred doors, and on each door were seven locks wrought with great skill, so that no one could open them. So this was a real imperial business, which required careful consideration. Therefore, the robbers had gone to a witch, that she might give them instruction and a powerful charm by means of which they could force their way through the royal locks and iron-barred doors. The witch had told them that nothing except iron-wort would open the locks, and that the plant could be found only by the seventh of seven children while he was still an innocent child, in the gray dawn of morning, when it gleamed in the meadows among the other herbs. Moreover, whoever had the plant must then make a gash in his finger, lay it in the cut, and leave it there till the wound had healed, so that it might remain in the finger. After that any piece of iron, lock, bolt, or chain, no matter how strong it might be, would open at his bidding. Such a plant would be to the robbers not merely a source of amusement, but a valuable possession. So they entertained Jack and made him a soft bed where he could sleep soundly; but they told him that they would kill him if he didn't find the plant. All night long poor Jack dreamed of searching for the stalk of the herb. At the first gray dawn the robbers waked the boy and sent him to look for it.

Jack crept along on all fours, and while in this position, looking over the stalks of the plants in the meadow, he instantly saw one that glistened. That was the one he wanted! That was iron-wort!

Among the robbers was a one-eyed man, who had been locked up in the imperial dungeons and escaped loaded with fetters. The chains had afterward been filed off, but the handcuffs were made of a special kind of iron which fire did not melt and the file did not scratch. Jack touched the handcuff with the plant, and "klirr!" it fell rattling to the ground.

"Aha, may you be lucky, my son, you have freed me from an annoyance," said the delighted robber.

But when the captain took the plant from Jack's hand to remove the second handcuff, he labored in vain, the iron would not obey him. The witch had not told them that the herb would obey no one except the person appointed by fate to find it.

So the robbers saw that the iron-wort would do them no good, and perceiving this they became very angry and sharpened their knives and swords to kill Jack.

"Stop," cried the one-eyed brigand. "You have said that you would not murder him if he could find the plant for us. He has found it. As men of our word, we must not kill him."

And they did not, for robbers are men of their word; whether it is good or evil, what they have promised they perform. Yet, fearing Jack might give them up to justice, they found another way to get rid of him.

What did they do? They seized Jack and put him in an open cask, then closed it, drove iron bands around it, and went away. It was an evil deed.

So Jack went from good to bad, and from bad to worse, till at last we see him fastened up in a wine-cask. What was to become of him! just think, inside of a cask -- that's the end of every thing! Jack began to cry, howl, and shriek till the hungry wolves heard him and came running up, thinking they could devour him. But they could do nothing but lick their chops. Jack was shut up in the cask. As soon as he discovered that the wolves were near, he looked through the bung-hole and kept perfectly still.

The wolves then fell upon the remains of the ox and fought greedily over the bones. One, the largest and fiercest, seized a bone and crouched down with it close by Jack's cask -- Jack hardly dared to breathe.

Suddenly he saw the wolf's hairy tail come through the bung-hole. Jack was terribly frightened. The tail came further and further in, and Jack grew more and more alarmed. At last the wolf shook itself and leaned further back, so that the whole tail entered and touched Jack's nose. This was a bad business! Jack trembled with fear, and in his terror clutched the wolf's tail with both hands and held on with all his might. The wolf was frightened, too, and took to flight, dragging the cask after it. You ought to have seen the wonder; helter-skelter went the brute, banging the cask against the trees, up hill and down dale. The wolf running, the cask following, Jack holding tight to the tail -- that was worth seeing! Suddenly, helter-skelter the cask struck against a wall and burst open. The wolf ran on, but Jack found himself at home again, holding fast in both hands the wolf's tail, which had been torn off.

So fared mother's darling Jack. Whoever knows any thing more may continue his story.



Tellerchen.


Once upon a time something very extraordinary happened. If it had not happened, it would not be told.

There was once a husband and wife. The husband had a son by a former marriage, and the wife had a daughter by her first husband. This wicked woman could not bear the sight of her husband's son. One day she said: "Husband! If you don't send that boy away, I can't eat at the same table with you any longer."

"But where shall I send him, wife? Let him stay till he is a little older, then he will set up housekeeping for himself."

"I mean just what I told you -- choose."

When the man saw that he could do nothing with his wife, he said to the boy: "My dear son, you see I am growing old. I can no longer do work enough to need no assistance. Your mother won't have you here. So go wherever the Lord may lead you to earn your daily bread, and, if it is His will, I'll come to see you now and then if I can."

"I see, dear father, that my step-mother can't bear the sight of me, yet I don't know why. I have never been disobedient to her, but have always done every thing she told me; still, it is all in vain, she can't endure me. So I will go and work wherever God may guide me. I shall be able to earn my daily bread, for I'm a stout, capable lad. But come and see me if you can, father, for I feel as if I should die of longing for you."

"Go and prosper, my dear son; may the Lord help you."

"May we have a happy meeting, dear father."

And the poor boy, with tears streaming down his cheeks, left his father's house. He walked on till at last he met a rich man, to whom he hired himself as a servant. He remained in service seven years, and his master was well satisfied, but suddenly such a longing for his father seized upon him that he could bear it no longer. He told his employer that he was going to see his parents, and his master said:

"Boy, you have worked on my farm seven years, and served me well. Does the place no longer suit you, or have you been offered higher wages elsewhere, that you want to leave me?"

"No indeed, master. But I long to go home, -- I feel as if I wanted to see my father again. If you think you still owe me any thing, please settle my account."

"Well, my boy, one can't keep a servant by force, and you fixed no rate of wages when you came to me. As a reward for the services you have rendered, you may choose from my herds two head of horned cattle and ten smaller ones."

When the boy heard this, he hardly knew what to do with himself in his delight at the thought of having earned so much by his labor. He went among the herds and flocks, looking up and down, and wondering which animals he should choose. He did not want to take the best ones, because he thought his services were not worth so much. But neither did he want to select the worst, he could not make up his mind to that. So he chose from those of medium value. He did the same with the horned cattle. But in searching his eyes fell upon an ox, which also gazed longingly at the youth. So he took this ox and a cow.

Now he had no other thought in his mind except to go to his parents, believing that his step-mother would no longer look askance at him. So he bade his master good-by and went away. Just think, the ox was bewitched, but the boy did not know it. He named the animal Tellerchen.

He reached home. His father died of joy and came to life again when he saw his son, who had grown tall and handsome, and so sensible too. But the wicked old step-mother behaved like seven evil demons, -- nay, like the witch she was. The youth staid in his father's house, helped him work in the fields, drove the cattle to pasture, and made himself very useful. Whenever he went to the pasture with the cattle his mother gave him a cake; but it was made of ashes, and he could not eat it. What was he to do? At noon, instead of having something to eat like every body else, he sat under the shade of a tree and wept over his lot, but he could not bring himself to tell his father, lest he should make trouble between him and his wife. He had no comfort at home, no companions abroad, and so he grew sad and thoughtful. One day, when he was crying with hunger, and even the herdsmen who had left their oxen were eating, Tellerchen suddenly began to speak and said:

"Master, don't grieve any longer, throw the ash-cake away, seize my right horn, and eat and drink what you will find there."

"Why, Tellerchen," replied the youth, "there must be witchcraft about you too. Where was such a thing ever heard of, and how long have you been able to talk?"

"Mind what I tell you. I see you are an excellent lad, and I am sorry you should weep your youth away. Just try my advice, and you'll see that it will be profitable to you."

And it was. The youth seized Tellerchen's right horn. Behold what happened! He drew out a roll as white as snow, and a glass of wine which would have made any one's mouth water. The lad ate and drank.

The step-mother noticed that the youth's face had grown fuller, that he was in good spirits, and did all his work cheerily. Instead of seeing him grow thinner day by day, as she had expected, he constantly gained flesh. She soon discovered that Tellerchen must be at the bottom of the mystery, for she perceived that the boy took much better care of him than of the other cattle. How should she manage to find out what he did and ate in the woods? She secretly sent her daughter after him, and ordered her to watch what the youth did while pasturing the cattle. The girl followed her step-brother without his knowledge, watched him, returned to her mother and said, "Mother, what I have seen to-day is beyond telling!"

"You met the Wood Witch?"

"A wrong guess," the daughter replied.

"You have seen a wizard, a dragon, or a griffin?"

"No indeed! Heaven forbid!"

"Or did a handsomer, richer, and more sensible youth follow you?"

"What an idea! But it's useless for you to rack your brains, you can't guess."

"Then tell me what you saw, and don't chatter about it any longer."

"Mother, my step-brother's ox is enchanted."

"Didn't I always say that there was something the matter with the accursed beast?"

"If you could have seen how he hugged and kissed him, sometimes on the right and sometimes on the left cheek, mother. I really felt as though my heart would stop beating. Then directly after he seized his right horn and pulled out some white rolls and wine, which he devoured as if the wolves were after him. I tell you my mouth watered when I saw him eat so greedily. Yet what amazed me still more was to hear the ox talk. I stood with my mouth wide open, staring at him."

"Never mind, I'll get even with him."

The step-mother did not like the ox, and urged her husband to have him slaughtered, neither more nor less. All night long she teased him about it. The poor old man told her that the animal was not his, but his son's, that he was a fine beast and might yet be very useful to them. But she would not listen, and never stopped talking until he had promised to kill the ox. Luckily the youth was awake and heard it all. As soon as morning dawned he went to Tellerchen to curry and clean the animal as he always did, but began to weep, and told the ox the fate in store for him. Tellerchen told him he must stand outside the house on the bench by the door, and when the people were chasing him, to catch him and take him to the shambles, he must jump on his back as he passed by. This was done, and after the ox had escaped he took his master to a forest far more beautiful than any the boy had ever seen. There they built huts, and lived as if they were in clover, for the grass in the surrounding meadows was so tall that a man might have lost himself in it, and was always so green and blooming that it made excellent pasturage.

One day, when the youth was sitting comfortably before his hut, playing on the flute, while the ox grazed at some distance, up came an enormous bull, so fat that his hide seemed ready to burst.

"Why did you come here, youngster, with your Tellerchen, to drink my water and feed on my grass?" he asked.

"I didn't know that this was your property," answered the youth, "Tellerchen brought me here."

"Then tell him he must come to the Gold Bridge to-morrow and fight with me." After saying this, he went away.

When the ox came home at night he found the youth more sorrowful than ever before. "What ails you, master, that you stand there as if you were stupefied?" asked the ox.

"What ails me?" replied the youth. "Why, I'm in a fine fix!" And he repeated all that the bull had said.

"Never mind, master, don't worry about it, leave that to me."

Early the next morning the ox left the lad in the hut and set off to the Gold Bridge to fight with the bull; he fought till he had pushed him under the bridge, and then came back home safe and sound.

Two days after another bull came, somewhat smaller than the first one. After saying the same things the other had said, he summoned Tellerchen to fight at the Silver Bridge. The ox again found his master weeping, soothed him as he had done before, and went to fight the second bull and hurl him under the bridge.

After several days a third bull appeared, a feeble, unsightly, ugly, dirty animal, and said to the boy: "Who gave you leave to come here with your Tellerchen to drink my water and spoil the grass in my meadows?"

"What business is it of yours?" replied the youth pertly.

"If it isn't my business, whose affair should it be?" replied the bull. "Whichever of you two will dare to fight with me may come to-morrow to the Copper Bridge."

"Don't worry," replied the youth carelessly, "we will come."

When Tellerchen returned from the pasture in the evening, his master, with great amusement, told him every thing that had happened.

"Your mirth is out of place," replied the ox, "for my time has now come. The bull, sick and emaciated as he was, will overpower me. Watch our battle to-morrow, for I will not let you fight with him; you are young and delicate, and still have a great deal to see in the world. When you perceive that he is conquering me and about to push me under the bridge, rush forward and seize my left horn, but don't open it till you have reached home."

When the youth heard this, he began to weep so that he could not be quieted, and grieved so much all night long that he had no sleep.

Early the next morning he went with Tellerchen to the Copper Bridge, where the puny-looking bull awaited them. They began the struggle, and fought and fought until toward the afternoon. Sometimes the ox gored the bull, at others the bull the ox, and the victory still remained undecided. But when the afternoon was nearly over the ox's strength failed, and, while the bull was carrying him off and in the very act of hurling him under the bridge, the boy rushed up and wrenched off his left horn.

He wept, -- Heaven knows how bitterly the poor lad wept by the bridge. But seeing that his Tellerchen did not come out again from under the bridge and it was growing dark, he set off with his horn, and a heart bleeding with grief. He spent the night on a hill. The next day hunger vexed him, and thinking he should find something to eat in the horn Tellerchen had left him, he opened it.

What, I beg to ask you, do you suppose happened then! Whence came the countless multitude of all sorts of cattle? How could he drive them home? and to get them back into the horn again was impossible. He owned this to himself and began to weep bitterly. While thus lamenting, lo and behold! a dragon came up to him and said: -- 

"What will you give me, boy, if I put all these beasts back into the horn for you?"

"Half of them," replied the lad.

"I've no fancy for that," said the dragon, "I want something else."

"Tell me what it is, and I'll see."

"When you love life best I am to be allowed to come and take the dearest thing you have, to devour it."

The lad, without exactly knowing what he was doing, agreed.

The dragon rapped three times with its tail and put all the cattle back in the horn, which the boy then took and went to his father, whom he found alone. No one knew what had become of the old woman and her daughter, they had vanished from the house.

When the peasant saw his son grown into a youth he almost lost his senses with joy, but managed to calm himself. His son opened the horn, and instantly the fields and surrounding country were so filled with cattle that every body was bewildered.

"Do all these flocks and herds belong to you?" asked the old man.

"All, father. What shall we do with this multitude of beasts."

"Relieve the sorrows of the widows and the poor," he replied.

The youth followed his father's advice. There was no day the Lord bestowed on which he did not render some service to those who needed aid. So it happened that not a single pauper was left in the neighborhood. News of the wealth and benevolence of the old man's son reached the imperial court, and as the emperor had a very clever and beautiful daughter, he sent to ask the youth to become her suitor.

When the young man heard that the emperor wanted him for a son-in-law he was greatly astonished. But, on being summoned to the court, he went there and behaved with so much good sense and dignity that the sovereign was not at all sorry he had cast his eye upon him. The princess liked him because he was a handsome, proud, spirited Roumanian youth. Then, after having agreed among themselves, a wedding was celebrated whose fame spread through the whole country. The young man's father was there too.

After the dances and amusements of the marriage were over and every body had gone home, the old man, according to ancient custom, placed in the room where the emperor's son-in-law and his bride were to sleep a roll of snow-white bread. Then he, too, went to rest.

What happened during the night? The emperor's son-in-law suddenly saw the dragon, which, with one jaw on the upper cornice of the door and the other on the threshold beneath, told the young fellow it had come to settle their account and he must now give up to be devoured the bride sleeping beside him, whom he loved like the apple of his eye.

The old man's son, who had long since forgotten the settlement, did not know what to do. He dared not rush upon the dragon and kill it, because he knew that they had made this bargain; his father had often told him that, when a man has given his word, he has also pledged his soul. Yet his heart would not let him yield up his beloved wife for the dragon to devour. While he was torturing himself in trying to think what he could do to neither break his promise nor give up his bride, the bread on the table began to jump about and said:

"Hi, dragon, I've been sowed, grew up, was mowed down and fastened into a bundle, yet I bore it, do you now bear your trouble, too, and go into the depths of the sea."

The dragon stood waiting. The bread went on:

"Then I was carried to the barn, horses trampled on me, I was winnowed and taken to the mill. Bear your troubles as I've borne mine, and go, that we may hear your name no more."

The dragon still waited, and its tongue darted about in its mouth like lightning. The emperor's son-in-law and his bride remained perfectly quiet. The bread spoke again:

"Then I was ground, taken home, sifted, kneaded with water, put into the oven, and baked till my eyes almost started out of my head, yet I bore it. Do you bear it too, you accursed dragon, and may you burst."

The noise that echoed through the air, as the dragon burst, was so loud that every body in the palace awoke. Men came running to the spot, what did they see? A monster of a dragon, burst and split open. It was so huge that all shrank away in terror.

Afterward they took the carcass, carried it out of the palace, and gave it to the ravens. Then the emperor's son-in-law related the whole affair. When the people in the palace heard it, they all thanked God for having worked such a miracle and permitted the emperor's children to escape safe and sound. Then they lived in peace and happiness and did good every where, and if they have not died, they may be alive now.

Into the saddle then I sprung, This tale to tell to old and young.



The Fairy Aurora.


Once upon a time something happened. If it hadn't happened, it wouldn't be told.

There was once a great and mighty emperor, whose kingdom was so large that no one knew where it began and where it ended. Some believed it was boundless, others said that they dimly remembered having heard from very old people that the emperor had formerly engaged in war with his neighbors, some of whom had proved greater and more powerful, others smaller and weaker than he. One piece of news about this emperor went all through the wide world -- that he always laughed with his right eye and wept with the left. People vainly asked the reason that the emperor's eyes could not agree, and even differed so entirely. When great heroes went to the emperor to question him, he smiled evasively and made no reply. So the enmity between the monarch's eyes remained a profound mystery, whose cause nobody knew except the emperor himself. Then the emperor's sons grew up. Ah, what princes they were! Three princes in one country, like three morning stars in the sky! Florea, the oldest, was a fathom tall, with shoulders more than four span broad. Costan was very different, short, strongly built, with a muscular arm and a stout fist. The third and youngest prince was named Petru -- a tall, slender fellow, more like a girl than a boy. Petru did not talk much, he laughed and sang, sang and laughed, from morning till night. Only he was often seen in a graver mood, when he pushed back the curling locks from his forehead and looked like one of the old wiseacres who belonged to the emperor's council.

"Come, Florea, you are grown up, go to our father and ask him why one of his eyes always weeps and the other always laughs," said Petru, one fine morning to his brother Florea. But Florea would not go; he knew by experience that the emperor was always vexed if any one asked him that question.

Petru fared just the same when he went to his brother Costan.

"Very well, if nobody else dares, I'll venture it!" he said at last. No sooner said than done, Petru instantly went and asked.

"May your mother blind you! What's that to you?" replied the emperor wrathfully, giving him one cuff on the right ear and another on the left. Petru went sadly away, and told his brothers how his father had served him. Yet, after the young prince had asked what was the matter with the eyes, it seemed as though the left one wept less and the right one laughed more.

Petru plucked up his courage and went to the emperor again. A box on the ear is a box on the ear, and two of them are two! It was no sooner thought than done. He fared just the same the second time. But the left now only wept occasionally, and the right one seemed ten years younger.

"If that's the way things stand," thought Petru, "I know what I have to do. I'll keep going to him, keep repeating the question, and keep receiving the cuffs on the ear until both eyes laugh."

No sooner said than done. Petru never made the same remark twice.

"My son Petru," began the emperor, this time in a pleasant tone and laughing with both eyes, "I see that you can't drive this anxiety out of your head, so I'll tell you what is the matter with my eyes. Know that this eye laughs when I see that I have three such sons as you, but the other weeps because I fear that you will not be able to reign in peace and protect the country against bad neighbors. But if you bring me water from the fountain of the Fairy Aurora that I may bathe my eyes with it, both will laugh, because I shall then know that I have brave sons on whom I can rely."

Such were the emperor's words. Petru took his hat from the bench by the stove, and went to tell his brothers what he had heard. The princes consulted together and soon settled the matter, as is proper among own brothers. Florea, being the oldest, went to the stables, chose the best and handsomest horse, saddled it, and bade farewell to home.

"I will go," he said to his brothers; "and if, at the end of a year, a month, a week, and a day, I have not returned with the water, you can follow me, Costan." With these words he departed.

For three days and three nights Florea did not stop; his horse flew like a ghost over the mountains and valleys till it reached the frontiers of the empire. But all around the emperor's dominions ran a deep gulf, and across this abyss there was only a single bridge. Here Florea halted to look back and bid farewell to his native land.

May the Lord preserve even a Pagan from what Florea now beheld when he wanted to go on -- a dragon! But a dragon with three heads and the most horrible faces, with one jaw in the sky and another on the earth. Florea did not wait for the dragon to bathe him in flames, but set spurs to his horse and vanished as if he had never been in existence. The dragon sighed once and disappeared, without leaving a trace behind.

A week passed; Florea did not return; a fortnight slipped by, but nothing was heard of him. A month elapsed; Costan began to search among the horses to choose one. When morning dawned after a year, a month, a week, and a day, Costan mounted his horse, took leave of his youngest brother, and saying to him, "Come, if I am lost too," rode off as Florea had done.

The dragon at the bridge was now still more terrible, his heads were more frightful -- and the hero fled still faster. Nothing more was heard of the two brothers; Petru remained alone.

"I am going to follow my brothers," he said one day to his father.

"Then may God go with you," replied the emperor. "He alone knows whether you will have better luck than your brothers."

So the monarch's youngest son also bade him farewell and set off for the frontiers of the empire. On the bridge stood a dragon still larger and more horrible, with jaws even more yawning and frightful. The creature now had seven heads instead of three.

Petru stopped when he beheld this monster. "Get out of the way!" he shouted. The dragon did not stir. Petru called a second and a third time, then rushed forward with uplifted sword. Instantly the sky darkened so that he saw nothing but fire -- fire on the right, fire on the left, fire before him, fire behind him. The dragon was spitting fire from every one of its seven heads. The horse began to neigh and rear, so that our hero could not strike with his sword.

"Hold! This won't do!" said Petru, dismounting and seizing the horse's bridle with his left hand, while he held his sword in the right.

That plan would not do either. The hero saw nothing but fire and smoke.

"I'll go home -- to get a better horse," said Petru, and he mounted his steed, and went away to come back again.

When he reached the place his nurse, old Birscha, was waiting for him at the court-yard gate.

"Ah, my son Petru! I knew you would be obliged to come back again, because you didn't set out right."

"How ought I to have gone?" asked Petru, half angrily, half sadly.

"You see, my dear Petru," the old nurse began, "you can't reach the fountain of the Fairy Aurora unless you ride the horse which your father the emperor rode in his youth; go, ask where and whose that horse is, then mount it and depart."

Petru thanked her for her directions, and then went off to inquire about the horse.

"May the light grow black to you!" said the emperor. "Who told you to ask me that? It must surely have been that witch of a Birscha. Are you crazy? Fifty years have passed since I was young, who knows where the bones of the horse I rode then are rotting? It seems to me that there's one strap of the bridle lying on the stable floor. It's all I have left of the horse."

Petru went off in a rage and told his old nurse the whole story.

"Just wait," cried the old woman, laughing. "If that's the way things are, very well. Go and bring me the piece of the bridle, I shall know how to turn it to some account."

The floor was covered with saddles, bridles, and straps; Petru chose the most tattered, rusted, and blackest, and carried it to the old woman, that she might do with it what she had promised. The old nurse took the bridle, smoked it with incense, muttered a short spell over it, and then said to Petru. "Now take the bridle and strike the pillars[4] of the house with it."

[Footnote 4: Roumanian peasant cottages usually have several pillars in front, which support the projecting roof.]

Petru did as he was told. The old woman's charm worked well. Scarcely had Petru struck the pillars when something happened -- I don't know how -- that utterly amazed him. A horse stood before him, a horse whose superior the world never saw. Its saddle was made of gold and jewels, its bridle glittered so that one dared not look at it for fear of being blinded. A beautiful horse, beautiful saddle, and beautiful bridle for the handsome prince!

"Jump on the bay's back, my young hero," cried the old woman, making the sign of the cross over horse and rider; then she repeated a short charm and went into the palace.

After Petru had leaped on the horse he felt thrice as much strength in his arm and thrice as much courage in his heart.

"Hold fast, master, for we have a long journey and must go swiftly," said the bay, and the hero soon saw that they galloped, galloped, galloped, as never horse and hero had galloped before.

On the bridge now stood a dragon whose like had never been there, a dragon with twelve heads, each one more terrible, more fiery than the others. Ah, but the monster found its match. Petru did not quail, but began to roll up his sleeves and spit upon his hands. "Out of the way!" he shouted. The dragon began to spit fire. Petru wasted no more words, but drew his sword and prepared to rush upon the bridge.

"Hold, calm yourself, master," said the bay, "do as I tell you; press the spurs into my flanks, draw your sword, and be ready, for we must now leap over the bridge and the dragon. When you see that we are directly over the monster, cut off its head, wipe the blood from your sword on your sleeve, and put it in the sheath, that you may be prepared to fight when we touch the earth again."

Petru struck in the spurs, drew his sword, hacked off the head, wiped the blood away, thrust the blade into its sheath, and was ready when he again felt firm ground under the horse's hoofs. So they crossed the bridge.

"Now we must go on," Petru began, after he had cast one more glance back to his native land.

"Forward," replied the bay, "but you must now tell me, master, how we are to hasten. Like the wind? Like thought? Like longing? Or like a curse?"

Petru looked before him and saw nothing but sky and earth -- a wilderness which made his hair bristle with horror.

"We will change our pace and ride like each in turn, -- not too fast that we may not grow weary, and not too slow lest we should be late."

They rode on, -- one day like the wind, one like thought, one like longing, and one like a curse, until in the gray dawn of the morning of the fourth day, they reached the end of the wilderness.

"Now stop and go on at a walk, that I may see what I have never beheld," cried Petru, rubbing his eyes like a person waking from sleep or one who beholds something that seems like an illusion. Before the eyes of the young prince stretched a copper forest -- trees, saplings, shrubs, bushes, ferns, and flowers of the most beautiful varieties, all made of copper. Petru stood staring, as a man gazes who beholds something he has never seen or heard of. He rode into the wood. The blossoms along the wayside began to praise themselves and tempt Petru to gather them and make a garland:

"Take me, I am beautiful and give strength to him who breaks me," said one.

"Oh, no, take me, for whoever wears me in his hat will be loved by the greatest beauty in the world," said another. Then a third and a fourth, each lovelier than its companions, stirred, and in sweet tones tried to persuade Petru to gather it.

The bay sprang aside whenever it saw its master stoop toward a flower.

"Why don't you keep quiet?" cried Petru, somewhat sternly.

"Pick no blossoms, you will fare badly if you gather them," replied the bay.

"Why should I fare badly?"

"A curse rests on these flowers -- whoever gathers them must fight with the Welwa[5] of the wood."

[Footnote 5: Welwa, an indescribable monster that exists in the imagination of the Roumanian peasantry.]

"With what sort of a Welwa?"

"Now let me alone! But listen; look at the flowers and gather none of them, keep quiet." Having said this the horse went on at a walk. Petru knew by experience that he would do well to heed the bay's advice. So he turned his thoughts away from the flowers. But it was all in vain! If one is unlucky, he can't get rid of his ill-fortune even if he tries with all his might. The flowers still offered themselves to him, and his heart grew weaker and weaker.

"Come what may," said Petru after a while, "I shall at least see the Welwa of this wood, that I may know what the monster is like and with whom I have to deal. If I am fated to die by its hands, it will kill me in some way, and if not I shall escape, though there should be hundreds and thousands like it." Then he began to pull off the flowers.

"You have done wrong!" said the bay anxiously. "But as the thing has happened it can't be changed, so gird yourself and prepare to fight, for here is the Welwa."

The bay had scarcely spoken and Petru had hardly twined his wreath, when a light breeze blew from all quarters of the compass and soon rose to a gale. The gale increased until everywhere there was naught save gloom and darkness, gloom and darkness. The ground under Petru's feet trembled and shook, till he felt as though somebody had taken the world on his back and was dragging it away at full speed.

"Are you afraid?" asked the bay, shaking its mane.

"Not at all," replied Petru, summoning up his courage, though chills were running down his back. "If a thing must be, all right; let it be as it is."

"You need not fear," replied the bay, to encourage him. "Take the bridle from my neck and try to catch the Welwa with it."

The horse had just time to say this and Petru had not even a chance to unfasten the bridle properly, when the Welwa stood before him, a monster so frightful, so terrible, that he could not look at it. It has no head, yet it is not headless, it does not fly through the air, yet neither does it walk on the earth. It has a mane like the horse, horns like the stag, a face like the bear, eyes like the polecat, and a body that resembles every thing except a living being! Such was the Welwa which rushed upon Petru.

Petru rose in his stirrups and began to strike, sometimes with his sword, sometimes with his arm, till the perspiration ran down his body in streams.

A day and night passed away; the battle was not yet decided.

"Stop, so that we can rest a little while," said the Welwa, panting for breath.

The hero let his sword fall.

"Don't stop!" cried the bay quickly, and Petru set to work again with all his might.

The Welwa now neighed once like a horse, then howled like a wolf, and again rushed upon Petru. The battle went on for another day and night, and was even more terrible than before. Petru grew so weary that he could scarcely move.

"Stop now! I see I am dealing with a person who understands fighting. Stop!" said the Welwa for the second time. "Stop and let us settle our quarrel."

"Don't stop!" cried the bay.

Petru fought on, though he could scarcely breathe. But the Welwa no longer rushed so fiercely upon him and began to act with more care and caution, as people do when they feel they have not much strength. So the fight lasted till the dawn of the third day. When the rosy light of morning began to glimmer, Petru -- how, I don't know, it's enough that he did it -- threw the bridle over the head of the wearied Welwa, which instantly became a horse -- the handsomest horse in the world.

"Sweet be your life, for you have delivered me from enchantment," said the transformed Welwa, and began to caress the bay charger. Petru learned from their conversation that the Welwa was a brother of the bay horse, and had been bewitched many years before by Holy Wednesday.[6]

[Footnote 6: Miercuri-Mittwoch (Wednesday) and Mercuria, that is, feminine form of Mercury.]

Petru tied the Welwa to his horse, sprang into the saddle, and continued his journey. How did he ride? That I need not say. He rode swiftly till he got out of the copper forest.

"Stand still, and let me look at what I have never seen before," said Petru again, when they came out of the copper forest. A still more marvelous one now stretched before him, a forest of glittering bushes bearing the handsomest and most tempting flowers -- he was entering the Silver Wood. The blossoms began to talk still more sweetly and enticingly than they had done in the Copper Forest. "Gather no more flowers," said the Welwa that was tied to the bay, "for my brother is seven times stronger than I."

But did my fearless hero restrain himself? Scarcely two minutes had passed ere he began to gather flowers and twine them into a wreath. The tempest howled louder, the darkness was greater, and the earth quaked still more than in the Copper Forest; the Welwa of the Silver Wood rushed upon Petru with seven-fold greater fierceness than the other Welwa had done. But he was not idle either. The battle again lasted for three days and three nights, and at dawn on the fourth morning our hero bridled the second Welwa.

"Sweet be your fortune, for you have delivered me from enchantment!" said the Welwa, and they pursued their journey along the road by which they had come.

"Stop, stand still, go on at a walk, and let me gaze at what I have never seen before," cried Petru for the third time; then he covered his eyes with his hand lest he should be blinded by the rays streaming from the Gold Forest. He had already beheld marvelous things, but never even dreamed of a sight like this.

"We will stand here or we shall fare badly," cried the horses in one breath.

"Why should we fare badly?" asked Petru.

"You'll pluck the flowers again. I know your heart will give you no rest until you do! And our youngest brother is seven times seven times stronger and more terrible than we three together. So let us go round the forest," said the bay.

"Certainly not," replied Petru; "let us go through it! Let us see all, since we have seen something, and experience all, now that we have experienced part. Have no fear, I have none!"

I need not tell you that Petru did again what he had already done twice. Oh dear! How could he help it?

Scarcely was the wreath twined when something began which had never been experienced before. It was not a more furious tempest or greater darkness, neither did the earth quake more violently. No! I don't know how or what it was, but it seemed to Petru as though somebody had got into the middle of the earth to overturn it. What happened was something awful, and may Heaven preserve any one from it!

"You see!" said the bay angrily, "why couldn't you keep quiet?"

Petru saw that he saw nothing more, began to feel that he felt nothing more, and understood that he could understand nothing more, so he made no reply, but girded his sword tighter and prepared to fight. "Now the Welwa can come," he cried, "I will die or throw the bridle over its head." He had scarcely uttered the words when something whose like he had never beheld before approached him. A dense fog surrounded Petru, a fog so dense that he could not even see himself in it.

"What's this?" cried the champion, somewhat startled, when he began to feel that he was aching all over. But he was still more alarmed when he perceived that he could not hear his own voice through the mist. So he began to strike about him with his sword to the right and left, before and behind, in every direction, and with all the strength he had -- as a man does when he sees that matters are growing serious. So he fought on during a day and a night, without seeing any thing except thick darkness, or hearing any thing except his own perspiration trickling down his horse's flanks. For some time he had even felt as if he were no longer alive, but had died long before. Suddenly the fog began to scatter. At dawn on the second day it disappeared entirely, and when the sun rose in the sky Petru's eyes again saw the light. He felt as if he had been born anew.

The Welwa? it seemed to have vanished from the earth.

"Get your breath now, for the battle will begin again presently," said the bay.

"What was that?" asked Petru.

"The Welwa," replied the horse, "the Welwa changed into fog. Get your breath, it is coming again."

The bay had hardly spoken and Petru had hardly had time to breathe, when he saw approaching from one side something, -- but what it was he did not know. Water, yet it was not like water, for it did not seem to flow on the earth, but in some queer fashion to fly, or move in some way -- Enough, it left no trace behind and did not fly high. It was something that appeared to be nothing.

"Oh, dear!" cried Petru.

"Take courage and defend yourself, don't stand still," said the bay, but could not utter another word, for the water filled its mouth.

The fight began again. Petru struck about him without stopping for a day and a night, not knowing at what he was aiming, and fought without knowing with whom. When the next day dawned he felt that his feet were paralyzed.

"Now I am lost!" he cried somewhat angrily; yet he began to show himself doubly brave and dealt still stronger blows. The sun rose and the water vanished, one could not tell how or when.

"Get your breath!" said the bay, "get your breath, for you haven't much time to lose. The Welwa will come back directly."

Petru made no answer; the poor fellow was so tired that he did not know what to do. So he settled himself more firmly in the saddle, seized his sword with a tighter grip, and thus prepared awaited the approach of the foe he saw advancing.

Such a thing, how can I describe it? It was like a man dreaming that he sees something which has what it has not, and has not what it has -- this was the shape in which the Welwa now appeared to Petru. Oh, heavens! how could the Welwa now be a gold forest after having twice left it in disgrace? It flew with its feet and walked with its wings, its head was behind and its tail was before, its eyes were in its breast and its breast was on its forehead -- and as for the rest, no mortal could describe it.

Petru shuddered in every limb, and crossed himself twice, then he plucked up courage and began to fight as he had already fought once, and also as he had never yet fought before. The day passed and Petru's strength failed. Evening came, and Petru's eyes began to grow dim. When midnight arrived he felt that he was no longer on horseback. He himself did not know how and when he had reached the earth, but he was on foot. When night was yielding to day Petru could not keep up, but sank on his knees.

"Stand up, gather your strength once more!" cried the bay, seeing that his master was losing his vigor.

Petru wiped away the perspiration with his shirt-sleeve, strained every nerve, and once more stood erect.

"Now strike the Welwa on the mouth with the bridle?" said the bay.

Petru did as he was bid. The Welwa neighed so loudly that Petru thought he should be deafened, then, though so tired that it was scarcely able to move, rushed upon the hero. The fight was now not long. Petru managed to throw the bridle over this Welwa's head, too.

When broad day came, the hero was riding on the fourth horse. "May you have a beautiful wife, for you have delivered me from enchantment!" said the Welwa.

They rode on, and when night was shrouding the day, they reached the borders of the Gold Forest.

While pursuing their way Petru began to get tired, and, in order to have something to do, examined the beautiful wreaths. "What shall I do with the wreaths?" he said to himself. "One is enough for me. I'll keep the handsomest." So he threw down the copper one, then the silver one, and reserved only the gold garland.

"Stop," said the bay horse. "Don't throw the wreaths away. Dismount and pick them up, they may yet be useful to you."

Petru did as he was told and rode on. Toward evening, when the sun was only a hand's breadth above the horizon and the little flies were beginning to swarm, our rider reached the edge of the forest. Before him stretched a wide moor, on which as far as the eye could wander nothing was visible. The horses stopped.

"What is it?" asked Petru.

"We may fare badly here," replied the bay.

"Why should we fare badly?"

"We are now entering the domain of Holy Wednesday. So long as we ride through it, we shall experience nothing but cold, cold, cold. Fires are kept burning all along the roadside, and I'm afraid you will go and warm yourself."

"Why shouldn't I warm myself?"

"You'll fare badly if you do," said the bay anxiously.

"Forward," said Petru fearlessly, "I will be cold, too, if necessary."

The further Petru entered Holy Wednesday's kingdom the more he felt that it was no pleasant region. At every step the air grew colder and frostier, there was so much cold and ice that it froze even the marrow in one's bones. But Petru was no coward, he proved as brave in enduring hardship as he had been in battle. Along the roadside one fire after another was burning, and beside these fires were gathered groups of people who called to him in the sweetest, most enticing words. Petru's very breath froze, yet he did not yield, but ordered the bay to go on at a walk. How long our hero battled with the cold and frost can not be told, for every body knows that Holy Wednesday's kingdom is longer than one stone's throw or even two. The cold there is not moderate, but bitter, so bitter that even the rocks are split by the frost. That's the way it is in that country. But Petru had not grown up without some hardships, so he only ground his teeth, though he was so benumbed that he couldn't even wink.

They reached Holy Wednesday. Petru dismounted, flung the bridle over the bay's head, and entered the house.

"Good morning, mother."

"Thank you, my frozen hero!"

Petru laughed, but made no answer.

"You have proved yourself a brave fellow," said Holy Wednesday, patting him on the shoulder. "Now I'll give you the reward." She went to an iron chest, opened it, and took out a little box. "See," she said, "this casket has been destined from the earliest times for the person who penetrated the realm of the cold. Take it and guard it carefully, for it may be of great service to you. When you open it, you will receive news from whatever place you desire and truthful tidings from your native land."

Petru thanked her for her words and her gift, mounted his horse, and rode on. After he was a good stone's throw away, he opened the magic box. "What do you command?" asked something inside.

"Give me news of my father," replied Petru rather timidly.

"He is sitting in the council chamber with the elders of the kingdom."

"Is he prospering?"

"Not especially; he has troubles."

"Who is annoying him?" asked Petru, somewhat sharply.

"Your brothers, Costan and Florea," the voice in the box answered. "As it seems to me, they are trying to wrest the scepter from him and the old monarch says that they are not yet worthy of it."

"Forward, bay, we have no time to lose," cried Petru. Then, shutting the box, he put it into his knapsack.

They hurried as ghosts flit when whirlwinds are blowing and vampires hunting at midnight. How long they rode can not be told, but it was a long, long time.

"Stop! Let me give you another piece of advice," said the bay after a while.

"Well, tell me," said Petru.

"You have been tormented by the cold, now you'll have to encounter heat such as you never felt before. Keep up your courage, and don't let yourself be attracted to the cool places."

"Forward!" replied Petru. "Don't be anxious -- if I didn't freeze, I shan't melt."

Indeed! This heat was enough to melt the very marrow of one's bones, a heat that exists nowhere except in the kingdom of Holy Thursday.[7] The further they went the greater the heat became. Even the iron of the horses' shoes began to melt, but Petru would not yield. The perspiration ran down his body in streams, he wiped it away with his sleeve, and rode swiftly on. As for the heat, intense as it became, there was something else that tortured Petru more. Along the roadside, always a good stone's throw apart, were cool valleys with cold springs ready to quench the traveler's thirst. When Petru looked at them, he felt as if his heart was shriveled and his tongue dried up with thirst. Lilies, violets, and roses grew in the soft grass around the springs, and on these beds of flowers reclined girls so beautiful that heaven only knows how it would have been possible for them to be lovelier. Petru would fain have shut his eyes in order not to see such bewitching creatures any longer.

[Footnote 7: Joi -- Thursday and Jupiter.]

"Come, hero, come to the cooling waters, let us amuse you," called the enticing maidens.

Petru silently shook his head, he had lost the power of speech.

They rode on so for a long, long time. Suddenly they felt that the heat was beginning to lessen, and on a distant hill-top a hut appeared. This was the dwelling of Holy Thursday. Petru approached, and when almost at the door Holy Thursday came out and welcomed him. Petru expressed his thanks, as is customary among distinguished and well-behaved people, and they entered into conversation as people who have never seen each other are in the habit of doing. Petru brought news of Holy Wednesday, related his adventures, and mentioned the goal for which he had started, and then bade her farewell, for he really had no time to lose. Who could tell how far he still had to go to reach the Fairy Aurora?

"Wait a little while, until I can say a few words to you," said Holy Thursday. "You are now about to enter the domain of Holy Friday;[8] go to her and tell her that I wish her health and happiness. When you return, come to me again, and I'll give you something that will be useful to you."

[Footnote 8: Vineri means Friday as well as Venus.]

Petru thanked her and rode on.

He had scarcely ridden long enough to smoke a pipeful of tobacco, when he entered a new country. Here it was neither hot nor cold, but like the climate in spring when the lambs are being weaned. Petru began to breathe easily, but he was on a desolate moor consisting of sand and thistles.

"What can this be?" asked Petru, when he saw an object something like a house, but a long, long distance off; just where his eyes beheld the end of the dreary heath.

"That is Holy Friday's house," replied the bay; "if we ride on, we may be able to reach it before dark."

And so it happened. Night was just closing in as the hero slowly neared the distant house. On the moor was a throng of phantoms flitting on Petru's right and left hand, before and behind him.

"Don't be afraid," said the bay. "Those are the Whirlwind's daughters; they are dancing in the air, waiting for the moon eater."

So they reached Holy Friday's house. "Dismount and enter," said the bay.

Petru was about to do what he had been told.

"Stop, don't be in such a hurry," the horse continued. "Let me first tell you what you are to do. You can't go into Holy Friday's house so unceremoniously; she is guarded by the Whirlwinds."

"What am I to do?"

"Take the copper wreath and go with it to the hill you see yonder. When you reach the top, begin to call: 'Good Heavens, what beautiful girls, what angels, what fairy-like creatures!' Then hold the garland aloft, and say: 'If I only knew whether any body would take this wreath from me -- if I only knew! If I only knew!' and hurl the garland away."

"Why should I do that?" asked Petru, as a man is in the habit of questioning, when he wants to know the cause of his acts.

"Silence! Go and do it," replied the bay curtly, and Petru, without further words, did as he was bid.

Scarcely had the hero flung the wreath aside, when the Whirlwinds rushed upon it and tussled around it.

Petru now turned toward the house.

"Stop," cried the bay again, "I haven't yet told you every thing. Take the silver wreath and knock at Holy Friday's window. When she asks 'Who is there?' say that you came on foot and have lost your way on the moor. She will rebuff you. But you mustn't stir from the spot. Say to her: 'I won't go away, for ever since I was a little child I have always heard of Holy Friday (Venus) and -- I didn't have steel shoes made with calf-skin straps, did not travel nine years and nine months, did not fight for this silver wreath I want to give her, did not do and suffer all these things merely to turn back now that I have reached her.' Act and speak as I have told you -- what follows must be your own care."

Petru made no reply, but went up to the house. As it was perfectly dark, the hero did not see the dwelling, and was guided only by the rays of light streaming through the window. When he reached the house several dogs began to bark, because they knew some stranger was near.

"Who is fighting with the hounds? May his life be bitter," cried Holy Friday angrily.

"It is I, Holy Friday!" said Petru, with laboring breath, like a man who likes and yet is not quite satisfied with what he is doing. "I have lost my way on the moor, and don't know where I can spend the night." Here he stopped, not daring to say more.

"Where did you leave your horse?" asked Holy Friday rather sharply.

Petru reflected; he did not know whether he ought to tell a lie or speak the truth, so he made no answer.

"Go, in God's name, my son, I have no room for you," said Holy Friday retiring from the window.

Petru now repeated what the horse had told him to say. Scarcely had he done so, when he saw Holy Friday open the window.

"Let me see the wreath, my son," she said sweetly, in a gentle tone.

Petru gave her the garland.

"Come into the house," said Holy Friday, "don't be afraid of the dogs, they know what I want."

It was even so. The dogs began to wag their tails, and followed Petru as they follow a master returning home from the fields at night. Petru said "good evening" as he entered, laid his hat on the oven, and when Holy Friday invited him to sit down took his place on a bench by the stove. They now talked about everyday matters, the world, the wickedness of mankind, and similar things, without any special reason or purpose. It appeared from her talk that Holy Friday was very much incensed against men; but Petru agreed with her in every thing -- as is proper for a person who is sitting at another's table.

Heavens, how old the aged dame looked! I don't know why young Petru devoured her so with his eyes, that he might have given her the Evil eye. Was he counting the wrinkles in her face? He would have needed to be born seven times in succession, and each time live seven times as long as an ordinary human life, to have leisure to number them all. But Holy Friday's heart laughed with joy, when she saw Petru completely absorbed in gazing at her.

"When the present state of things had no existence," Holy Friday began, "before the world was made, I was born, and was so beautiful a child that my parents created the earth, in order to have somebody to admire my loveliness. By the time the world was made I had grown up and, amid all the marveling at my beauty, the Evil eye fell upon me. Since then every century a wrinkle has formed on my face. And now I am old!" Holy Friday's grief and anger would allow her to say no more.

In the course of the conversation Holy Friday told Petru that her father had once been a great and powerful emperor, and once, when a quarrel broke out between him and the Fairy Aurora, who ruled the adjoining country, he had been shamefully mocked at by his neighbor. Then she began to say all sorts of things about the Fairy Aurora. What was Petru to do? He listened in silence, now and then saying: "Yes, yes, it is really too bad." What else could he do?

"But I will set you a task, if you are a brave champion and will perform it," said Holy Friday, when both began to be sleepy. "At the Fairy Aurora's is a spring -- whoever drinks from it will bloom like the rose and the violet. Bring me a jug of the water, and I shall know how to show you my gratitude. It's a difficult task, heaven knows! The Fairy Aurora's kingdom is guarded by all sorts of wild beasts and terrible dragons. But I want to tell you something else, and give you something too."

After Holy Friday had said this, she went to a chest bound with iron on every corner and took out a tiny little flute.

"Look," she said to Petru, "an old man gave me this when I was young. Whoever hears its notes falls asleep and sleeps till they are heard no longer. Take the instrument, and play upon it so long as you remain in the Fairy Aurora's kingdom. No one will harm you, for every creature will be asleep."

Petru now told his hostess what he meant to do, and Holy Friday was still more delighted. They did not talk much more. Why should they? it was already long past midnight. Petru said "good night," thrust the flute into its case, and went up to the garret to get some sleep. When morning dawned, the hero was already awake and the morning-star had hardly risen in the sky ere he was up. He took a large manger, filled it with red-hot coals, and went out to feed his horses. After the bay had eaten nine and each of the other horses three full cribs of fire, Petru led them to the spring, watered them, and prepared to continue his journey.

"Stop," Holy Friday called from the window. "I have a word more to say. I want to give you a piece of advice."

Petru went to the window.

"Leave one horse here, and go on with only three. Ride slowly until you have reached the Fairy Aurora's kingdom. Then dismount and enter her country on foot. Then, when you return, come so that you will leave all three steeds lying in the road and arrive here on foot."

"I will obey every word," said Petru, trying to go on.

"Don't be in a hurry, I haven't finished yet," Holy Friday continued. "Don't look at the Fairy Aurora, for her eyes bewitch, her glances rob a man of his reason. She is ugly, too ugly to be described. She has owl's eyes, a fox's face, and cat's claws. Do you hear? Don't look at her. And may the Lord bring you back to me safe and sound, my son Petru."

Petru thanked her for her counsel and lingered no longer. Where should he find time to gossip with old women? He left the bay horse in the meadow and continued his journey.

Far, far away, where the sky meets the earth and the stars talk to the flowers, appeared a bright rosy glow, almost like that of the sky in early spring, only still more beautiful and wonderful. This was the Fairy Aurora's palace. The whole space between was filled with flowery meadows. Then, too, it was neither warm nor cold, neither light nor dark, but midway between, just as it is on St. Peter's day when one rises early in the morning to drive the cattle to pasture. Petru rode through this beautiful region with a happy heart. How long he rode can not be told in human language, for in that country night does not follow day and day night; it was always early morning with soft, cool breezes, a viewless sun, and a dim light -- the reign of day and night first began in Holy Friday's land. After a long journey, Petru saw something white appear amid the rosy glow of the sky. The nearer he approached the more distinctly he saw what was now before his eyes. It was the fairy-palace. Petru gazed and gazed, then drew a long breath like a man who says, "Oh, Lord, I thank thee!" But ah, how beautiful this palace was! Lofty turrets stretching far above the clouds, walls white as sea-shells, and brighter than the sun at noon-day, a roof of silver -- but what kind of silver? it did not even glitter in the sun -- and the windows were all spun from air and set in frames of dull gold. Over all these things the merry sunbeams played, as the wind plays with the shadows of the branches in the spring, when it is so indolent that it scarcely stirs.

Petru could not stay long, for he was in a hurry; so he dismounted, let the horses graze on the dewy grass, took his flute, as Holy Friday had directed, and saying, "God be with me!" commenced his tremendous task. He had scarcely walked three stones' throws when he saw a giant, lulled to sleep by the sweet notes of the flute. This was one of the guardians of the Fairy Aurora's palace. As he lay there on his back Petru began to measure him by paces. I won't exaggerate, but he was so big that when Petru had walked from his feet to his head he heaved a sigh, he did not exactly know whether from fatigue or fear. It would have been no wonder if he was astounded. The rising moon is not so large as the giant's eye. And this eye was not even like other people's, but in the middle of the giant's forehead. Such was the eye! What could the rest have been! Petru was a brave hero, but he heartily thanked God, the flute, and Holy Friday, that he had not got into a fight with this monster of a man, and softly continued his way. The prince had walked about as far as a man usually goes before he feels inclined to sit down in the shade, when he encountered still more terrible foes. Dragons, each with seven heads, were stretched out in the sun sound asleep, some on his right hand, others on the left. How these dragons looked I can not describe: nowadays every body knows that dragons are not things to be trifled with or laughed at. Petru hurried swiftly past them, but I really don't know whether it was from haste or fear. And it would have been no wonder if he was afraid! A dragon is a dragon!

The prince now reached a river. But let nobody suppose it was an ordinary stream; milk flowed instead of water, not over sand and gravel, but over gems and pearls, and it ran neither slowly nor quickly, but both slowly and quickly at the same time, like the days of happy mortals. This was the river that flowed around the palace without ever stopping or moving. On the bank, each one leap from the other, lions were sleeping. And such lions! They had golden hair, and teeth and claws tipped with iron. These were the guardians of the other bank of the river, where there was a beautiful garden, as beautiful as gardens can only be in the Fairy Aurora's realm. On the shore grew the fairest flowers and upon these blossoms fairies, each more beautiful and bewitching than the others, slept sweetly side by side. Petru did not even dare to glance that way. The prince now asked himself how he was to get across the stream. It was broad and deep and had only one bridge, and this bridge, too, was unlike any other in the world. On each bank was a bridge-head, each guarded by four sleeping lions! But as to the bridge -- no human soul could cross it. One saw it with the eyes, but felt nothing but empty air if he tried to set foot on it. Who knows of what material it was made! Perhaps a little cloud.

Enough, Petru remained on the river bank. Cross? That he could not do. Swim over it? That was not to be thought of! What should he do? Well, we needn't worry about Petru, he isn't easily frightened. He turned and went back to the giant. "We'll run the risk," he thought, "we'll talk to each other. Wake up, my brave fellow," he shouted, pulling the monster by the sleeve of his coat. When the giant awoke he stretched out his hand toward Petru -- just as we do when we try to catch a fly. Petru blew upon the flute, and the giant fell back to the ground. So Petru waked him and put him to sleep again, three times in succession, -- that is, he waked him three times and made him go to sleep three times. When this was to be done for the fourth time, Petru unfastened his cravat, tied the giant's two little fingers together with it, then drew his sword, and, tapping the monster on the breast, cried, "Wake up, my brave fellow!"

When the giant saw what a sorry jest had been played upon him, he said to Petru: "Hark ye, this is no fair fight! Fight honestly, if you are a hero!"

"Wait a while, I want to talk with you first," said Petru. "Swear that you will carry me over the river, then I'll release you for a fair fight."

The giant took the oath, and Petru let him rise. When he was fairly awake he rushed upon the prince to crush him at a single blow. But he had met his match. Petru was more than a day old, and he, too, dashed boldly on the foe. They fought for three days and three nights; the giant seized Petru and hurled him on the ground so that he drove him into the earth up to his knees, but Petru buried the giant to his waist; then the giant thrust him into the ground to his breast, and finally Petru forced the giant down to his neck. When the giant found himself cornered in this way he cried out in terror, "Let me go, let me go, I own myself conquered!"

"Will you carry me over the river?" asked Petru.

"I will!" he replied from the hole in the ground.

"What shall I do to you if you break your promise?"

"Kill me; do whatever you choose with me, only let me live now!"

"Be it so!" said Petru, then taking the giant's left hand he tied it to his right foot, stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth so that he could not cry out, bandaged his eyes to prevent him from seeing, and led him to the river.

When they reached the stream the giant put one foot on the opposite bank, took Petru on the palm of his hand and set him carefully on the further shore.

"That's right!" said Petru; then he blew on his flute and the giant sank down on the river bank.

When the fairies, who were bathing in the milky waves of the river, heard the sound of Petru's flute they felt sleepy, came out, and fell asleep on the blossoms along the shore, where Petru found them when he got down from the palm of the giant's hand. He did not venture to linger long with them. They were beautiful, heaven knows! What must the Fairy Aurora herself be? Or was she the ugliest among the fair ones? The prince did not stop to ask himself many questions, but set off to see.

When he entered the garden, he began to wonder again. Much as he had seen and experienced, he had never beheld any thing so beautiful. The trees all had golden branches, the waters of the fountains were clearer than dew, the wind blew with a musical sound, and the flowers whispered sweet, loving words. Petru wondered still more when he found that there was not a single unfolded blossom in the garden, nothing but buds. It seemed as if the world had stood still here, and it was always spring. Yet when did the flowers bloom, if they had not yet had time to open? And, if they did not bloom, why was it? This question, and many another one, Petru asked himself on his way to the palace. No one barred his progress, no one interfered with his thoughts, every body was asleep; the nymphs beside the fountains, the birds on the boughs, the deer in the thickets, and the butterflies on the flowers, all were sunk in dreams by the music of the flute. Nay, even the wind no longer played with the leaves, the sunbeams no longer drank the dewdrops from the grass, and the river had ceased to flow. Petru alone was awake, awake with his thoughts, and his wonder at these thoughts. He reached the court-yard of the palace. Around it stretched a thick, beautiful grass-plot -- a grass plot that swayed like the wind. Before him was the gate -- a gate made entirely of flowers and other beautiful things. Below and beside the gate were more flowers, each one more beautiful than the other, so that Petru fancied he was treading upon clouds as he passed over them. On the right and left slept fairies, who should have guarded the entrance of the court-yard. Petru looked around him in every direction, said once more, "God be with me!" and entered the palace.

What Petru saw I can not describe; surely every body knows that the palace of the Fairy Aurora can be no ordinary place. Around it were petrified fairies, trees with golden leaves, and flowers made of pearls and gems, columns wrought of sunbeams, steps as soft and lustrous as the couches of princesses, and a sweet, soothing atmosphere. Such was the court-yard of the Fairy Aurora's palace, and it could have been no different. Why should it? Petru went up the steps and entered the palace. The first twelve rooms were hung with linen, the next twelve with silk; then came twelve decked with silver and twelve with gold. Petru passed swiftly through the whole forty-eight, and in the forth-ninth apartment, which was the most magnificent of all, he found the Fairy Aurora. The chamber was large, broad, and high, like one of the finest churches. The walls were covered with all sorts of silk and beautiful things, and on the floor, where one sets one's foot, was something, I don't know exactly what, but something as glittering as a mirror and as soft as cushions, besides many other beautiful things, such as a Fairy Aurora must have. Where should there be lovely things, if not in her palace! As has been said, Petru fairly held his breath when he saw himself in the midst of so much beauty. In the center of this church, or whatever it was, Petru saw the famous fountain on whose account he had taken so long a journey, a fountain like any other, with nothing extraordinary about it. One couldn't help wondering that the Fairy Aurora allowed it to be in her room. It had staves such as were used in ancient times, but they had evidently been allowed to remain for some special purpose.

And now I will tell a wonderful thing. Beside the fountain lay the Fairy Aurora herself -- the real Fairy Aurora! The couch was made of gold and heaven knows what else, but it was a beautiful one, and on it slept the Fairy Aurora, resting on silken cushions filled with spring breezes. Of course she was not beautiful. Why should she be? Had not Holy Friday said that she was a combination of hideous things? Why should we delay in our words? Perhaps Holy Friday was right! It might be so. Enough -- when Petru looked at her as she slept there on her couch, he held his breath and no longer played on the magic flute -- he was petrified by this wonder of wonders. No, she was beautiful, far, far more beautiful than one would expect the Fairy Aurora must be! I'll say no more.

On the right and left of the couch slept twelve of the prettiest fairies in the kingdom, who had evidently been overtaken by slumber while waiting on their queen. Petru was so absorbed in gazing at the Fairy Aurora that he did not notice them till, no longer hearing the flute, they stirred in their sleep. Petru, too, trembled, and began to play again. The whole palace was once more sunk in slumber, and the prince advanced three paces.

Between the couch and the fountain was a table on which were a tender white loaf, kneaded with roe's milk, and a goblet of red wine, sweet as a morning dream. This was the bread of strength and the wine of youth. Petru looked once at the bread, once at the wine, and once at the Fairy Aurora, then with three steps more reached the couch, the table, and the fountain. When he stood beside the couch he fairly lost his senses -- he really could not control himself, and stooping bit the Fairy Aurora. She opened her eyes, and looked at the prince with a glance which made him lose his senses still more. He played upon his flute that she might fall asleep again, placed the golden wreath on her brow, took a piece of bread from the table, drank a sip of the wine of youth, then bit the fairy again, ate another mouthful of bread, and drank more wine. This he did three times in succession. Thrice he bit the Fairy Aurora, thrice he ate of the bread, and thrice he tasted the wine. Then he filled the jug with water from the fountain and vanished like a piece of good news.

When the hero entered the garden he found an entirely new world. The flowers were flowers, the buds had opened, the fountains played faster, the sunbeams danced more cheerily on the palace walls, and the fairies' faces looked more joyous. All this was due to the three bites.

Petru went away by the same road that he came, amid the fairies and flowers, on the palm of the giant's hand, past lions, dragons, and other monsters. Then, seated in his saddle, he cast one glance back and saw that the whole world behind him was in motion. Hi! But they had somebody before them worth chasing. Not like the wind, not like thought, not like longing, not like a curse, but even faster than happiness vanishes, Petru hurried on his way. The pursuers were left behind, and the prince reached Holy Friday on foot. Holy Friday knew that he was coming by the neighing of the bay horse, which had felt its master's approach three days off, so she came to meet him, bringing some white bread and red wine.

"Welcome back, prince!"

"Good morning, thank you kindly, Holy Friday."

Petru then handed her the jug of water from the Fairy Aurora's fountain, and his hostess thanked him most warmly. They exchanged a few words about the prince's journey, the Fairy Aurora's palace, and the beauty of this sister of the Sun -- then Petru saddled the bay, for he really had no time to lose. Holy Friday listened sometimes joyously, sometimes bitterly, sometimes merrily, sometimes angrily, but when she saw that Petru was surely going, to carry home his portion of the water from the fairy fountain, she wished him health and happiness.

Petru did not stop till he reached Holy Thursday. Here he dismounted and entered as had been agreed, but did not stay long, merely greeted her, talked a little while, and then said farewell.

"Stop, let me tell you something else before you go on," said Holy Thursday anxiously. "Take care of your life; enter into conversation with no one, don't ride too fast, don't let go of the water, believe no promises, and fly from lips that speak sweet words! Go as you came, the way is long, the world is wicked, and you have something very valuable in your hand, so listen to me. I give you this handkerchief, it is made neither of gold, silver, silk, nor pearls, but striped linen; take good care of it, it is enchanted. Whoever carries it no thunderbolt can strike, no lance stab, no sword slay, and no bullet pierce."

Such were Holy Thursday's words. Petru took the handkerchief and listened to her counsel; then dashed off on the bay, hurrying as fairy princes do hurry, when seized by homesickness. Petru did not dismount at Holy Wednesday's, but said, "How do you do," from his horse's back and rode on. Just at the right time he remembered his enchanted box, and, wishing to know what was going on in the world, drew it out of its case. He had barely pulled it out and not wholly opened it, when the voice inside said:

"The Fairy Aurora is angry because you took the water away. Holy Friday is angry because she has broken her jug, your brothers Florea and Costan are angry because you have wrested the empire from them."

Petru began to laugh when he heard of so much anger. He did not exactly know what else to ask. "How did Holy Friday break the jug?" he said at last.

"She began to dance with joy, and fell down with it."

"How have I wrested the empire from my brothers?"

The box now began to relate how Florea and Costan, as the emperor was now old and blind in both eyes, had gone to him and begged him to divide his kingdom between them. The emperor had replied that no one should rule the land except he who brought water from the Fairy Aurora's fountain. "As the brothers understood his meaning they went to old Birscha, who told them that you had been there, accomplished the feat, and set out on your way home. Your brothers consulted together and are now on their way to meet you, kill you, take the water from you, and reign over the country."

"You lie, you accursed box," cried Petru furiously, when he heard all this, and dashed the casket upon the ground so that it broke into seventy-seven pieces. He had not ridden much further, ere he saw the clouds of his own country, felt his native breezes, and beheld here and there, in the distance, one of the mountain peaks on the frontiers of his home. Petru stopped, that he might see more distinctly what it seemed to him that he only fancied he perceived.

He was just going to cross the bridge on the borders of the empire, when he thought he heard a distant sound, as though some one were calling him, and even shouting his name: "Ho! Petru!" He wanted to halt.

"Forward, forward," cried the bay. "You'll fare badly if you stop."

"No, no, stop! Let us see who and what it is, and what is wanted. Let me look the world in the face!" So saying, Petru turned the bay's bridle.

Oh, Petru, Petru! Who told you to stop? Wouldn't it be better for you to remember what Holy Thursday said to you? Wouldn't it be better for you to heed the bay's counsel? That's the way of the world, you can do nothing to change it!

When he turned, he saw his brother Florea and his brother Costan. They were both there, and approached Petru. Forward, Petru, hurry on! Or did not Holy Thursday tell you that you must enter into conversation with no one? Or do you no longer remember the tidings Holy Wednesday's box brought you? The brothers drew near with fair words and honey on their lips. What did Holy Thursday say? Petru, Petru, have you forgotten?

When Petru saw his dear brothers, he leaped from the bay's back and rushed into their arms. Dear me! how could he help it? How long it was since he had seen a human face or heard one word of human speech! The conversation flowed as it flows among brothers. Petru was gay and happy; Florea and Costan were full of sweet words, there was honey on their lips. Only the bay was sad and hung his head mournfully. After the brothers had talked a long time about the old emperor, the country, and Petru's journey, Florea began to frown.

"Brother Petru, this is a wicked world! -- wouldn't it be better for you to give us the water to carry? People will come to meet you, but nobody will know any thing about us, whence we come, where we are going, or what we have."

"Yes, indeed," said Costan, "Florea speaks sensibly."

Petru shook his head once or twice, and then told his brothers about his charmed handkerchief. They now perceived that there was only one way to kill the hero, so Florea began to talk to Petru over Costan's shoulders. About three stones'-throws off was a well of clear, cold water.

"Aren't you thirsty, Costan?" asked Florea, winking at Costan.

"Yes," replied Costan, understanding what Florea meant. "Come, Petru, let us quench our thirst, and then may God help us on our way. We'll follow you to protect you from annoyance and danger."

Don't go, Petru, don't go, or you'll fare badly! The bay horse neighed but once. Ah, but the hero did not understand. What happened then! What should happen? Nothing! -- 

The well was broad and deep.

The two brothers went home with the water, as if they had brought it from the Fairy Aurora.

The bay neighed again, so fiercely and mournfully that even the woods shook with fear, then rushed to the well and stood there paralyzed by grief.

This was the story of Petru, the brave, the heroic prince. It seems as if he were destined to arrive at an evil hour.

A banquet was held at the emperor's court, and all sorts of splendid ceremonies were arranged. All through the land went the news that the monarch's sons, Florea and Costan, had brought the water from the Fairy Aurora. The emperor washed his eyes with the water and saw as never mortal man had seen before. In the royal chamber behind the hearth stood a cask, and in the stave of this cask he saw a worm -- the emperor could see so well that he looked through the wood. After dividing the empire between his two brave sons, he retired to his large private estates to spend his old age in peace. So ended the story of the water from the Fairy Aurora's fountain. The country celebrated the event for three days and three nights, then the people went to work again as if nothing had happened.

After Petru had left the couch, the palace, and the court-yard, and the sound of his flute could no longer be heard, the Fairy Aurora recovered her consciousness, opened her eyes, raised her head, and looked around her in every direction as if searching for something, though she herself did not exactly know what.

"What was that?" she asked, half awake, half-dreaming -- "Who?"

It seemed to her as if she had seen something in a vision, -- no, in reality, -- something sweet and pleasant. A creature like a human being, but with a more commanding glance, something unlike any thing she had ever beheld before.

"Don't you know what it was? Did you see it too! Or, have you, too, been asleep, been dreaming?"

Such were the questions the Fairy Aurora asked her attendant fays and herself. She felt as if she had had a different soul ever since she saw this wonder. But no one answered her; every one was dumb with amazement.

The Fairy Aurora noticed the wreath: "What a beautiful garland! Who gathered the flowers for it, who twined them into a coronal, and who brought the wreath here and laid it on my couch?"

And the Fairy Aurora became sad.

She saw the bread on the table. Three mouthfuls were missing, one on the right side, one on the left and one out of the middle. It was the same with the wine of youth; three sips were missing, one from the top, one from the bottom, and one from the middle.

Somebody must have been there. The Fairy Aurora grew still more sorrowful; it seemed to her as if she missed something, yet she did not know what or where.

The water in the fountain was turbid. Water! Somebody has taken water away from here! And the Fairy Aurora was wrathful. How had any one been able to enter unperceived? Where were all the sharp-eyed guards? The giants, the dragons, the iron-shod lions, the fairies, the flowers, and the sun -- what had they all been doing? Nobody had watched! Had nobody been at his post? The Fairy Aurora now fell into a perfect rage. "Lions! Dragons! Giants! set forth, pursue, catch, seize and bring him back." Such were the orders of the Fairy Aurora in the fury of her wrath. The command was issued and set her whole realm in commotion, but Petru had fled so swiftly that not even the sunbeams could overtake him. All returned sorrowfully; all brought sad tidings. Petru had crossed the frontiers of the kingdom, had gone where the Fairy Aurora's guards possessed no power.

The fairy queen now forgot her anger in her grief, and sent forth the Sun to make seven days into one, to search, gaze, and bring tidings. During this seven-fold long day the Fairy Aurora did nothing but watch the course of the Sun; she gazed and gazed till the tears began to stream from her eyes, I don't know whether from looking so long or from her great sorrow and yearning.

Lo and behold! On the seventh day the Sun came home, -- red, tired, and sad. More bad news. Alas! Petru was where the sunbeams could not penetrate.

When the Fairy Aurora saw that this last trial had also been vain, she gave strict orders throughout her whole country that the fairies should no longer smile, the flowers no longer send forth fragrance, the breezes no longer blow, the springs no more pour forth clear waters, nor the sunbeams shine. Then she commanded that the black veil of darkness should be let down between the world and her empire, a veil so thick that only a single sunbeam should pierce it, to convey the tidings that the sun would not move through the sky until the person who had taken the water from the fountain should come. And this news went through the darkened world. The people agreed that the great light had been solely for the emperor's eye-sight. Nobody in the world saw except the emperor, nobody perceived the annoyances of the darkness except the emperor, and nobody was more unhappy than the emperor. So he advised and commanded his sons, Florea and Costan, to set out and free the world from darkness.

Whoever lies once, will lie a second time; Florea mounted his horse and rode by the way Petru had smoothed to the Fairy Aurora's kingdom. When he had nearly reached her court, the fairy felt that some stranger was approaching.

"Is any body coming?" she asked, rather sharply.

"Some one is coming," replied the dragons who mounted guard at the bridge.

"How is he coming? Over or under the bridge?"

The bridge was what we know. Florea passed under it.

"The hero is passing under the bridge!" replied the dragons, somewhat amused.

"See to him, or the light will become black to you," said the fairy, receiving Florea at his entrance. Florea was thrilled by the sight of so much beauty.

"Welcome, my hero! Did you steal the water?"

"Yes, you are right, I took it."

"Did you drink the wine?"

Florea remained silent.

"Did you eat the bread?"

"No," said Florea.

"Did you bite me?"

Florea was silent.

"Then may you lose your sight! I'll teach you to tell another falsehood!" said the fairy, angrily, giving Florea two cuffs, one on the right ear and the other on the left, till every thing grew as dark before his eyes as mortal sin. Two dragons led the blind prince out of the palace, and the matter was settled.

Costan now set out to follow his brother's example. He set out for the Fairy Aurora's palace, reached it, and fared just as Florea had done -- he, too, left it a blind man.

There was now not a single ray of light in the whole earth. The world was deprived of light on account of one emperor's eyes.

After the Fairy Aurora had found that she could not recover Petru, she summoned every one in her whole domain; the fairies, the flowers, in short, all her subjects. Even the sun himself was obliged to come down from the sky, unharness the horses from his chariot, lead them to the stable, and go to the Fairy Aurora's palace. When all were thus assembled, the beautiful queen gave them no further commands, but in her grief and suffering bade farewell to all her subjects, thanked them for their love and confidence, and sent them out into the world, that each one might act according to his own ideas, keeping only two lions, two large and two small dragons, and two giants, that she might have somebody to guard the bridge. She sent all the fairies into the garden, telling them not to come back to the court till she was happy once more, then gave orders that the flowers should henceforth cease to smell so sweet that every human being would carry them away, the winds wail so piteously that no mortal could help weeping to hear them, the springs send forth bitter waters, and the sun daily cast seven times seven cold rays into the world. After saying all these things, she went to the great wheel on which the threads of human life are wound, stopped it, so that it could no longer turn, and human existence became changeless. Then the Fairy Aurora hid herself from the world in the darkest and dreariest corner of her whole palace.

The big and little dragons and the giants went out into the wide world and hid themselves for very shame in the most secluded caves and deserts, so that they could no longer be seen by any human eye; the lions shook the gold from their manes, the iron from their teeth and paws, and became furious with rage; the fairies concealed themselves in the garden; the flowers, springs, and winds obeyed the Fairy Aurora's will; and the cold rays of the sun, lacking both warmth and light, can still be seen in the sky on summer nights. Human life was at a stand, time ceased to move. Two lions, two big and two little dragons, and two giants mounted guard at the bridge. How long the Fairy Aurora's kingdom remained in this state is not known and can not be told. Much time passed without moving.

Holy Friday, too, at last noticed that the Fairy Aurora was angry; the scanty sunbeams, and the whirlwinds which shook the whole world, had brought her the tidings. She was half angry, half pleased, -- angry because she could no longer see around her, and pleased because her brave, handsome prince had escaped and her beautiful neighbor was sorrowful. She was provoked, too, because her jug with the wonderful water was broken. But when Holy Friday saw that the darkness did not lessen, the light did not return, and even the very last sunbeam vanished from the earth, she realized that the Fairy Aurora was not jesting, and she ordered the whirlwinds to set out together and remove the great veil on the frontiers of the empire, that light might enter the world. The winds departed, each one more furious, more fierce, more terrible than the other -- as whirlwinds usually are. It seemed as if they were taking the world away with them, and meant to tarry on it no longer. They reached the veil and dashed against it. Oh, how strong they were! But the veil did not stir. The whirlwinds blew against it again and again, three times in succession, then they gave up the attempt. They saw that the veil was firmer than the earth itself. After lingering a few moments they returned, wearied and covered with disgrace, and once more circled around the earth in their wild rage. You can imagine what happened to every thing that came in their way. Nothing good at any rate. Alas! alas!

The whirlwinds returned to Holy Friday and told her about the veil. Holy Friday was now not only half-angry, but wholly enraged, so she sent the whirlwinds to the emperor's court to tell Petru he must intercede with the Fairy Aurora and promise to do whatever she asked, that light might return to the world. The whirlwinds set out again -- this time somewhat more slowly and peacefully, as people depart when engaged on a good errand to a friendly person. They reached the palace. Petru was not there. The whirlwinds began to act somewhat more willfully. Petru had perished on the way. The whirlwinds circled around the palace from the left, then from the right, then from the center, turned it, twisted it, raised it, and hurled it, till there was nothing left of it. Then they returned to Holy Friday's hut with the news of Petru's death.

"Go into the world, every one of you, move every thing that can be moved, and find Petru. Bring him to me dead or alive!" said Holy Friday, after she had heard the sad tidings.

For three days and three nights the whirlwinds did not stop blowing. Thrice they uprooted trees, drove the rivers from their beds, dispersed the clouds by beating them against the rocks, swept the bottom of the sea and destroyed the surface of the earth. It was all in vain. They came back to the house, each one more tired, angry and mortified than the other.

Only one still lingered: the Spring wind, the soft, lazy, warm Spring wind. What had become of him? They all knew that he could not have accomplished much. Who knows? Weary as he was, he had perhaps lain down somewhere in the shade. Nobody troubled his head any more about him. Suddenly, after a short time, when all were racking their brains to discover Petru, the leaves began to stir gently.

Holy Friday felt the soft air, and went out. "What news do you bring?" she asked the favorite of all the winds.

"Sad, very sad, yet good," -- whispered the young wind. "After I grew tired of so much searching, destroying, and pulling, I reached an empty well, and, being rid of my brothers, thought I would rest a while before setting off for home."

"And you found Petru at the bottom of the well?" cried Holy Friday, joyfully.

"Yes, and the bay by his side."

"May your speech be sweet, your breezes soft, and may you ever bring good tidings!" said Holy Friday; then she commanded him to hasten to Holy Thursday and tell her she must be ready with the gold crucible, for Petru was in a sad case: -- from there the Spring wind was to rush to Holy Wednesday and tell her she must come to the well with the water of life. "Do you understand?" said Holy Friday. "And go as fast as you can," and they all set off together.

They reached the deserted well. There was nothing left of Petru except bones and ashes. Holy Wednesday took the bones and fitted them together -- not a single one was missing. Holy Friday ordered the whirlwinds to search the bottom of the well, turn up all the dust, and collect Petru's ashes. This was done. Holy Thursday made a fire, gathered the dew from the flowers into the gold crucible, and set it on the flames. When the water began to boil, Holy Wednesday repeated three spells, looked once to the east, once to the west, once to the north, and once to the south, and threw the herb of life into the boiling water. Holy Friday did the same with Petru's ashes. Holy Thursday counted one, two, three, and took the crucible off the fire. Petru's ashes and the herb of life were made into a fragrant salve. The Spring wind blew upon it once and stiffened it, then Petru's bones were smeared with it seven times from head to foot, seven times from foot to head, seven times across one way, and seven times across the other, and, when this was done, up sprang the hero, a hundred thousand times handsomer, braver, and prouder than before.

"Jump on the horse!" said Holy Friday.

As soon as the bay felt his master on his back, he began to neigh and stamp. The animal was more spirited than ever.

"Where shall we go?" the horse asked gayly.

"Home," replied Petru.

"How shall we ride?"

"Like a curse."

Petru expressed his thanks for the service done him, and set off; he rode and rode as fleetly as a curse flies, till he came to the emperor's court.

Nothing was left of the palace except the ground where it had stood. No trace of any human being who could have uttered a word or given any tidings was to be found. At last old Birscha came out of a ruined cellar. Petru learned what had happened and its cause, turned his bay, and went back even more swiftly than he had come. He did not even stop to take breath until he reached the Fairy Aurora's kingdom. The time that had passed since every thing had been in the condition the queen had commanded, can not be told in words. It must have been a long period.

When Petru reached the bridge the sun had only three bright rays, seven warm, and nine cold ones left; all the others had gradually been lost.

The Fairy Aurora felt that some remarkable person must be coming, for it seemed just as it had done when she woke from the dream that had made her so sad. She was longing for something, she knew not what, just as she had then.

"Who is coming?" she asked in a low tone.

"Hold firmly, master," said the bay.

Petru struck in the spurs, drew the bridle, and felt nothing until he was on the other side of the bridge.

"The hero is coming! Over the bridge!" cried the guards, waving their hats in the air.

The Fairy Aurora did not stir nor speak.

Petru suddenly rushed up to her, clasped her in his arms, and kissed her -- just as fairy princes always kiss bewitching fairies.

The lovely fairy queen felt as she had never felt before. She said nothing more, asked no more questions, but made a sign to have the bay led into the stables of the sun, and entered the palace with Petru.

The fairies began to smile merrily, the flowers to smell sweetly, the springs to pour forth clear waters, the winds to blow cheerily, the wheel of life whirled faster than a top, the black veil fell, and the radiant sun rose high in the heavens, higher than it had ever done before. And in the world there was a light like the sun's, so that for nine years, nine months, and nine days it was so terribly bright that nothing could be seen.

Petru rode home, brought back his old father and mother, had a wedding so magnificent that tidings of it spread through ninety-nine countries, and became emperor of both kingdoms.

His brothers, Florea and Costan, had their sight restored so that they might witness Petru's happiness.

This, dear children, was the story of handsome Prince Petru and the Fairy Aurora, queen of the Land of the Sun.

Petru lived and reigned in peace and health, and who knows whether, by God's help, he may not be reigning still.

<eob>

Rainbow Valley

By

L. M. Montgomery



Chapter I. Home Again

It was a clear, apple-green evening in May, and Four Winds Harbour was mirroring back the clouds of the golden west between its softly dark shores. The sea moaned eerily on the sand-bar, sorrowful even in spring, but a sly, jovial wind came piping down the red harbour road along which Miss Cornelia's comfortable, matronly figure was making its way towards the village of Glen St. Mary. Miss Cornelia was rightfully Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and had been Mrs. Marshall Elliott for thirteen years, but even yet more people referred to her as Miss Cornelia than as Mrs. Elliott. The old name was dear to her old friends, only one of them contemptuously dropped it. Susan Baker, the gray and grim and faithful handmaiden of the Blythe family at Ingleside, never lost an opportunity of calling her "Mrs. Marshall Elliott," with the most killing and pointed emphasis, as if to say "You wanted to be Mrs. and Mrs. you shall be with a vengeance as far as I am concerned."

Miss Cornelia was going up to Ingleside to see Dr. and Mrs. Blythe, who were just home from Europe. They had been away for three months, having left in February to attend a famous medical congress in London; and certain things, which Miss Cornelia was anxious to discuss, had taken place in the Glen during their absence. For one thing, there was a new family in the manse. And such a family! Miss Cornelia shook her head over them several times as she walked briskly along.

Susan Baker and the Anne Shirley of other days saw her coming, as they sat on the big veranda at Ingleside, enjoying the charm of the cat's light, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples, and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing against the old, mellow, red brick wall of the lawn.

Anne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped over her knee, looking, in the kind dusk, as girlish as a mother of many has any right to be; and the beautiful gray-green eyes, gazing down the harbour road, were as full of unquenchable sparkle and dream as ever. Behind her, in the hammock, Rilla Blythe was curled up, a fat, roly-poly little creature of six years, the youngest of the Ingleside children. She had curly red hair and hazel eyes that were now buttoned up after the funny, wrinkled fashion in which Rilla always went to sleep.

Shirley, "the little brown boy," as he was known in the family "Who's Who," was asleep in Susan's arms. He was brown-haired, brown-eyed and brown-skinned, with very rosy cheeks, and he was Susan's especial love. After his birth Anne had been very ill for a long time, and Susan "mothered" the baby with a passionate tenderness which none of the other children, dear as they were to her, had ever called out. Dr. Blythe had said that but for her he would never have lived.

"I gave him life just as much as you did, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan was wont to say. "He is just as much my baby as he is yours." And, indeed, it was always to Susan that Shirley ran, to be kissed for bumps, and rocked to sleep, and protected from well-deserved spankings. Susan had conscientiously spanked all the other Blythe children when she thought they needed it for their souls' good, but she would not spank Shirley nor allow his mother to do it. Once, Dr. Blythe had spanked him and Susan had been stormily indignant.

"That man would spank an angel, Mrs. Dr. dear, that he would," she had declared bitterly; and she would not make the poor doctor a pie for weeks.

She had taken Shirley with her to her brother's home during his parents' absence, while all the other children had gone to Avonlea, and she had three blessed months of him all to herself. Nevertheless, Susan was very glad to find herself back at Ingleside, with all her darlings around her again. Ingleside was her world and in it she reigned supreme. Even Anne seldom questioned her decisions, much to the disgust of Mrs. Rachel Lynde of Green Gables, who gloomily told Anne, whenever she visited Four Winds, that she was letting Susan get to be entirely too much of a boss and would live to rue it.

"Here is Cornelia Bryant coming up the harbour road, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. "She will be coming up to unload three months' gossip on us."

"I hope so," said Anne, hugging her knees. "I'm starving for Glen St. Mary gossip, Susan. I hope Miss Cornelia can tell me everything that has happened while we've been away -- EVERYTHING -- who has got born, or married, or drunk; who has died, or gone away, or come, or fought, or lost a cow, or found a beau. It's so delightful to be home again with all the dear Glen folks, and I want to know all about them. Why, I remember wondering, as I walked through Westminster Abbey which of her two especial beaux Millicent Drew would finally marry. Do you know, Susan, I have a dreadful suspicion that I love gossip."

"Well, of course, Mrs. Dr. dear," admitted Susan, "every proper woman likes to hear the news. I am rather interested in Millicent Drew's case myself. I never had a beau, much less two, and I do not mind now, for being an old maid does not hurt when you get used to it. Millicent's hair always looks to me as if she had swept it up with a broom. But the men do not seem to mind that."

"They see only her pretty, piquant, mocking, little face, Susan."

"That may very well be, Mrs. Dr. dear. The Good Book says that favour is deceitful and beauty is vain, but I should not have minded finding that out for myself, if it had been so ordained. I have no doubt we will all be beautiful when we are angels, but what good will it do us then? Speaking of gossip, however, they do say that poor Mrs. Harrison Miller over harbour tried to hang herself last week."

"Oh, Susan!"

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Dr. dear. She did not succeed. But I really do not blame her for trying, for her husband is a terrible man. But she was very foolish to think of hanging herself and leaving the way clear for him to marry some other woman. If I had been in her shoes, Mrs. Dr. dear, I would have gone to work to worry him so that he would try to hang himself instead of me. Not that I hold with people hanging themselves under any circumstances, Mrs. Dr. dear."

"What is the matter with Harrison Miller, anyway?" said Anne impatiently. "He is always driving some one to extremes."

"Well, some people call it religion and some call it cussedness, begging your pardon, Mrs. Dr. dear, for using such a word. It seems they cannot make out which it is in Harrison's case. There are days when he growls at everybody because he thinks he is fore-ordained to eternal punishment. And then there are days when he says he does not care and goes and gets drunk. My own opinion is that he is not sound in his intellect, for none of that branch of the Millers were. His grandfather went out of his mind. He thought he was surrounded by big black spiders. They crawled over him and floated in the air about him. I hope I shall never go insane, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I do not think I will, because it is not a habit of the Bakers. But, if an all-wise Providence should decree it, I hope it will not take the form of big black spiders, for I loathe the animals. As for Mrs. Miller, I do not know whether she really deserves pity or not. There are some who say she just married Harrison to spite Richard Taylor, which seems to me a very peculiar reason for getting married. But then, of course, I am no judge of things matrimonial, Mrs. Dr. dear. And there is Cornelia Bryant at the gate, so I will put this blessed brown baby on his bed and get my knitting."



Chapter II. Sheer Gossip

"Where are the other children?" asked Miss Cornelia, when the first greetings -- cordial on her side, rapturous on Anne's, and dignified on Susan's -- were over.

"Shirley is in bed and Jem and Walter and the twins are down in their beloved Rainbow Valley," said Anne. "They just came home this afternoon, you know, and they could hardly wait until supper was over before rushing down to the valley. They love it above every spot on earth. Even the maple grove doesn't rival it in their affections."

"I am afraid they love it too well," said Susan gloomily. "Little Jem said once he would rather go to Rainbow Valley than to heaven when he died, and that was not a proper remark."

"I suppose they had a great time in Avonlea?" said Miss Cornelia.

"Enormous. Marilla does spoil them terribly. Jem, in particular, can do no wrong in her eyes."

"Miss Cuthbert must be an old lady now," said Miss Cornelia, getting out her knitting, so that she could hold her own with Susan. Miss Cornelia held that the woman whose hands were employed always had the advantage over the woman whose hands were not.

"Marilla is eighty-five," said Anne with a sigh. "Her hair is snow-white. But, strange to say, her eyesight is better than it was when she was sixty."

"Well, dearie, I'm real glad you're all back. I've been dreadful lonesome. But we haven't been dull in the Glen, believe ME. There hasn't been such an exciting spring in my time, as far as church matters go. We've got settled with a minister at last, Anne dearie."

"The Reverend John Knox Meredith, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, resolved not to let Miss Cornelia tell all the news.

"Is he nice?" asked Anne interestedly.

Miss Cornelia sighed and Susan groaned.

"Yes, he's nice enough if that were all," said the former. "He is VERY nice -- and very learned -- and very spiritual. But, oh Anne dearie, he has no common sense!

"How was it you called him, then?"

"Well, there's no doubt he is by far the best preacher we ever had in Glen St. Mary church," said Miss Cornelia, veering a tack or two. "I suppose it is because he is so moony and absent-minded that he never got a town call. His trial sermon was simply wonderful, believe ME. Every one went mad about it -- and his looks."

"He is VERY comely, Mrs. Dr. dear, and when all is said and done, I DO like to see a well-looking man in the pulpit," broke in Susan, thinking it was time she asserted herself again.

"Besides," said Miss Cornelia, "we were anxious to get settled. And Mr. Meredith was the first candidate we were all agreed on. Somebody had some objection to all the others. There was some talk of calling Mr. Folsom. He was a good preacher, too, but somehow people didn't care for his appearance. He was too dark and sleek."

"He looked exactly like a great black tomcat, that he did, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. "I never could abide such a man in the pulpit every Sunday."

"Then Mr. Rogers came and he was like a chip in porridge -- neither harm nor good," resumed Miss Cornelia. "But if he had preached like Peter and Paul it would have profited him nothing, for that was the day old Caleb Ramsay's sheep strayed into church and gave a loud 'ba-a-a' just as he announced his text. Everybody laughed, and poor Rogers had no chance after that. Some thought we ought to call Mr. Stewart, because he was so well educated. He could read the New Testament in five languages."

"But I do not think he was any surer than other men of getting to heaven because of that," interjected Susan.

"Most of us didn't like his delivery," said Miss Cornelia, ignoring Susan. "He talked in grunts, so to speak. And Mr. Arnett couldn't preach AT ALL. And he picked about the worst candidating text there is in the Bible -- 'Curse ye Meroz.'"

"Whenever he got stuck for an idea, he would bang the Bible and shout very bitterly, 'Curse ye Meroz.' Poor Meroz got thoroughly cursed that day, whoever he was, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan.

"The minister who is candidating can't be too careful what text he chooses," said Miss Cornelia solemnly. "I believe Mr. Pierson would have got the call if he had picked a different text. But when he announced 'I will lift my eyes to the hills' HE was done for. Every one grinned, for every one knew that those two Hill girls from the Harbour Head have been setting their caps for every single minister who came to the Glen for the last fifteen years. And Mr. Newman had too large a family."

"He stayed with my brother-in-law, James Clow," said Susan. "'How many children have you got?' I asked him. 'Nine boys and a sister for each of them,' he said. 'Eighteen!' said I. 'Dear me, what a family!' And then he laughed and laughed. But I do not know why, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I am certain that eighteen children would be too many for any manse."

"He had only ten children, Susan," explained Miss Cornelia, with contemptuous patience. "And ten good children would not be much worse for the manse and congregation than the four who are there now. Though I wouldn't say, Anne dearie, that they are so bad, either. I like them -- everybody likes them. It's impossible to help liking them. They would be real nice little souls if there was anyone to look after their manners and teach them what is right and proper. For instance, at school the teacher says they are model children. But at home they simply run wild."

"What about Mrs. Meredith?" asked Anne.

"There's NO Mrs. Meredith. That is just the trouble. Mr. Meredith is a widower. His wife died four years ago. If we had known that I don't suppose we would have called him, for a widower is even worse in a congregation than a single man. But he was heard to speak of his children and we all supposed there was a mother, too. And when they came there was nobody but old Aunt Martha, as they call her. She's a cousin of Mr. Meredith's mother, I believe, and he took her in to save her from the poorhouse. She is seventy-five years old, half blind, and very deaf and very cranky."

"And a very poor cook, Mrs. Dr. dear."

"The worst possible manager for a manse," said Miss Cornelia bitterly. "Mr. Meredith won't get any other housekeeper because he says it would hurt Aunt Martha's feelings. Anne dearie, believe me, the state of that manse is something terrible. Everything is thick with dust and nothing is ever in its place. And we had painted and papered it all so nice before they came."

"There are four children, you say?" asked Anne, beginning to mother them already in her heart.

"Yes. They run up just like the steps of a stair. Gerald's the oldest. He's twelve and they call him Jerry. He's a clever boy. Faith is eleven. She is a regular tomboy but pretty as a picture, I must say."

"She looks like an angel but she is a holy terror for mischief, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan solemnly. "I was at the manse one night last week and Mrs. James Millison was there, too. She had brought them up a dozen eggs and a little pail of milk -- a VERY little pail, Mrs. Dr. dear. Faith took them and whisked down the cellar with them. Near the bottom of the stairs she caught her toe and fell the rest of the way, milk and eggs and all. You can imagine the result, Mrs. Dr. dear. But that child came up laughing. 'I don't know whether I'm myself or a custard pie,' she said. And Mrs. James Millison was very angry. She said she would never take another thing to the manse if it was to be wasted and destroyed in that fashion."

"Maria Millison never hurt herself taking things to the manse," sniffed Miss Cornelia. "She just took them that night as an excuse for curiosity. But poor Faith is always getting into scrapes. She is so heedless and impulsive."

"Just like me. I'm going to like your Faith," said Anne decidedly.

"She is full of spunk -- and I do like spunk, Mrs. Dr. dear," admitted Susan.

"There's something taking about her," conceded Miss Cornelia. "You never see her but she's laughing, and somehow it always makes you want to laugh too. She can't even keep a straight face in church. Una is ten -- she's a sweet little thing -- not pretty, but sweet. And Thomas Carlyle is nine. They call him Carl, and he has a regular mania for collecting toads and bugs and frogs and bringing them into the house."

"I suppose he was responsible for the dead rat that was lying on a chair in the parlour the afternoon Mrs. Grant called. It gave her a turn," said Susan, "and I do not wonder, for manse parlours are no places for dead rats. To be sure it may have been the cat who left it, there. HE is as full of the old Nick as he can be stuffed, Mrs. Dr. dear. A manse cat should at least LOOK respectable, in my opinion, whatever he really is. But I never saw such a rakish-looking beast. And he walks along the ridgepole of the manse almost every evening at sunset, Mrs. Dr. dear, and waves his tail, and that is not becoming."

"The worst of it is, they are NEVER decently dressed," sighed Miss Cornelia. "And since the snow went they go to school barefooted. Now, you know Anne dearie, that isn't the right thing for manse children -- especially when the Methodist minister's little girl always wears such nice buttoned boots. And I DO wish they wouldn't play in the old Methodist graveyard."

"It's very tempting, when it's right beside the manse," said Anne. "I've always thought graveyards must be delightful places to play in."

"Oh, no, you did not, Mrs. Dr. dear," said loyal Susan, determined to protect Anne from herself. "You have too much good sense and decorum."

"Why did they ever build that manse beside the graveyard in the first place?" asked Anne. "Their lawn is so small there is no place for them to play except in the graveyard."

"It WAS a mistake," admitted Miss Cornelia. "But they got the lot cheap. And no other manse children ever thought of playing there. Mr. Meredith shouldn't allow it. But he has always got his nose buried in a book, when he is home. He reads and reads, or walks about in his study in a day-dream. So far he hasn't forgotten to be in church on Sundays, but twice he has forgotten about the prayer-meeting and one of the elders had to go over to the manse and remind him. And he forgot about Fanny Cooper's wedding. They rang him up on the 'phone and then he rushed right over, just as he was, carpet slippers and all. One wouldn't mind if the Methodists didn't laugh so about it. But there's one comfort -- they can't criticize his sermons. He wakes up when he's in the pulpit, believe ME. And the Methodist minister can't preach at all -- so they tell me. I have never heard him, thank goodness."

Miss Cornelia's scorn of men had abated somewhat since her marriage, but her scorn of Methodists remained untinged of charity. Susan smiled slyly.

"They do say, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that the Methodists and Presbyterians are talking of uniting," she said.

"Well, all I hope is that I'll be under the sod if that ever comes to pass," retorted Miss Cornelia. "I shall never have truck or trade with Methodists, and Mr. Meredith will find that he'd better steer clear of them, too. He is entirely too sociable with them, believe ME. Why, he went to the Jacob Drews' silver-wedding supper and got into a nice scrape as a result."

"What was it?"

"Mrs. Drew asked him to carve the roast goose -- for Jacob Drew never did or could carve. Well, Mr. Meredith tackled it, and in the process he knocked it clean off the platter into Mrs. Reese's lap, who was sitting next him. And he just said dreamily. 'Mrs. Reese, will you kindly return me that goose?' Mrs. Reese 'returned' it, as meek as Moses, but she must have been furious, for she had on her new silk dress. The worst of it is, she was a Methodist."

"But I think that is better than if she was a Presbyterian," interjected Susan. "If she had been a Presbyterian she would mostly likely have left the church and we cannot afford to lose our members. And Mrs. Reese is not liked in her own church, because she gives herself such great airs, so that the Methodists would be rather pleased that Mr. Meredith spoiled her dress."

"The point is, he made himself ridiculous, and I, for one, do not like to see my minister made ridiculous in the eyes of the Methodists," said Miss Cornelia stiffly. "If he had had a wife it would not have happened."

"I do not see if he had a dozen wives how they could have prevented Mrs. Drew from using up her tough old gander for the wedding-feast," said Susan stubbornly.

"They say that was her husband's doing," said Miss Cornelia. "Jacob Drew is a conceited, stingy, domineering creature."

"And they do say he and his wife detest each other -- which does not seem to me the proper way for married folks to get along. But then, of course, I have had no experience along that line," said Susan, tossing her head. "And I am not one to blame everything on the men. Mrs. Drew is mean enough herself. They say that the only thing she was ever known to give away was a crock of butter made out of cream a rat had fell into. She contributed it to a church social. Nobody found out about the rat until afterwards."

"Fortunately, all the people the Merediths have offended so far are Methodists," said Miss Cornelia. "That Jerry went to the Methodist prayer-meeting one night about a fortnight ago and sat beside old William Marsh who got up as usual and testified with fearful groans. 'Do you feel any better now?' whispered Jerry when William sat down. Poor Jerry meant to be sympathetic, but Mr. Marsh thought he was impertinent and is furious at him. Of course, Jerry had no business to be in a Methodist prayer-meeting at all. But they go where they like."

"I hope they will not offend Mrs. Alec Davis of the Harbour Head," said Susan. "She is a very touchy woman, I understand, but she is very well off and pays the most of any one to the salary. I have heard that she says the Merediths are the worst brought up children she ever saw."

"Every word you say convinces me more and more that the Merediths belong to the race that knows Joseph," said Mistress Anne decidedly.

"When all is said and done, they DO," admitted Miss Cornelia. "And that balances everything. Anyway, we've got them now and we must just do the best we can by them and stick up for them to the Methodists. Well, I suppose I must be getting down harbour. Marshall will soon be home -- he went over-harbour to-day -- and wanting his super, man-like. I'm sorry I haven't seen the other children. And where's the doctor?"

"Up at the Harbour Head. We've only been home three days and in that time he has spent three hours in his own bed and eaten two meals in his own house."

"Well, everybody who has been sick for the last six weeks has been waiting for him to come home -- and I don't blame them. When that over-harbour doctor married the undertaker's daughter at Lowbridge people felt suspicious of him. It didn't look well. You and the doctor must come down soon and tell us all about your trip. I suppose you've had a splendid time."

"We had," agreed Anne. "It was the fulfilment of years of dreams. The old world is very lovely and very wonderful. But we have come back very well satisfied with our own land. Canada is the finest country in the world, Miss Cornelia."

"Nobody ever doubted that," said Miss Cornelia, complacently.

"And old P.E.I. is the loveliest province in it and Four Winds the loveliest spot in P.E.I.," laughed Anne, looking adoringly out over the sunset splendour of glen and harbour and gulf. She waved her hand at it. "I saw nothing more beautiful than that in Europe, Miss Cornelia. Must you go? The children will be sorry to have missed you."

"They must come and see me soon. Tell them the doughnut jar is always full."

"Oh, at supper they were planning a descent on you. They'll go soon; but they must settle down to school again now. And the twins are going to take music lessons."

"Not from the Methodist minister's wife, I hope?" said Miss Cornelia anxiously.

"No -- from Rosemary West. I was up last evening to arrange it with her. What a pretty girl she is!"

"Rosemary holds her own well. She isn't as young as she once was."

"I thought her very charming. I've never had any real acquaintance with her, you know. Their house is so out of the way, and I've seldom ever seen her except at church."

"People always have liked Rosemary West, though they don't understand her," said Miss Cornelia, quite unconscious of the high tribute she was paying to Rosemary's charm. "Ellen has always kept her down, so to speak. She has tyrannized over her, and yet she has always indulged her in a good many ways. Rosemary was engaged once, you know -- to young Martin Crawford. His ship was wrecked on the Magdalens and all the crew were drowned. Rosemary was just a child -- only seventeen. But she was never the same afterwards. She and Ellen have stayed very close at home since their mother's death. They don't often get to their own church at Lowbridge and I understand Ellen doesn't approve of going too often to a Presbyterian church. To the Methodist she NEVER goes, I'll say that much for her. That family of Wests have always been strong Episcopalians. Rosemary and Ellen are pretty well off. Rosemary doesn't really need to give music lessons. She does it because she likes to. They are distantly related to Leslie, you know. Are the Fords coming to the harbour this summer?"

"No. They are going on a trip to Japan and will probably be away for a year. Owen's new novel is to have a Japanese setting. This will be the first summer that the dear old House of Dreams will be empty since we left it."

"I should think Owen Ford might find enough to write about in Canada without dragging his wife and his innocent children off to a heathen country like Japan," grumbled Miss Cornelia. "The Life Book was the best book he's ever written and he got the material for that right here in Four Winds."

"Captain Jim gave him the most of that, you know. And he collected it all over the world. But Owen's books are all delightful, I think."

"Oh, they're well enough as far as they go. I make it a point to read every one he writes, though I've always held, Anne dearie, that reading novels is a sinful waste of time. I shall write and tell him my opinion of this Japanese business, believe ME. Does he want Kenneth and Persis to be converted into pagans?"

With which unanswerable conundrum Miss Cornelia took her departure. Susan proceeded to put Rilla in bed and Anne sat on the veranda steps under the early stars and dreamed her incorrigible dreams and learned all over again for the hundredth happy time what a moonrise splendour and sheen could be on Four Winds Harbour.



Chapter III. The Ingleside Children

In daytime the Blythe children liked very well to play in the rich, soft greens and glooms of the big maple grove between Ingleside and the Glen St. Mary pond; but for evening revels there was no place like the little valley behind the maple grove. It was a fairy realm of romance to them. Once, looking from the attic windows of Ingleside, through the mist and aftermath of a summer thunderstorm, they had seen the beloved spot arched by a glorious rainbow, one end of which seemed to dip straight down to where a corner of the pond ran up into the lower end of the valley.

"Let us call it Rainbow Valley," said Walter delightedly, and Rainbow Valley thenceforth it was.

Outside of Rainbow Valley the wind might be rollicking and boisterous. Here it always went gently. Little, winding, fairy paths ran here and there over spruce roots cushioned with moss. Wild cherry trees, that in blossom time would be misty white, were scattered all over the valley, mingling with the dark spruces. A little brook with amber waters ran through it from the Glen village. The houses of the village were comfortably far away; only at the upper end of the valley was a little tumble-down, deserted cottage, referred to as "the old Bailey house." It had not been occupied for many years, but a grass-grown dyke surrounded it and inside was an ancient garden where the Ingleside children could find violets and daisies and June lilies still blooming in season. For the rest, the garden was overgrown with caraway that swayed and foamed in the moonshine of summer eves like seas of silver.

To the sought lay the pond and beyond it the ripened distance lost itself in purple woods, save where, on a high hill, a solitary old gray homestead looked down on glen and harbour. There was a certain wild woodsiness and solitude about Rainbow Valley, in spite of its nearness to the village, which endeared it to the children of Ingleside.

The valley was full of dear, friendly hollows and the largest of these was their favourite stamping ground. Here they were assembled on this particular evening. There was a grove of young spruces in this hollow, with a tiny, grassy glade in its heart, opening on the bank of the brook. By the brook grew a silver birch-tree, a young, incredibly straight thing which Walter had named the "White Lady." In this glade, too, were the "Tree Lovers," as Walter called a spruce and maple which grew so closely together that their boughs were inextricably intertwined. Jem had hung an old string of sleigh-bells, given him by the Glen blacksmith, on the Tree Lovers, and every visitant breeze called out sudden fairy tinkles from it.

"How nice it is to be back!" said Nan. "After all, none of the Avonlea places are quite as nice as Rainbow Valley."

But they were very fond of the Avonlea places for all that. A visit to Green Gables was always considered a great treat. Aunt Marilla was very good to them, and so was Mrs. Rachel Lynde, who was spending the leisure of her old age in knitting cotton-warp quilts against the day when Anne's daughters should need a "setting-out." There were jolly playmates there, too -- "Uncle" Davy's children and "Aunt" Diana's children. They knew all the spots their mother had loved so well in her girlhood at old Green Gables -- the long Lover's Lane, that was pink-hedged in wild-rose time, the always neat yard, with its willows and poplars, the Dryad's Bubble, lucent and lovely as of yore, the Lake of Shining Waters, and Willowmere. The twins had their mother's old porch-gable room, and Aunt Marilla used to come in at night, when she thought they were asleep, to gloat over them. But they all knew she loved Jem the best.

Jem was at present busily occupied in frying a mess of small trout which he had just caught in the pond. His stove consisted of a circle of red stones, with a fire kindled in it, and his culinary utensils were an old tin can, hammered out flat, and a fork with only one tine left. Nevertheless, ripping good meals had before now been thus prepared.

Jem was the child of the House of Dreams. All the others had been born at Ingleside. He had curly red hair, like his mother's, and frank hazel eyes, like his father's; he had his mother's fine nose and his father's steady, humorous mouth. And he was the only one of the family who had ears nice enough to please Susan. But he had a standing feud with Susan because she would not give up calling him Little Jem. It was outrageous, thought thirteen-year-old Jem. Mother had more sense.

"I'm NOT little any more, Mother," he had cried indignantly, on his eighth birthday. "I'm AWFUL big."

Mother had sighed and laughed and sighed again; and she never called him Little Jem again -- in his hearing at least.

He was and always had been a sturdy, reliable little chap. He never broke a promise. He was not a great talker. His teachers did not think him brilliant, but he was a good, all-round student. He never took things on faith; he always liked to investigate the truth of a statement for himself. Once Susan had told him that if he touched his tongue to a frosty latch all the skin would tear off it. Jem had promptly done it, "just to see if it was so." He found it was "so," at the cost of a very sore tongue for several days. But Jem did not grudge suffering in the interests of science. By constant experiment and observation he learned a great deal and his brothers and sisters thought his extensive knowledge of their little world quite wonderful. Jem always knew where the first and ripest berries grew, where the first pale violets shyly wakened from their winter's sleep, and how many blue eggs were in a given robin's nest in the maple grove. He could tell fortunes from daisy petals and suck honey from red clovers, and grub up all sorts of edible roots on the banks of the pond, while Susan went in daily fear that they would all be poisoned. He knew where the finest spruce-gum was to be found, in pale amber knots on the lichened bark, he knew where the nuts grew thickest in the beechwoods around the Harbour Head, and where the best trouting places up the brooks were. He could mimic the call of any wild bird or beast in Four Winds and he knew the haunt of every wild flower from spring to autumn.

Walter Blythe was sitting under the White Lady, with a volume of poems lying beside him, but he was not reading. He was gazing now at the emerald-misted willows by the pond, and now at a flock of clouds, like little silver sheep, herded by the wind, that were drifting over Rainbow Valley, with rapture in his wide splendid eyes. Walter's eyes were very wonderful. All the joy and sorrow and laughter and loyalty and aspiration of many generations lying under the sod looked out of their dark gray depths.

Walter was a "hop out of kin," as far as looks went. He did not resemble any known relative. He was quite the handsomest of the Ingleside children, with straight black hair and finely modelled features. But he had all his mother's vivid imagination and passionate love of beauty. Frost of winter, invitation of spring, dream of summer and glamour of autumn, all meant much to Walter.

In school, where Jem was a chieftain, Walter was not thought highly of. He was supposed to be "girly" and milk-soppish, because he never fought and seldom joined in the school sports, preferring to herd by himself in out of the way corners and read books -- especially "po'try books." Walter loved the poets and pored over their pages from the time he could first read. Their music was woven into his growing soul -- the music of the immortals. Walter cherished the ambition to be a poet himself some day. The thing could be done. A certain Uncle Paul -- so called out of courtesy -- who lived now in that mysterious realm called "the States," was Walter's model. Uncle Paul had once been a little school boy in Avonlea and now his poetry was read everywhere. But the Glen schoolboys did not know of Walter's dreams and would not have been greatly impressed if they had. In spite of his lack of physical prowess, however, he commanded a certain unwilling respect because of his power of "talking book talk." Nobody in Glen St. Mary school could talk like him. He "sounded like a preacher," one boy said; and for this reason he was generally left alone and not persecuted, as most boys were who were suspected of disliking or fearing fisticuffs.

The ten year old Ingleside twins violated twin tradition by not looking in the least alike. Anne, who was always called Nan, was very pretty, with velvety nut-brown eyes and silky nut-brown hair. She was a very blithe and dainty little maiden -- Blythe by name and blithe by nature, one of her teachers had said. Her complexion was quite faultless, much to her mother's satisfaction.

"I'm so glad I have one daughter who can wear pink," Mrs. Blythe was wont to say jubilantly.

Diana Blythe, known as Di, was very like her mother, with gray-green eyes that always shone with a peculiar lustre and brilliancy in the dusk, and red hair. Perhaps this was why she was her father's favourite. She and Walter were especial chums; Di was the only one to whom he would ever read the verses he wrote himself -- the only one who knew that he was secretly hard at work on an epic, strikingly resembling "Marmion" in some things, if not in others. She kept all his secrets, even from Nan, and told him all hers.

"Won't you soon have those fish ready, Jem?" said Nan, sniffing with her dainty nose. "The smell makes me awfully hungry."

"They're nearly ready," said Jem, giving one a dexterous turn. "Get out the bread and the plates, girls. Walter, wake up."

"How the air shines to-night," said Walter dreamily. Not that he despised fried trout either, by any means; but with Walter food for the soul always took first place. "The flower angel has been walking over the world to-day, calling to the flowers. I can see his blue wings on that hill by the woods."

"Any angels' wings I ever saw were white," said Nan.

"The flower angel's aren't. They are a pale misty blue, just like the haze in the valley. Oh, how I wish I could fly. It must be glorious."

"One does fly in dreams sometimes," said Di.

"I never dream that I'm flying exactly," said Walter. "But I often dream that I just rise up from the ground and float over the fences and the trees. It's delightful -- and I always think, 'This ISN'T a dream like it's always been before. THIS is real' -- and then I wake up after all, and it's heart-breaking."

"Hurry up, Nan," ordered Jem.

Nan had produced the banquet-board -- a board literally as well as figuratively -- from which many a feast, seasoned as no viands were elsewhere, had been eaten in Rainbow Valley. It was converted into a table by propping it on two large, mossy stones. Newspapers served as tablecloth, and broken plates and handleless cups from Susan's discard furnished the dishes. From a tin box secreted at the root of a spruce tree Nan brought forth bread and salt. The brook gave Adam's ale of unsurpassed crystal. For the rest, there was a certain sauce, compounded of fresh air and appetite of youth, which gave to everything a divine flavour. To sit in Rainbow Valley, steeped in a twilight half gold, half amethyst, rife with the odours of balsam-fir and woodsy growing things in their springtime prime, with the pale stars of wild strawberry blossoms all around you, and with the sough of the wind and tinkle of bells in the shaking tree tops, and eat fried trout and dry bread, was something which the mighty of earth might have envied them.

"Sit in," invited Nan, as Jem placed his sizzling tin platter of trout on the table. "It's your turn to say grace, Jem."

"I've done my part frying the trout," protested Jem, who hated saying grace. "Let Walter say it. He LIKES saying grace. And cut it short, too, Walt. I'm starving."

But Walter said no grace, short or long, just then. An interruption occurred.

"Who's coming down from the manse hill?" said Di.



Chapter IV. The Manse Children

Aunt Martha might be, and was, a very poor housekeeper; the Rev. John Knox Meredith might be, and was, a very absent-minded, indulgent man. But it could not be denied that there was something very homelike and lovable about the Glen St. Mary manse in spite of its untidiness. Even the critical housewives of the Glen felt it, and were unconsciously mellowed in judgment because of it. Perhaps its charm was in part due to accidental circumstances -- the luxuriant vines clustering over its gray, clap-boarded walls, the friendly acacias and balm-of-gileads that crowded about it with the freedom of old acquaintance, and the beautiful views of harbour and sand-dunes from its front windows. But these things had been there in the reign of Mr. Meredith's predecessor, when the manse had been the primmest, neatest, and dreariest house in the Glen. So much of the credit must be given to the personality of its new inmates. There was an atmosphere of laughter and comradeship about it; the doors were always open; and inner and outer worlds joined hands. Love was the only law in Glen St. Mary manse.

The people of his congregation said that Mr. Meredith spoiled his children. Very likely he did. It is certain that he could not bear to scold them. "They have no mother," he used to say to himself, with a sigh, when some unusually glaring peccadillo forced itself upon his notice. But he did not know the half of their goings-on. He belonged to the sect of dreamers. The windows of his study looked out on the graveyard but, as he paced up and down the room, reflecting deeply on the immortality of the soul, he was quite unaware that Jerry and Carl were playing leap-frog hilariously over the flat stones in that abode of dead Methodists. Mr. Meredith had occasional acute realizations that his children were not so well looked after, physically or morally, as they had been before his wife died, and he had always a dim sub-consciousness that house and meals were very different under Aunt Martha's management from what they had been under Cecilia's. For the rest, he lived in a world of books and abstractions; and, therefore, although his clothes were seldom brushed, and although the Glen housewives concluded, from the ivory-like pallor of his clear-cut features and slender hands, that he never got enough to eat, he was not an unhappy man.

If ever a graveyard could be called a cheerful place, the old Methodist graveyard at Glen St. Mary might be so called. The new graveyard, at the other side of the Methodist church, was a neat and proper and doleful spot; but the old one had been left so long to Nature's kindly and gracious ministries that it had become very pleasant.

It was surrounded on three sides by a dyke of stones and sod, topped by a gray and uncertain paling. Outside the dyke grew a row of tall fir trees with thick, balsamic boughs. The dyke, which had been built by the first settlers of the Glen, was old enough to be beautiful, with mosses and green things growing out of its crevices, violets purpling at its base in the early spring days, and asters and golden-rod making an autumnal glory in its corners. Little ferns clustered companionably between its stones, and here and there a big bracken grew.

On the eastern side there was neither fence nor dyke. The graveyard there straggled off into a young fir plantation, ever pushing nearer to the graves and deepening eastward into a thick wood. The air was always full of the harp-like voices of the sea, and the music of gray old trees, and in the spring mornings the choruses of birds in the elms around the two churches sang of life and not of death. The Meredith children loved the old graveyard.

Blue-eyed ivy, "garden-spruce," and mint ran riot over the sunken graves. Blueberry bushes grew lavishly in the sandy corner next to the fir wood. The varying fashions of tombstones for three generations were to be found there, from the flat, oblong, red sandstone slabs of old settlers, down through the days of weeping willows and clasped hands, to the latest monstrosities of tall "monuments" and draped urns. One of the latter, the biggest and ugliest in the graveyard, was sacred to the memory of a certain Alec Davis who had been born a Methodist but had taken to himself a Presbyterian bride of the Douglas clan. She had made him turn Presbyterian and kept him toeing the Presbyterian mark all his life. But when he died she did not dare to doom him to a lonely grave in the Presbyterian graveyard over-harbour. His people were all buried in the Methodist cemetery; so Alec Davis went back to his own in death and his widow consoled herself by erecting a monument which cost more than any of the Methodists could afford. The Meredith children hated it, without just knowing why, but they loved the old, flat, bench-like stones with the tall grasses growing rankly about them. They made jolly seats for one thing. They were all sitting on one now. Jerry, tired of leap frog, was playing on a jew's-harp. Carl was lovingly poring over a strange beetle he had found; Una was trying to make a doll's dress, and Faith, leaning back on her slender brown wrists, was swinging her bare feet in lively time to the jew's-harp.

Jerry had his father's black hair and large black eyes, but in him the latter were flashing instead of dreamy. Faith, who came next to him, wore her beauty like a rose, careless and glowing. She had golden-brown eyes, golden-brown curls and crimson cheeks. She laughed too much to please her father's congregation and had shocked old Mrs. Taylor, the disconsolate spouse of several departed husbands, by saucily declaring -- in the church-porch at that -- "The world ISN'T a vale of tears, Mrs. Taylor. It's a world of laughter."

Little dreamy Una was not given to laughter. Her braids of straight, dead-black hair betrayed no lawless kinks, and her almond-shaped, dark-blue eyes had something wistful and sorrowful in them. Her mouth had a trick of falling open over her tiny white teeth, and a shy, meditative smile occasionally crept over her small face. She was much more sensitive to public opinion than Faith, and had an uneasy consciousness that there was something askew in their way of living. She longed to put it right, but did not know how. Now and then she dusted the furniture -- but it was so seldom she could find the duster because it was never in the same place twice. And when the clothes-brush was to be found she tried to brush her father's best suit on Saturdays, and once sewed on a missing button with coarse white thread. When Mr. Meredith went to church next day every female eye saw that button and the peace of the Ladies' Aid was upset for weeks.

Carl had the clear, bright, dark-blue eyes, fearless and direct, of his dead mother, and her brown hair with its glints of gold. He knew the secrets of bugs and had a sort of freemasonry with bees and beetles. Una never liked to sit near him because she never knew what uncanny creature might be secreted about him. Jerry refused to sleep with him because Carl had once taken a young garter snake to bed with him; so Carl slept in his old cot, which was so short that he could never stretch out, and had strange bed-fellows. Perhaps it was just as well that Aunt Martha was half blind when she made that bed. Altogether they were a jolly, lovable little crew, and Cecilia Meredith's heart must have ached bitterly when she faced the knowledge that she must leave them.

"Where would you like to be buried if you were a Methodist?" asked Faith cheerfully.

This opened up an interesting field of speculation.

"There isn't much choice. The place is full," said Jerry. "I'D like that corner near the road, I guess. I could hear the teams going past and the people talking."

"I'd like that little hollow under the weeping birch," said Una. "That birch is such a place for birds and they sing like mad in the mornings."

"I'd take the Porter lot where there's so many children buried. I like lots of company," said Faith. "Carl, where'd you?"

"I'd rather not be buried at all," said Carl, "but if I had to be I'd like the ant-bed. Ants are AWF'LY int'resting."

"How very good all the people who are buried here must have been," said Una, who had been reading the laudatory old epitaphs. "There doesn't seem to be a single bad person in the whole graveyard. Methodists must be better than Presbyterians after all."

"Maybe the Methodists bury their bad people just like they do cats," suggested Carl. "Maybe they don't bother bringing them to the graveyard at all."

"Nonsense," said Faith. "The people that are buried here weren't any better than other folks, Una. But when anyone is dead you mustn't say anything of him but good or he'll come back and ha'nt you. Aunt Martha told me that. I asked father if it was true and he just looked through me and muttered, 'True? True? What is truth? What IS truth, O jesting Pilate?' I concluded from that it must be true."

"I wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and ha'nt me if I threw a stone at the urn on top of his tombstone," said Jerry.

"Mrs. Davis would," giggled Faith. "She just watches us in church like a cat watching mice. Last Sunday I made a face at her nephew and he made one back at me and you should have seen her glare. I'll bet she boxed HIS ears when they got out. Mrs. Marshall Elliott told me we mustn't offend her on any account or I'd have made a face at her, too!"

"They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her once and she would never have his father again, even when her husband was dying," said Jerry. "I wonder what the Blythe gang will be like."

"I liked their looks," said Faith. The manse children had been at the station that afternoon when the Blythe small fry had arrived. "I liked Jem's looks ESPECIALLY."

"They say in school that Walter's a sissy," said Jerry.

"I don't believe it," said Una, who had thought Walter very handsome.

"Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won the prize the teacher offered last year for writing a poem, Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me. Bertie's mother thought HE should have got the prize because of his name, but Bertie said he couldn't write poetry to save his soul, name or no name."

"I suppose we'll get acquainted with them as soon as they begin going to school," mused Faith. "I hope the girls are nice. I don't like most of the girls round here. Even the nice ones are poky. But the Blythe twins look jolly. I thought twins always looked alike, but they don't. I think the red-haired one is the nicest."

"I liked their mother's looks," said Una with a little sigh. Una envied all children their mothers. She had been only six when her mother died, but she had some very precious memories, treasured in her soul like jewels, of twilight cuddlings and morning frolics, of loving eyes, a tender voice, and the sweetest, gayest laugh.

"They say she isn't like other people," said Jerry.

"Mrs. Elliot says that is because she never really grew up," said Faith.

"She's taller than Mrs. Elliott."

"Yes, yes, but it is inside -- Mrs. Elliot says Mrs. Blythe just stayed a little girl inside."

"What do I smell?" interrupted Carl, sniffing.

They all smelled it now. A most delectable odour came floating up on the still evening air from the direction of the little woodsy dell below the manse hill.

"That makes me hungry," said Jerry.

"We had only bread and molasses for supper and cold ditto for dinner," said Una plaintively.

Aunt Martha's habit was to boil a large slab of mutton early in the week and serve it up every day, cold and greasy, as long as it lasted. To this Faith, in a moment of inspiration, had give the name of "ditto", and by this it was invariably known at the manse.

"Let's go and see where that smell is coming from," said Jerry.

They all sprang up, frolicked over the lawn with the abandon of young puppies, climbed a fence, and tore down the mossy slope, guided by the savory lure that ever grew stronger. A few minutes later they arrived breathlessly in the sanctum sanctorum of Rainbow Valley where the Blythe children were just about to give thanks and eat.

They halted shyly. Una wished they had not been so precipitate: but Di Blythe was equal to that and any occasion. She stepped forward, with a comrade's smile.

"I guess I know who you are," she said. "You belong to the manse, don't you?"

Faith nodded, her face creased by dimples.

"We smelled your trout cooking and wondered what it was."

"You must sit down and help us eat them," said Di.

"Maybe you haven't more than you want yourselves," said Jerry, looking hungrily at the tin platter.

"We've heaps -- three apiece," said Jem. "Sit down."

No more ceremony was necessary. Down they all sat on mossy stones. Merry was that feast and long. Nan and Di would probably have died of horror had they known what Faith and Una knew perfectly well -- that Carl had two young mice in his jacket pocket. But they never knew it, so it never hurt them. Where can folks get better acquainted than over a meal table? When the last trout had vanished, the manse children and the Ingleside children were sworn friends and allies. They had always known each other and always would. The race of Joseph recognized its own.

They poured out the history of their little pasts. The manse children heard of Avonlea and Green Gables, of Rainbow Valley traditions, and of the little house by the harbour shore where Jem had been born. The Ingleside children heard of Maywater, where the Merediths had lived before coming to the Glen, of Una's beloved, one-eyed doll and Faith's pet rooster.

Faith was inclined to resent the fact that people laughed at her for petting a rooster. She liked the Blythes because they accepted it without question.

"A handsome rooster like Adam is just as nice a pet as a dog or cat, I think," she said. "If he was a canary nobody would wonder. And I brought him up from a little, wee, yellow chicken. Mrs. Johnson at Maywater gave him to me. A weasel had killed all his brothers and sisters. I called him after her husband. I never liked dolls or cats. Cats are too sneaky and dolls are DEAD."

"Who lives in that house away up there?" asked Jerry.

"The Miss Wests -- Rosemary and Ellen," answered Nan. "Di and I are going to take music lessons from Miss Rosemary this summer."

Una gazed at the lucky twins with eyes whose longing was too gentle for envy. Oh, if she could only have music lessons! It was one of the dreams of her little hidden life. But nobody ever thought of such a thing.

"Miss Rosemary is so sweet and she always dresses so pretty," said Di. "Her hair is just the colour of new molasses taffy," she added wistfully -- for Di, like her mother before her, was not resigned to her own ruddy tresses.

"I like Miss Ellen, too," said Nan. "She always used to give me candies when she came to church. But Di is afraid of her."

"Her brows are so black and she has such a great deep voice," said Di. "Oh, how scared of her Kenneth Ford used to be when he was little! Mother says the first Sunday Mrs. Ford brought him to church Miss Ellen happened to be there, sitting right behind them. And the minute Kenneth saw her he just screamed and screamed until Mrs. Ford had to carry him out."

"Who is Mrs. Ford?" asked Una wonderingly.

"Oh, the Fords don't live here. They only come here in the summer. And they're not coming this summer. They live in that little house 'way, 'way down on the harbour shore where father and mother used to lie. I wish you could see Persis Ford. She is just like a picture."

"I've heard of Mrs. Ford," broke in Faith. "Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me about her. She was married fourteen years to a dead man and then he came to life."

"Nonsense," said Nan. "That isn't the way it goes at all. Bertie Shakespeare can never get anything straight. I know the whole story and I'll tell it to you some time, but not now, for it's too long and it's time for us to go home. Mother doesn't like us to be out late these damp evenings."

Nobody cared whether the manse children were out in the damp or not. Aunt Martha was already in bed and the minister was still too deeply lost in speculations concerning the immortality of the soul to remember the mortality of the body. But they went home, too, with visions of good times coming in their heads.

"I think Rainbow Valley is even nicer than the graveyard," said Una. "And I just love those dear Blythes. It's SO nice when you can love people because so often you CAN'T. Father said in his sermon last Sunday that we should love everybody. But how can we? How could we love Mrs. Alec Davis?"

"Oh, father only said that in the pulpit," said Faith airily. "He has more sense than to really think it outside."

The Blythe children went up to Ingleside, except Jem, who slipped away for a few moments on a solitary expedition to a remote corner of Rainbow Valley. Mayflowers grew there and Jem never forgot to take his mother a bouquet as long as they lasted.



Chapter V. The Advent Of Mary Vance

"This is just the sort of day you feel as if things might happen," said Faith, responsive to the lure of crystal air and blue hills. She hugged herself with delight and danced a hornpipe on old Hezekiah Pollock's bench tombstone, much to the horror of two ancient maidens who happened to be driving past just as Faith hopped on one foot around the stone, waving the other and her arms in the air.

"And that," groaned one ancient maiden, "is our minister's daughter."

"What else could you expect of a widower's family?" groaned the other ancient maiden. And then they both shook their heads.

It was early on Saturday morning and the Merediths were out in the dew-drenched world with a delightful consciousness of the holiday. They had never had anything to do on a holiday. Even Nan and Di Blythe had certain household tasks for Saturday mornings, but the daughters of the manse were free to roam from blushing morn to dewy eve if so it pleased them. It DID please Faith, but Una felt a secret, bitter humiliation because they never learned to do anything. The other girls in her class at school could cook and sew and knit; she only was a little ignoramus.

Jerry suggested that they go exploring; so they went lingeringly through the fir grove, picking up Carl on the way, who was on his knees in the dripping grass studying his darling ants. Beyond the grove they came out in Mr. Taylor's pasture field, sprinkled over with the white ghosts of dandelions; in a remote corner was an old tumbledown barn, where Mr. Taylor sometimes stored his surplus hay crop but which was never used for any other purpose. Thither the Meredith children trooped, and prowled about the ground floor for several minutes.

"What was that?" whispered Una suddenly.

They all listened. There was a faint but distinct rustle in the hayloft above. The Merediths looked at each other.

"There's something up there," breathed Faith.

"I'm going up to see what it is," said Jerry resolutely.

"Oh, don't," begged Una, catching his arm.

"I'm going."

"We'll all go, too, then," said Faith.

The whole four climbed the shaky ladder, Jerry and Faith quite dauntless, Una pale from fright, and Carl rather absent-mindedly speculating on the possibility of finding a bat up in the loft. He longed to see a bat in daylight.

When they stepped off the ladder they saw what had made the rustle and the sight struck them dumb for a few moments.

In a little nest in the hay a girl was curled up, looking as if she had just wakened from sleep. When she saw them she stood up, rather shakily, as it seemed, and in the bright sunlight that streamed through the cobwebbed window behind her, they saw that her thin, sunburned face was very pale under its tan. She had two braids of lank, thick, tow-coloured hair and very odd eyes -- "white eyes," the manse children thought, as she stared at them half defiantly, half piteously. They were really of so pale a blue that they did seem almost white, especially when contrasted with the narrow black ring that circled the iris. She was barefooted and bareheaded, and was clad in a faded, ragged, old plaid dress, much too short and tight for her. As for years, she might have been almost any age, judging from her wizened little face, but her height seemed to be somewhere in the neighbourhood of twelve.

"Who are you?" asked Jerry.

The girl looked about her as if seeking a way of escape. Then she seemed to give in with a little shiver of despair.

"I'm Mary Vance," she said.

"Where'd you come from?" pursued Jerry.

Mary, instead of replying, suddenly sat, or fell, down on the hay and began to cry. Instantly Faith had flung herself down beside her and put her arm around the thin, shaking shoulders.

"You stop bothering her," she commanded Jerry. Then she hugged the waif. "Don't cry, dear. Just tell us what's the matter. WE'RE friends."

"I'm so -- so -- hungry," wailed Mary. "I -- I hain't had a thing to eat since Thursday morning, 'cept a little water from the brook out there."

The manse children gazed at each other in horror. Faith sprang up.

"You come right up to the manse and get something to eat before you say another word."

Mary shrank.

"Oh -- I can't. What will your pa and ma say? Besides, they'd send me back."

"We've no mother, and father won't bother about you. Neither will Aunt Martha. Come, I say." Faith stamped her foot impatiently. Was this queer girl going to insist on starving to death almost at their very door?

Mary yielded. She was so weak that she could hardly climb down the ladder, but somehow they got her down and over the field and into the manse kitchen. Aunt Martha, muddling through her Saturday cooking, took no notice of her. Faith and Una flew to the pantry and ransacked it for such eatables as it contained -- some "ditto," bread, butter, milk and a doubtful pie. Mary Vance attacked the food ravenously and uncritically, while the manse children stood around and watched her. Jerry noticed that she had a pretty mouth and very nice, even, white teeth. Faith decided, with secret horror, that Mary had not one stitch on her except that ragged, faded dress. Una was full of pure pity, Carl of amused wonder, and all of them of curiosity.

"Now come out to the graveyard and tell us about yourself," ordered Faith, when Mary's appetite showed signs of failing her. Mary was now nothing loath. Food had restored her natural vivacity and unloosed her by no means reluctant tongue.

"You won't tell your pa or anybody if I tell you?" she stipulated, when she was enthroned on Mr. Pollock's tombstone. Opposite her the manse children lined up on another. Here was spice and mystery and adventure. Something HAD happened.

"No, we won't."

"Cross your hearts?"

"Cross our hearts."

"Well, I've run away. I was living with Mrs. Wiley over-harbour. Do you know Mrs. Wiley?"

"No."

"Well, you don't want to know her. She's an awful woman. My, how I hate her! She worked me to death and wouldn't give me half enough to eat, and she used to larrup me 'most every day. Look a-here."

Mary rolled up her ragged sleeves, and held up her scrawny arms and thin hands, chapped almost to rawness. They were black with bruises. The manse children shivered. Faith flushed crimson with indignation. Una's blue eyes filled with tears.

"She licked me Wednesday night with a stick," said Mary, indifferently. "It was 'cause I let the cow kick over a pail of milk. How'd I know the darn old cow was going to kick?"

A not unpleasant thrill ran over her listeners. They would never dream of using such dubious words, but it was rather titivating to hear someone else use them -- and a girl, at that. Certainly this Mary Vance was an interesting creature.

"I don't blame you for running away," said Faith.

"Oh, I didn't run away 'cause she licked me. A licking was all in the day's work with me. I was darn well used to it. Nope, I'd meant to run away for a week 'cause I'd found out that Mrs. Wiley was going to rent her farm and go to Lowbridge to live and give me to a cousin of hers up Charlottetown way. I wasn't going to stand for THAT. She was a worse sort than Mrs. Wiley even. Mrs. Wiley lent me to her for a month last summer and I'd rather live with the devil himself."

Sensation number two. But Una looked doubtful.

"So I made up my mind I'd beat it. I had seventy cents saved up that Mrs. John Crawford give me in the spring for planting potatoes for her. Mrs. Wiley didn't know about it. She was away visiting her cousin when I planted them. I thought I'd sneak up here to the Glen and buy a ticket to Charlottetown and try to get work there. I'm a hustler, let me tell you. There ain't a lazy bone in MY body. So I lit out Thursday morning 'fore Mrs. Wiley was up and walked to the Glen -- six miles. And when I got to the station I found I'd lost my money. Dunno how -- dunno where. Anyhow, it was gone. I didn't know what to do. If I went back to old Lady Wiley she'd take the hide off me. So I went and hid in that old barn."

"And what will you do now?" asked Jerry.

"Dunno. I s'pose I'll have to go back and take my medicine. Now that I've got some grub in my stomach I guess I can stand it."

But there was fear behind the bravado in Mary's eyes. Una suddenly slipped from the one tombstone to the other and put her arm about Mary.

"Don't go back. Just stay here with us."

"Oh, Mrs. Wiley'll hunt me up," said Mary. "It's likely she's on my trail before this. I might stay here till she finds me, I s'pose, if your folks don't mind. I was a darn fool ever to think of skipping out. She'd run a weasel to earth. But I was so misrebul."

Mary's voice quivered, but she was ashamed of showing her weakness.

"I hain't had the life of a dog for these four years," she explained defiantly.

"You've been four years with Mrs. Wiley?"

"Yip. She took me out of the asylum over in Hopetown when I was eight."

"That's the same place Mrs. Blythe came from," exclaimed Faith.

"I was two years in the asylum. I was put there when I was six. My ma had hung herself and my pa had cut his throat."

"Holy cats! Why?" said Jerry.

"Booze," said Mary laconically.

"And you've no relations?"

"Not a darn one that I know of. Must have had some once, though. I was called after half a dozen of them. My full name is Mary Martha Lucilla Moore Ball Vance. Can you beat that? My grandfather was a rich man. I'll bet he was richer than YOUR grandfather. But pa drunk it all up and ma, she did her part. THEY used to beat me, too. Laws, I've been licked so much I kind of like it."

Mary tossed her head. She divined that the manse children were pitying her for her many stripes and she did not want pity. She wanted to be envied. She looked gaily about her. Her strange eyes, now that the dullness of famine was removed from them, were brilliant. She would show these youngsters what a personage she was.

"I've been sick an awful lot," she said proudly. "There's not many kids could have come through what I have. I've had scarlet fever and measles and ersipelas and mumps and whooping cough and pewmonia."

"Were you ever fatally sick?" asked Una.

"I don't know," said Mary doubtfully.

"Of course she wasn't," scoffed Jerry. "If you're fatally sick you die."

"Oh, well, I never died exactly," said Mary, "but I come blamed near it once. They thought I was dead and they were getting ready to lay me out when I up and come to."

"What is it like to be half dead?" asked Jerry curiously.

"Like nothing. I didn't know it for days afterwards. It was when I had the pewmonia. Mrs. Wiley wouldn't have the doctor -- said she wasn't going to no such expense for a home girl. Old Aunt Christina MacAllister nursed me with poultices. She brung me round. But sometimes I wish I'd just died the other half and done with it. I'd been better off."

"If you went to heaven I s'pose you would," said Faith, rather doubtfully.

"Well, what other place is there to go to?" demanded Mary in a puzzled voice.

"There's hell, you know," said Una, dropping her voice and hugging Mary to lessen the awfulness of the suggestion.

"Hell? What's that?"

"Why, it's where the devil lives," said Jerry. "You've heard of him -- you spoke about him."

"Oh, yes, but I didn't know he lived anywhere. I thought he just roamed round. Mr. Wiley used to mention hell when he was alive. He was always telling folks to go there. I thought it was some place over in New Brunswick where he come from."

"Hell is an awful place," said Faith, with the dramatic enjoyment that is born of telling dreadful things. "Bad people go there when they die and burn in fire for ever and ever and ever."

"Who told you that?" demanded Mary incredulously.

"It's in the Bible. And Mr. Isaac Crothers at Maywater told us, too, in Sunday School. He was an elder and a pillar in the church and knew all about it. But you needn't worry. If you're good you'll go to heaven and if you're bad I guess you'd rather go to hell."

"I wouldn't," said Mary positively. "No matter how bad I was I wouldn't want to be burned and burned. I know what it's like. I picked up a red hot poker once by accident. What must you do to be good?"

"You must go to church and Sunday School and read your Bible and pray every night and give to missions," said Una.

"It sounds like a large order," said Mary. "Anything else?"

"You must ask God to forgive the sins you've committed.

"But I've never com -- committed any," said Mary. "What's a sin any way?"

"Oh, Mary, you must have. Everybody does. Did you never tell a lie?"

"Heaps of 'em," said Mary.

"That's a dreadful sin," said Una solemnly.

"Do you mean to tell me," demanded Mary, "that I'd be sent to hell for telling a lie now and then? Why, I HAD to. Mr. Wiley would have broken every bone in my body one time if I hadn't told him a lie. Lies have saved me many a whack, I can tell you."

Una sighed. Here were too many difficulties for her to solve. She shuddered as she thought of being cruelly whipped. Very likely she would have lied too. She squeezed Mary's little calloused hand.

"Is that the only dress you've got?" asked Faith, whose joyous nature refused to dwell on disagreeable subjects.

"I just put on this dress because it was no good," cried Mary flushing. "Mrs. Wiley'd bought my clothes and I wasn't going to be beholden to her for anything. And I'm honest. If I was going to run away I wasn't going to take what belong to HER that was worth anything. When I grow up I'm going to have a blue sating dress. Your own clothes don't look so stylish. I thought ministers' children were always dressed up."

It was plain that Mary had a temper and was sensitive on some points. But there was a queer, wild charm about her which captivated them all. She was taken to Rainbow Valley that afternoon and introduced to the Blythes as "a friend of ours from over-harbour who is visiting us." The Blythes accepted her unquestioningly, perhaps because she was fairly respectable now. After dinner -- through which Aunt Martha had mumbled and Mr. Meredith had been in a state of semi-unconsciousness while brooding his Sunday sermon -- Faith had prevailed on Mary to put on one of her dresses, as well as certain other articles of clothing. With her hair neatly braided Mary passed muster tolerably well. She was an acceptable playmate, for she knew several new and exciting games, and her conversation lacked not spice. In fact, some of her expressions made Nan and Di look at her rather askance. They were not quite sure what their mother would have thought of her, but they knew quite well what Susan would. However, she was a visitor at the manse, so she must be all right.

When bedtime came there was the problem of where Mary should sleep.

"We can't put her in the spare room, you know," said Faith perplexedly to Una.

"I haven't got anything in my head," cried Mary in an injured tone.

"Oh, I didn't mean THAT," protested Faith. "The spare room is all torn up. The mice have gnawed a big hole in the feather tick and made a nest in it. We never found it out till Aunt Martha put the Rev. Mr. Fisher from Charlottetown there to sleep last week. HE soon found it out. Then father had to give him his bed and sleep on the study lounge. Aunt Martha hasn't had time to fix the spare room bed up yet, so she says; so NOBODY can sleep there, no matter how clean their heads are. And our room is so small, and the bed so small you can't sleep with us."

"I can go back to the hay in the old barn for the night if you'll lend me a quilt," said Mary philosophically. "It was kind of chilly last night, but 'cept for that I've had worse beds."

"Oh, no, no, you mustn't do that," said Una. "I've thought of a plan, Faith. You know that little trestle bed in the garret room, with the old mattress on it, that the last minister left there? Let's take up the spare room bedclothes and make Mary a bed there. You won't mind sleeping in the garret, will you, Mary? It's just above our room."

"Any place'll do me. Laws, I never had a decent place to sleep in my life. I slept in the loft over the kitchen at Mrs. Wiley's. The roof leaked rain in the summer and the snow druv in in winter. My bed was a straw tick on the floor. You won't find me a mite huffy about where I sleep."

The manse garret was a long, low, shadowy place, with one gable end partitioned off. Here a bed was made up for Mary of the dainty hemstitched sheets and embroidered spread which Cecilia Meredith had once so proudly made for her spare-room, and which still survived Aunt Martha's uncertain washings. The good nights were said and silence fell over the manse. Una was just falling asleep when she heard a sound in the room just above that made her sit up suddenly.

"Listen, Faith -- Mary's crying," she whispered. Faith replied not, being already asleep. Una slipped out of bed, and made her way in her little white gown down the hall and up the garret stairs. The creaking floor gave ample notice of her coming, and when she reached the corner room all was moonlit silence and the trestle bed showed only a hump in the middle.

"Mary," whispered Una.

There was no response.

Una crept close to the bed and pulled at the spread. "Mary, I know you are crying. I heard you. Are you lonesome?"

Mary suddenly appeared to view but said nothing.

"Let me in beside you. I'm cold," said Una shivering in the chilly air, for the little garret window was open and the keen breath of the north shore at night blew in.

Mary moved over and Una snuggled down beside her.

"NOW you won't be lonesome. We shouldn't have left you here alone the first night."

"I wasn't lonesome," sniffed Mary.

"What were you crying for then?"

"Oh, I just got to thinking of things when I was here alone. I thought of having to go back to Mrs. Wiley -- and of being licked for running away -- and -- and -- and of going to hell for telling lies. It all worried me something scandalous."

"Oh, Mary," said poor Una in distress. "I don't believe God will send you to hell for telling lies when you didn't know it was wrong. He COULDN'T. Why, He's kind and good. Of course, you mustn't tell any more now that you know it's wrong."

"If I can't tell lies what's to become of me?" said Mary with a sob. "YOU don't understand. You don't know anything about it. You've got a home and a kind father -- though it does seem to me that he isn't more'n about half there. But anyway he doesn't lick you, and you get enough to eat such as it is -- though that old aunt of yours doesn't know ANYTHING about cooking. Why, this is the first day I ever remember of feeling 'sif I'd enough to eat. I've been knocked about all of my life, 'cept for the two years I was at the asylum. They didn't lick me there and it wasn't too bad, though the matron was cross. She always looked ready to bite my head off a nail. But Mrs. Wiley is a holy terror, that's what SHE is, and I'm just scared stiff when I think of going back to her."

"Perhaps you won't have to. Perhaps we'll be able to think of a way out. Let's both ask God to keep you from having to go back to Mrs. Wiley. You say your prayers, don't you Mary?"

"Oh, yes, I always go over an old rhyme 'fore I get into bed," said Mary indifferently. "I never thought of asking for anything in particular though. Nobody in this world ever bothered themselves about me so I didn't s'pose God would. He MIGHT take more trouble for you, seeing you're a minister's daughter."

"He'd take every bit as much trouble for you, Mary, I'm sure," said Una. "It doesn't matter whose child you are. You just ask Him -- and I will, too."

"All right," agreed Mary. "It won't do any harm if it doesn't do much good. If you knew Mrs. Wiley as well as I do you wouldn't think God would want to meddle with her. Anyhow, I won't cry any more about it. This is a big sight better'n last night down in that old barn, with the mice running about. Look at the Four Winds light. Ain't it pretty?"

"This is the only window we can see it from," said Una. "I love to watch it."

"Do you? So do I. I could see it from the Wiley loft and it was the only comfort I had. When I was all sore from being licked I'd watch it and forget about the places that hurt. I'd think of the ships sailing away and away from it and wish I was on one of them sailing far away too -- away from everything. On winter nights when it didn't shine, I just felt real lonesome. Say, Una, what makes all you folks so kind to me when I'm just a stranger?"

"Because it's right to be. The bible tells us to be kind to everybody."

"Does it? Well, I guess most folks don't mind it much then. I never remember of any one being kind to me before -- true's you live I don't. Say, Una, ain't them shadows on the walls pretty? They look just like a flock of little dancing birds. And say, Una, I like all you folks and them Blythe boys and Di, but I don't like that Nan. She's a proud one."

"Oh, no, Mary, she isn't a bit proud," said Una eagerly. "Not a single bit."

"Don't tell me. Any one that holds her head like that IS proud. I don't like her."

"WE all like her very much."

"Oh, I s'pose you like her better'n me?" said Mary jealously. "Do you?"

"Why, Mary -- we've known her for weeks and we've only known you a few hours," stammered Una.

"So you do like her better then?" said Mary in a rage. "All right! Like her all you want to. I don't care. I can get along without you."

She flung herself over against the wall of the garret with a slam.

"Oh, Mary," said Una, pushing a tender arm over Mary's uncompromising back, "don't talk like that. I DO like you ever so much. And you make me feel so bad."

No answer. Presently Una gave a sob. Instantly Mary squirmed around again and engulfed Una in a bear's hug.

"Hush up," she ordered. "Don't go crying over what I said. I was as mean as the devil to talk that way. I orter to be skinned alive -- and you all so good to me. I should think you WOULD like any one better'n me. I deserve every licking I ever got. Hush, now. If you cry any more I'll go and walk right down to the harbour in this night-dress and drown myself."

This terrible threat made Una choke back her sobs. Her tears were wiped away by Mary with the lace frill of the spare-room pillow and forgiver and forgiven cuddled down together again, harmony restored, to watch the shadows of the vine leaves on the moonlit wall until they fell asleep.

And in the study below Rev. John Meredith walked the floor with rapt face and shining eyes, thinking out his message of the morrow, and knew not that under his own roof there was a little forlorn soul, stumbling in darkness and ignorance, beset by terror and compassed about with difficulties too great for it to grapple in its unequal struggle with a big indifferent world.



Chapter VI. Mary Stays At The Manse

The manse children took Mary Vance to church with them the next day. At first Mary objected to the idea.

"Didn't you go to church over-harbour?" asked Una.

"You bet. Mrs. Wiley never troubled church much, but I went every Sunday I could get off. I was mighty thankful to go to some place where I could sit down for a spell. But I can't go to church in this old ragged dress."

This difficulty was removed by Faith offering the loan of her second best dress.

"It's faded a little and two of the buttons are off, but I guess it'll do."

"I'll sew the buttons on in a jiffy," said Mary.

"Not on Sunday," said Una, shocked.

"Sure. The better the day the better the deed. You just gimme a needle and thread and look the other way if you're squeamish."

Faith's school boots, and an old black velvet cap that had once been Cecilia Meredith's, completed Mary's costume, and to church she went. Her behaviour was quite conventional, and though some wondered who the shabby little girl with the manse children was she did not attract much attention. She listened to the sermon with outward decorum and joined lustily in the singing. She had, it appeared, a clear, strong voice and a good ear.

"His blood can make the VIOLETS clean," carolled Mary blithely. Mrs. Jimmy Milgrave, whose pew was just in front of the manse pew, turned suddenly and looked the child over from top to toe. Mary, in a mere superfluity of naughtiness, stuck out her tongue at Mrs. Milgrave, much to Una's horror.

"I couldn't help it," she declared after church. "What'd she want to stare at me like that for? Such manners! I'm GLAD stuck my tongue out at her. I wish I'd stuck it farther out. Say, I saw Rob MacAllister from over-harbour there. Wonder if he'll tell Mrs. Wiley on me."

No Mrs. Wiley appeared, however, and in a few day the children forgot to look for her. Mary was apparently a fixture at the manse. But she refused to go to school with the others.

"Nope. I've finished my education," she said, when Faith urged her to go. "I went to school four winters since I come to Mrs. Wiley's and I've had all I want of THAT. I'm sick and tired of being everlastingly jawed at 'cause I didn't get my home-lessons done. I'D no time to do home-lessons."

"Our teacher won't jaw you. He is awfully nice," said Faith.

"Well, I ain't going. I can read and write and cipher up to fractions. That's all I want. You fellows go and I'll stay home. You needn't be scared I'll steal anything. I swear I'm honest."

Mary employed herself while the others were at school in cleaning up the manse. In a few days it was a different place. Floors were swept, furniture dusted, everything straightened out. She mended the spare-room bed-tick, she sewed on missing buttons, she patched clothes neatly, she even invaded the study with broom and dustpan and ordered Mr. Meredith out while she put it to rights. But there was one department with which Aunt Martha refused to let her interfere. Aunt Martha might be deaf and half blind and very childish, but she was resolved to keep the commissariat in her own hands, in spite of all Mary's wiles and stratagems.

"I can tell you if old Martha'd let ME cook you'd have some decent meals," she told the manse children indignantly. "There'd be no more 'ditto' -- and no more lumpy porridge and blue milk either. What DOES she do with all the cream?"

"She gives it to the cat. He's hers, you know," said Faith.

"I'd like to CAT her," exclaimed Mary bitterly. "I've no use for cats anyhow. They belong to the old Nick. You can tell that by their eyes. Well, if old Martha won't, she won't, I s'pose. But it gits on my nerves to see good vittles spoiled."

When school came out they always went to Rainbow Valley. Mary refused to play in the graveyard. She declared she was afraid of ghosts.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," declared Jem Blythe.

"Oh, ain't there?"

"Did you ever see any?"

"Hundreds of 'em," said Mary promptly.

"What are they like?" said Carl.

"Awful-looking. Dressed all in white with skellington hands and heads," said Mary.

"What did you do?" asked Una.

"Run like the devil," said Mary. Then she caught Walter's eyes and blushed. Mary was a good deal in awe of Walter. She declared to the manse girls that his eyes made her nervous.

"I think of all the lies I've ever told when I look into them," she said, "and I wish I hadn't."

Jem was Mary's favourite. When he took her to the attic at Ingleside and showed her the museum of curios that Captain Jim Boyd had bequeathed to him she was immensely pleased and flattered. She also won Carl's heart entirely by her interest in his beetles and ants. It could not be denied that Mary got on rather better with the boys than with the girls. She quarrelled bitterly with Nan Blythe the second day.

"Your mother is a witch," she told Nan scornfully. "Red-haired women are always witches." Then she and Faith fell out about the rooster. Mary said its tail was too short. Faith angrily retorted that she guessed God know what length to make a rooster's tail. They did not "speak" for a day over this. Mary treated Una's hairless, one-eyed doll with consideration; but when Una showed her other prized treasure -- a picture of an angel carrying a baby, presumably to heaven, Mary declared that it looked too much like a ghost for her. Una crept away to her room and cried over this, but Mary hunted her out, hugged her repentantly and implored forgiveness. No one could keep up a quarrel long with Mary -- not even Nan, who was rather prone to hold grudges and never quite forgave the insult to her mother. Mary was jolly. She could and did tell the most thrilling ghost stories. Rainbow Valley seances were undeniably more exciting after Mary came. She learned to play on the jew's-harp and soon eclipsed Jerry.

"Never struck anything yet I couldn't do if I put my mind to it," she declared. Mary seldom lost a chance of tooting her own horn. She taught them how to make "blow-bags" out of the thick leaves of the "live-forever" that flourished in the old Bailey garden, she initiated them into the toothsome qualities of the "sours" that grew in the niches of the graveyard dyke, and she could make the most wonderful shadow pictures on the walls with her long, flexible fingers. And when they all went picking gum in Rainbow Valley Mary always got "the biggest chew" and bragged about it. There were times when they hated her and times when they loved her. But at all times they found her interesting. So they submitted quite meekly to her bossing, and by the end of a fortnight had come to feel that she must always have been with them.

"It's the queerest thing that Mrs. Wiley hain't been after me," said Mary. "I can't understand it."

"Maybe she isn't going to bother about you at all," said Una. "Then you can just go on staying here."

"This house ain't hardly big enough for me and old Martha," said Mary darkly. "It's a very fine thing to have enough to eat -- I've often wondered what it would be like -- but I'm p'ticler about my cooking. And Mrs. Wiley'll be here yet. SHE'S got a rod in pickle for me all right. I don't think about it so much in daytime but say, girls, up there in that garret at night I git to thinking and thinking of it, till I just almost wish she'd come and have it over with. I dunno's one real good whipping would be much worse'n all the dozen I've lived through in my mind ever since I run away. Were any of you ever licked?"

"No, of course not," said Faith indignantly. "Father would never do such a thing."

"You don't know you're alive," said Mary with a sigh half of envy, half of superiority. "You don't know what I've come through. And I s'pose the Blythes were never licked either?"

"No-o-o, I guess not. But I THINK they were sometimes spanked when they were small."

"A spanking doesn't amount to anything," said Mary contemptuously. "If my folks had just spanked me I'd have thought they were petting me. Well, it ain't a fair world. I wouldn't mind taking my share of wallopings but I've had a darn sight too many."

"It isn't right to say that word, Mary," said Una reproachfully. "You promised me you wouldn't say it."

"G'way," responded Mary. "If you knew some of the words I COULD say if I liked you wouldn't make such a fuss over darn. And you know very well I hain't ever told any lies since I come here."

"What about all those ghosts you said you saw?" asked Faith.

Mary blushed.

"That was diff'runt," she said defiantly. "I knew you wouldn't believe them yarns and I didn't intend you to. And I really did see something queer one night when I was passing the over-harbour graveyard, true's you live. I dunno whether 'twas a ghost or Sandy Crawford's old white nag, but it looked blamed queer and I tell you I scooted at the rate of no man's business."



Chapter VII. A Fishy Episode

Rilla Blythe walked proudly, and perhaps a little primly, through the main "street" of the Glen and up the manse hill, carefully carrying a small basketful of early strawberries, which Susan had coaxed into lusciousness in one of the sunny nooks of Ingleside. Susan had charged Rilla to give the basket to nobody except Aunt Martha or Mr. Meredith, and Rilla, very proud of being entrusted with such an errand, was resolved to carry out her instructions to the letter.

Susan had dressed her daintily in a white, starched, and embroidered dress, with sash of blue and beaded slippers. Her long ruddy curls were sleek and round, and Susan had let her put on her best hat, out of compliment to the manse. It was a somewhat elaborate affair, wherein Susan's taste had had more to say than Anne's, and Rilla's small soul gloried in its splendours of silk and lace and flowers. She was very conscious of her hat, and I am afraid she strutted up the manse hill. The strut, or the hat, or both, got on the nerves of Mary Vance, who was swinging on the lawn gate. Mary's temper was somewhat ruffled just then, into the bargain. Aunt Martha had refused to let her peel the potatoes and had ordered her out of the kitchen.

"Yah! You'll bring the potatoes to the table with strips of skin hanging to them and half boiled as usual! My, but it'll be nice to go to your funeral," shrieked Mary. She went out of the kitchen, giving the door such a bang that even Aunt Martha heard it, and Mr. Meredith in his study felt the vibration and thought absently that there must have been a slight earthquake shock. Then he went on with his sermon.

Mary slipped from the gate and confronted the spick-and-span damsel of Ingleside.

"What you got there?" she demanded, trying to take the basket.

Rilla resisted. "It'th for Mithter Meredith," she lisped.

"Give it to me. I'LL give it to him," said Mary.

"No. Thuthan thaid that I wathn't to give it to anybody but Mithter Mer'dith or Aunt Martha," insisted Rilla.

Mary eyed her sourly.

"You think you're something, don't you, all dressed up like a doll! Look at me. My dress is all rags and I don't care! I'd rather be ragged than a doll baby. Go home and tell them to put you in a glass case. Look at me -- look at me -- look at me!"

Mary executed a wild dance around the dismayed and bewildered Rilla, flirting her ragged skirt and vociferating "Look at me -- look at me" until poor Rilla was dizzy. But as the latter tried to edge away towards the gate Mary pounced on her again.

"You give me that basket," she ordered with a grimace. Mary was past mistress in the art of "making faces." She could give her countenance a most grotesque and unearthly appearance out of which her strange, brilliant, white eyes gleamed with weird effect.

"I won't," gasped Rilla, frightened but staunch. "You let me go, Mary Vanth."

Mary let go for a minute and looked around here. Just inside the gate was a small "flake," on which a half a dozen large codfish were drying. One of Mr. Meredith's parishioners had presented him with them one day, perhaps in lieu of the subscription he was supposed to pay to the stipend and never did. Mr. Meredith had thanked him and then forgotten all about the fish, which would have promptly spoiled had not the indefatigable Mary prepared them for drying and rigged up the "flake" herself on which to dry them.

Mary had a diabolical inspiration. She flew to the "flake" and seized the largest fish there -- a huge, flat thing, nearly as big as herself. With a whoop she swooped down on the terrified Rilla, brandishing her weird missile. Rilla's courage gave way. To be lambasted with a dried codfish was such an unheard-of thing that Rilla could not face it. With a shriek she dropped her basket and fled. The beautiful berries, which Susan had so tenderly selected for the minister, rolled in a rosy torrent over the dusty road and were trodden on by the flying feet of pursuer and pursued. The basket and contents were no longer in Mary's mind. She thought only of the delight of giving Rilla Blythe the scare of her life. She would teach HER to come giving herself airs because of her fine clothes.

Rilla flew down the hill and along the street. Terror lent wings to her feet, and she just managed to keep ahead of Mary, who was somewhat hampered by her own laughter, but who had breath enough to give occasional blood-curdling whoops as she ran, flourishing her codfish in the air. Through the Glen street they swept, while everybody ran to the windows and gates to see them. Mary felt she was making a tremendous sensation and enjoyed it. Rilla, blind with terror and spent of breath, felt that she could run no longer. In another instant that terrible girl would be on her with the codfish. At this point the poor mite stumbled and fell into the mud-puddle at the end of the street just as Miss Cornelia came out of Carter Flagg's store.

Miss Cornelia took the whole situation in at a glance. So did Mary. The latter stopped short in her mad career and before Miss Cornelia could speak she had whirled around and was running up as fast as she had run down. Miss Cornelia's lips tightened ominously, but she knew it was no use to think of chasing her. So she picked up poor, sobbing, dishevelled Rilla instead and took her home. Rilla was heart-broken. Her dress and slippers and hat were ruined and her six year old pride had received terrible bruises.

Susan, white with indignation, heard Miss Cornelia's story of Mary Vance's exploit.

"Oh, the hussy -- oh, the littly hussy!" she said, as she carried Rilla away for purification and comfort.

"This thing has gone far enough, Anne dearie," said Miss Cornelia resolutely. "Something must be done. WHO is this creature who is staying at the manse and where does she come from?"

"I understood she was a little girl from over-harbour who was visiting at the manse," answered Anne, who saw the comical side of the codfish chase and secretly thought Rilla was rather vain and needed a lesson or two.

"I know all the over-harbour families who come to our church and that imp doesn't belong to any of them," retorted Miss Cornelia. "She is almost in rags and when she goes to church she wears Faith Meredith's old clothes. There's some mystery here, and I'm going to investigate it, since it seems nobody else will. I believe she was at the bottom of their goings-on in Warren Mead's spruce bush the other day. Did you hear of their frightening his mother into a fit?"

"No. I knew Gilbert had been called to see her, but I did not hear what the trouble was."

"Well, you know she has a weak heart. And one day last week, when she was all alone on the veranda, she heard the most awful shrieks of 'murder' and 'help' coming from the bush -- positively frightful sounds, Anne dearie. Her heart gave out at once. Warren heard them himself at the barn, and went straight to the bush to investigate, and there he found all the manse children sitting on a fallen tree and screaming 'murder' at the top of their lungs. They told him they were only in fun and didn't think anyone would hear them. They were just playing Indian ambush. Warren went back to the house and found his poor mother unconscious on the veranda."

Susan, who had returned, sniffed contemptuously.

"I think she was very far from being unconscious, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and that you may tie to. I have been hearing of Amelia Warren's weak heart for forty years. She had it when she was twenty. She enjoys making a fuss and having the doctor, and any excuse will do."

"I don't think Gilbert thought her attack very serious," said Anne.

"Oh, that may very well be," said Miss Cornelia. "But the matter has made an awful lot of talk and the Meads being Methodists makes it that much worse. What is going to become of those children? Sometimes I can't sleep at nights for thinking about them, Anne dearie. I really do question if they get enough to eat, even, for their father is so lost in dreams that he doesn't often remember he has a stomach, and that lazy old woman doesn't bother cooking what she ought. They are just running wild and now that school is closing they'll be worse than ever."

"They do have jolly times," said Anne, laughing over the recollections of some Rainbow Valley happenings that had come to her ears. "And they are all brave and frank and loyal and truthful."

"That's a true word, Anne dearie, and when you come to think of all the trouble in the church those two tattling, deceitful youngsters of the last minister's made, I'm inclined to overlook a good deal in the Merediths."

"When all is said and done, Mrs. Dr. dear, they are very nice children," said Susan. "They have got plenty of original sin in them and that I will admit, but maybe it is just as well, for if they had not they might spoil from over-sweetness. Only I do think it is not proper for them to play in a graveyard and that I will maintain."

"But they really play quite quietly there," excused Anne. "They don't run and yell as they do elsewhere. Such howls as drift up here from Rainbow Valley sometimes! Though I fancy my own small fry bear a valiant part in them. They had a sham battle there last night and had to 'roar' themselves, because they had no artillery to do it, so Jem says. Jem is passing through the stage where all boys hanker to be soldiers."

"Well, thank goodness, he'll never be a soldier," said Miss Cornelia. "I never approved of our boys going to that South African fracas. But it's over, and not likely anything of the kind will ever happen again. I think the world is getting more sensible. As for the Merediths, I've said many a time and I say it again, if Mr. Meredith had a wife all would be well."

"He called twice at the Kirks' last week, so I am told," said Susan.

"Well," said Miss Cornelia thoughtfully, "as a rule, I don't approve of a minister marrying in his congregation. It generally spoils him. But in this case it would do no harm, for every one likes Elizabeth Kirk and nobody else is hankering for the job of stepmothering those youngsters. Even the Hill girls balk at that. They haven't been found laying traps for Mr. Meredith. Elizabeth would make him a good wife if he only thought so. But the trouble is, she really is homely and, Anne dearie, Mr. Meredith, abstracted as he is, has an eye for a good-looking woman, man-like. He isn't SO other-worldly when it comes to that, believe ME."

"Elizabeth Kirk is a very nice person, but they do say that people have nearly frozen to death in her mother's spare-room bed before now, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan darkly. "If I felt I had any right to express an opinion concerning such a solemn matter as a minister's marriage I would say that I think Elizabeth's cousin Sarah, over-harbour, would make Mr. Meredith a better wife."

"Why, Sarah Kirk is a Methodist," said Miss Cornelia, much as if Susan had suggested a Hottentot as a manse bride.

"She would likely turn Presbyterian if she married Mr. Meredith," retorted Susan.

Miss Cornelia shook her head. Evidently with her it was, once a Methodist, always a Methodist.

"Sarah Kirk is entirely out of the question," she said positively. "And so is Emmeline Drew -- though the Drews are all trying to make the match. They are literally throwing poor Emmeline at his head, and he hasn't the least idea of it."

"Emmeline Drew has no gumption, I must allow," said Susan. "She is the kind of woman, Mrs. Dr. dear, who would put a hot-water bottle in your bed on a dog-night and then have her feelings hurt because you were not grateful. And her mother was a very poor housekeeper. Did you ever hear the story of her dishcloth? She lost her dishcloth one day. But the next day she found it. Oh, yes, Mrs. Dr. dear, she found it, in the goose at the dinner-table, mixed up with the stuffing. Do you think a woman like that would do for a minister's mother-in-law? I do not. But no doubt I would be better employed in mending little Jem's trousers than in talking gossip about my neighbours. He tore them something scandalous last night in Rainbow Valley."

"Where is Walter?" asked Anne.

"He is up to no good, I fear, Mrs. Dr. dear. He is in the attic writing something in an exercise book. And he has not done as well in arithmetic this term as he should, so the teacher tells me. Too well I know the reason why. He has been writing silly rhymes when he should have been doing his sums. I am afraid that boy is going to be a poet, Mrs. Dr. dear."

"He is a poet now, Susan."

"Well, you take it real calm, Mrs. Dr. dear. I suppose it is the best way, when a person has the strength. I had an uncle who began by being a poet and ended up by being a tramp. Our family were dreadfully ashamed of him."

"You don't seem to think very highly of poets, Susan," said Anne, laughing.

"Who does, Mrs. Dr. dear?" asked Susan in genuine astonishment.

"What about Milton and Shakespeare? And the poets of the Bible?"

"They tell me Milton could not get along with his wife, and Shakespeare was no more than respectable by times. As for the Bible, of course things were different in those sacred days -- although I never had a high opinion of King David, say what you will. I never knew any good to come of writing poetry, and I hope and pray that blessed boy will outgrow the tendency. If he does not -- we must see what emulsion of cod-liver oil will do."



Chapter VIII. Miss Cornelia Intervenes

Miss Cornelia descended upon the manse the next day and cross-questioned Mary, who, being a young person of considerable discernment and astuteness, told her story simple and truthfully, with an entire absence of complaint or bravado. Miss Cornelia was more favourably impressed than she had expected to be, but deemed it her duty to be severe.

"Do you think," she said sternly, "that you showed your gratitude to this family, who have been far too kind to you, by insulting and chasing one of their little friends as you did yesterday?"

"Say, it was rotten mean of me," admitted Mary easily. "I dunno what possessed me. That old codfish seemed to come in so blamed handy. But I was awful sorry -- I cried last night after I went to bed about it, honest I did. You ask Una if I didn't. I wouldn't tell her what for 'cause I was ashamed of it, and then she cried, too, because she was afraid someone had hurt my feelings. Laws, I ain't got any feelings to hurt worth speaking of. What worries me is why Mrs. Wiley hain't been hunting for me. It ain't like her."

Miss Cornelia herself thought it rather peculiar, but she merely admonished Mary sharply not to take any further liberties with the minister's codfish, and went to report progress at Ingleside.

"If the child's story is true the matter ought to be looked into," she said. "I know something about that Wiley woman, believe ME. Marshall used to be well acquainted with her when he lived over-harbour. I heard him say something last summer about her and a home child she had -- likely this very Mary-creature. He said some one told him she was working the child to death and not half feeding and clothing it. You know, Anne dearie, it has always been my habit neither to make nor meddle with those over-harbour folks. But I shall send Marshall over to-morrow to find out the rights of this if he can. And THEN I'll speak to the minister. Mind you, Anne dearie, the Merediths found this girl literally starving in James Taylor's old hay barn. She had been there all night, cold and hungry and alone. And us sleeping warm in our beds after good suppers."

"The poor little thing," said Anne, picturing one of her own dear babies, cold and hungry and alone in such circumstances. "If she has been ill-used, Miss Cornelia, she mustn't be taken back to such a place. I was an orphan once in a very similar situation."

"We'll have to consult the Hopetown asylum folks," said Miss Cornelia. "Anyway, she can't be left at the manse. Dear knows what those poor children might learn from her. I understand that she has been known to swear. But just think of her being there two whole weeks and Mr Meredith never waking up to it! What business has a man like that to have a family? Why, Anne dearie, he ought to be a monk."

Two evenings later Miss Cornelia was back at Ingleside.

"It's the most amazing thing!" she said. "Mrs. Wiley was found dead in her bed the very morning after this Mary-creature ran away. She has had a bad heart for years and the doctor had warned her it might happen at any time. She had sent away her hired man and there was nobody in the house. Some neighbours found her the next day. They missed the child, it seems, but supposed Mrs. Wiley had sent her to her cousin near Charlottetown as she had said she was going to do. The cousin didn't come to the funeral and so nobody ever knew that Mary wasn't with her. The people Marshall talked to told him some things about the way Mrs. Wiley used this Mary that made his blood boil, so he declares. You know, it puts Marshall in a regular fury to hear of a child being ill-used. They said she whipped her mercilessly for every little fault or mistake. Some folks talked of writing to the asylum authorities but everybody's business is nobody's business and it was never done."

"I am sorry that Wiley person is dead," said Susan fiercely. "I should like to go over-harbour and give her a piece of my mind. Starving and beating a child, Mrs. Dr. dear! As you know, I hold with lawful spanking, but I go no further. And what is to become of this poor child now, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?"

"I suppose she must be sent back to Hopetown," said Miss Cornelia. "I think every one hereabouts who wants a home child has one. I'll see Mr. Meredith to-morrow and tell him my opinion of the whole affair."

"And no doubt she will, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, after Miss Cornelia had gone. "She would stick at nothing, not even at shingling the church spire if she took it into her head. But I cannot understand how even Cornelia Bryant can talk to a minister as she does. You would think he was just any common person."

When Miss Cornelia had gone, Nan Blythe uncurled herself from the hammock where she had been studying her lessons and slipped away to Rainbow Valley. The others were already there. Jem and Jerry were playing quoits with old horseshoes borrowed from the Glen blacksmith. Carl was stalking ants on a sunny hillock. Walter, lying on his stomach among the fern, was reading aloud to Mary and Di and Faith and Una from a wonderful book of myths wherein were fascinating accounts of Prester John and the Wandering Jew, divining rods and tailed men, of Schamir, the worm that split rocks and opened the way to golden treasure, of Fortunate Isles and swan-maidens. It was a great shock to Walter to learn that William Tell and Gelert were myths also; and the story of Bishop Hatto was to keep him awake all that night; but best of all he loved the stories of the Pied Piper and the San Greal. He read them thrillingly, while the bells on the Tree Lovers tinkled in the summer wind and the coolness of the evening shadows crept across the valley.

"Say, ain't them in'resting lies?" said Mary admiringly when Walter had closed the book.

"They aren't lies," said Di indignantly.

"You don't mean they're true?" asked Mary incredulously.

"No -- not exactly. They're like those ghost-stories of yours. They weren't true -- but you didn't expect us to believe them, so they weren't lies."

"That yarn about the divining rod is no lie, anyhow," said Mary. "Old Jake Crawford over-harbour can work it. They send for him from everywhere when they want to dig a well. And I believe I know the Wandering Jew."

"Oh, Mary," said Una, awe-struck.

"I do -- true's you're alive. There was an old man at Mrs. Wiley's one day last fall. He looked old enough to be ANYTHING. She was asking him about cedar posts, if he thought they'd last well. And he said, 'Last well? They'll last a thousand years. I know, for I've tried them twice.' Now, if he was two thousand years old who was he but your Wandering Jew?"

"I don't believe the Wandering Jew would associate with a person like Mrs. Wiley," said Faith decidedly.

"I love the Pied Piper story," said Di, "and so does mother. I always feel so sorry for the poor little lame boy who couldn't keep up with the others and got shut out of the mountain. He must have been so disappointed. I think all the rest of his life he'd be wondering what wonderful thing he had missed and wishing he could have got in with the others."

"But how glad his mother must have been," said Una softly. "I think she had been sorry all her life that he was lame. Perhaps she even used to cry about it. But she would never be sorry again -- never. She would be glad he was lame because that was why she hadn't lost him."

"Some day," said Walter dreamily, looking afar into the sky, "the Pied Piper will come over the hill up there and down Rainbow Valley, piping merrily and sweetly. And I will follow him -- follow him down to the shore -- down to the sea -- away from you all. I don't think I'll want to go -- Jem will want to go -- it will be such an adventure -- but I won't. Only I'll HAVE to -- the music will call and call and call me until I MUST follow."

"We'll all go," cried Di, catching fire at the flame of Walter's fancy, and half-believing she could see the mocking, retreating figure of the mystic piper in the far, dim end of the valley.

"No. You'll sit here and wait," said Walter, his great, splendid eyes full of strange glamour. "You'll wait for us to come back. And we may not come -- for we cannot come as long as the Piper plays. He may pipe us round the world. And still you'll sit here and wait -- and WAIT."

"Oh, dry up," said Mary, shivering. "Don't look like that, Walter Blythe. You give me the creeps. Do you want to set me bawling? I could just see that horrid old Piper going away on, and you boys following him, and us girls sitting here waiting all alone. I dunno why it is -- I never was one of the blubbering kind -- but as soon as you start your spieling I always want to cry."

Walter smiled in triumph. He liked to exercise this power of his over his companions -- to play on their feelings, waken their fears, thrill their souls. It satisfied some dramatic instinct in him. But under his triumph was a queer little chill of some mysterious dread. The Pied Piper had seemed very real to him -- as if the fluttering veil that hid the future had for a moment been blown aside in the starlit dusk of Rainbow Valley and some dim glimpse of coming years granted to him.

Carl, coming up to their group with a report of the doings in ant-land, brought them all back to the realm of facts.

"Ants ARE darned in'resting," exclaimed Mary, glad to escape the shadowy Piper's thrall. "Carl and me watched that bed in the graveyard all Saturday afternoon. I never thought there was so much in bugs. Say, but they're quarrelsome little cusses -- some of 'em like to start a fight 'thout any reason, far's we could see. And some of 'em are cowards. They got so scared they just doubled theirselves up into a ball and let the other fellows bang 'em. They wouldn't put up a fight at all. Some of 'em are lazy and won't work. We watched 'em shirking. And there was one ant died of grief 'cause another ant got killed -- wouldn't work -- wouldn't eat -- just died -- it did, honest to Go -- oodness."

A shocked silence prevailed. Every one knew that Mary had not started out to say "goodness." Faith and Di exchanged glances that would have done credit to Miss Cornelia herself. Walter and Carl looked uncomfortable and Una's lip trembled.

Mary squirmed uncomfortably.

"That slipped out 'fore I thought -- it did, honest to -- I mean, true's you live, and I swallowed half of it. You folks over here are mighty squeamish seems to me. Wish you could have heard the Wileys when they had a fight."

"Ladies don't say such things," said Faith, very primly for her.

"It isn't right," whispered Una.

"I ain't a lady," said Mary. "What chance've I ever had of being a lady? But I won't say that again if I can help it. I promise you."

"Besides," said Una, "you can't expect God to answer your prayers if you take His name in vain, Mary."

"I don't expect Him to answer 'em anyhow," said Mary of little faith. "I've been asking Him for a week to clear up this Wiley affair and He hasn't done a thing. I'm going to give up."

At this juncture Nan arrived breathless.

"Oh, Mary, I've news for you. Mrs. Elliott has been over-harbour and what do you think she found out? Mrs. Wiley is dead -- she was found dead in bed the morning after you ran away. So you'll never have to go back to her."

"Dead!" said Mary stupefied. Then she shivered.

"Do you s'pose my praying had anything to do with that?" she cried imploringly to Una. "If it had I'll never pray again as long as I live. Why, she may come back and ha'nt me."

"No, no, Mary," said Una comfortingly, "it hadn't. Why, Mrs. Wiley died long before you ever began to pray about it at all."

"That's so," said Mary recovering from her panic. "But I tell you it gave me a start. I wouldn't like to think I'd prayed anybody to death. I never thought of such a thing as her dying when I was praying. She didn't seem much like the dying kind. Did Mrs. Elliott say anything about me?"

"She said you would likely have to go back to the asylum."

"I thought as much," said Mary drearily. "And then they'll give me out again -- likely to some one just like Mrs. Wiley. Well, I s'pose I can stand it. I'm tough."

"I'm going to pray that you won't have to go back," whispered Una, as she and Mary walked home to the manse.

"You can do as you like," said Mary decidedly, "but I vow I won't. I'm good and scared of this praying business. See what's come of it. If Mrs. Wiley HAD died after I started praying it would have been my doings."

"Oh, no, it wouldn't," said Una. "I wish I could explain things better -- father could, I know, if you'd talk to him, Mary."

"Catch me! I don't know what to make of your father, that's the long and short of it. He goes by me and never sees me in broad daylight. I ain't proud -- but I ain't a door-mat, neither!"

"Oh, Mary, it's just father's way. Most of the time he never sees us, either. He is thinking deeply, that is all. And I AM going to pray that God will keep you in Four Winds -- because I like you, Mary."

"All right. Only don't let me hear of any more people dying on account of it," said Mary. "I'd like to stay in Four Winds fine. I like it and I like the harbour and the light house -- and you and the Blythes. You're the only friends I ever had and I'd hate to leave you."



Chapter IX. Una Intervenes

Miss Cornelia had an interview with Mr. Meredith which proved something of a shock to that abstracted gentleman. She pointed out to him, none too respectfully, his dereliction of duty in allowing a waif like Mary Vance to come into his family and associate with his children without knowing or learning anything about her.

"I don't say there is much harm done, of course," she concluded. "This Mary-creature isn't what you might call bad, when all is said and done. I've been questioning your children and the Blythes, and from what I can make out there's nothing much to be said against the child except that she's slangy and doesn't use very refined language. But think what might have happened if she'd been like some of those home children we know of. You know yourself what that poor little creature the Jim Flaggs' had, taught and told the Flagg children."

Mr. Meredith did know and was honestly shocked over his own carelessness in the matter.

"But what is to be done, Mrs. Elliott?" he asked helplessly. "We can't turn the poor child out. She must be cared for."

"Of course. We'd better write to the Hopetown authorities at once. Meanwhile, I suppose she might as well stay here for a few more days till we hear from them. But keep your eyes and ears open, Mr. Meredith."

Susan would have died of horror on the spot if she had heard Miss Cornelia so admonishing a minister. But Miss Cornelia departed in a warm glow of satisfaction over duty done, and that night Mr. Meredith asked Mary to come into his study with him. Mary obeyed, looking literally ghastly with fright. But she got the surprise of her poor, battered little life. This man, of whom she had stood so terribly in awe, was the kindest, gentlest soul she had ever met. Before she knew what happened Mary found herself pouring all her troubles into his ear and receiving in return such sympathy and tender understanding as it had never occurred to her to imagine. Mary left the study with her face and eyes so softened that Una hardly knew her.

"Your father's all right, when he does wake up," she said with a sniff that just escaped being a sob. "It's a pity he doesn't wake up oftener. He said I wasn't to blame for Mrs. Wiley dying, but that I must try to think of her good points and not of her bad ones. I dunno what good points she had, unless it was keeping her house clean and making first-class butter. I know I 'most wore my arms out scrubbing her old kitchen floor with the knots in it. But anything your father says goes with me after this."

Mary proved a rather dull companion in the following days, however. She confided to Una that the more she thought of going back to the asylum the more she hated it. Una racked her small brains for some way of averting it, but it was Nan Blythe who came to the rescue with a somewhat startling suggestion.

"Mrs. Elliott might take Mary herself. She has a great big house and Mr. Elliott is always wanting her to have help. It would be just a splendid place for Mary. Only she'd have to behave herself."

"Oh, Nan, do you think Mrs. Elliott would take her?"

"It wouldn't do any harm if you asked her," said Nan. At first Una did not think she could. She was so shy that to ask a favour of anybody was agony to her. And she was very much in awe of the bustling, energetic Mrs. Elliott. She liked her very much and always enjoyed a visit to her house; but to go and ask her to adopt Mary Vance seemed such a height of presumption that Una's timid spirit quailed.

When the Hopetown authorities wrote to Mr. Meredith to send Mary to them without delay Mary cried herself to sleep in the manse attic that night and Una found a desperate courage. The next evening she slipped away from the manse to the harbour road. Far down in Rainbow Valley she heard joyous laughter but her way lay not there. She was terribly pale and terribly in earnest -- so much so that she took no notice of the people she met -- and old Mrs. Stanley Flagg was quite huffed and said Una Meredith would be as absentminded as her father when she grew up.

Miss Cornelia lived half way between the Glen and Four Winds Point, in a house whose original glaring green hue had mellowed down to an agreeable greenish gray. Marshall Elliott had planted trees about it and set out a rose garden and a spruce hedge. It was quite a different place from what it had been in years agone. The manse children and the Ingleside children liked to go there. It was a beautiful walk down the old harbour road, and there was always a well-filled cooky jar at the end.

The misty sea was lapping softly far down on the sands. Three big boats were skimming down the harbour like great white sea-birds. A schooner was coming up the channel. The world of Four Winds was steeped in glowing colour, and subtle music, and strange glamour, and everybody should have been happy in it. But when Una turned in at Miss Cornelia's gate her very legs had almost refused to carry her.

Miss Cornelia was alone on the veranda. Una had hoped Mr. Elliott would be there. He was so big and hearty and twinkly that there would be encouragement in his presence. She sat on the little stool Miss Cornelia brought out and tried to eat the doughnut Miss Cornelia gave her. It stuck in her throat, but she swallowed desperately lest Miss Cornelia be offended. She could not talk; she was still pale; and her big, dark-blue eyes looked so piteous that Miss Cornelia concluded the child was in some trouble.

"What's on your mind, dearie?" she asked. "There's something, that's plain to be seen."

Una swallowed the last twist of doughnut with a desperate gulp.

"Mrs. Elliott, won't you take Mary Vance?" she said beseechingly.

Miss Cornelia stared blankly.

"Me! Take Mary Vance! Do you mean keep her?"

"Yes -- keep her -- adopt her," said Una eagerly, gaining courage now that the ice was broken. "Oh, Mrs. Elliott, PLEASE do. She doesn't want to go back to the asylum -- she cries every night about it. She's so afraid of being sent to another hard place. And she's SO smart -- there isn't anything she can't do. I know you wouldn't be sorry if you took her."

"I never thought of such a thing," said Miss Cornelia rather helplessly.

"WON'T you think of it?" implored Una.

"But, dearie, I don't want help. I'm quite able to do all the work here. And I never thought I'd like to have a home girl if I did need help."

The light went out of Una's eyes. Her lips trembled. She sat down on her stool again, a pathetic little figure of disappointment, and began to cry.

"Don't -- dearie -- don't," exclaimed Miss Cornelia in distress. She could never bear to hurt a child. "I don't say I WON'T take her -- but the idea is so new it has just kerflummuxed me. I must think it over."

"Mary is SO smart," said Una again.

"Humph! So I've heard. I've heard she swears, too. Is that true?"

"I've never heard her swear EXACTLY," faltered Una uncomfortably. "But I'm afraid she COULD."

"I believe you! Does she always tell the truth?"

"I think she does, except when she's afraid of a whipping."

"And yet you want me to take her!"

"SOME ONE has to take her," sobbed Una. "SOME ONE has to look after her, Mrs. Elliott."

"That's true. Perhaps it IS my duty to do it," said Miss Cornelia with a sigh. "Well, I'll have to talk it over with Mr. Elliott. So don't say anything about it just yet. Take another doughnut, dearie."

Una took it and ate it with a better appetite.

"I'm very fond of doughnuts," she confessed "Aunt Martha never makes any. But Miss Susan at Ingleside does, and sometimes she lets us have a plateful in Rainbow Valley. Do you know what I do when I'm hungry for doughnuts and can't get any, Mrs. Elliott?"

"No, dearie. What?"

"I get out mother's old cook book and read the doughnut recipe -- and the other recipes. They sound SO nice. I always do that when I'm hungry -- especially after we've had ditto for dinner. THEN I read the fried chicken and the roast goose recipes. Mother could make all those nice things."

"Those manse children will starve to death yet if Mr. Meredith doesn't get married," Miss Cornelia told her husband indignantly after Una had gone. "And he won't -- and what's to be done? And SHALL we take this Mary-creature, Marshall?"

"Yes, take her," said Marshall laconically.

"Just like a man," said his wife, despairingly. "'Take her' -- as if that was all. There are a hundred things to be considered, believe ME."

"Take her -- and we'll consider them afterwards, Cornelia," said her husband.

In the end Miss Cornelia did take her and went up to announce her decision to the Ingleside people first.

"Splendid!" said Anne delightedly. "I've been hoping you would do that very thing, Miss Cornelia. I want that poor child to get a good home. I was a homeless little orphan just like her once."

"I don't think this Mary-creature is or ever will be much like you," retorted Miss Cornelia gloomily. "She's a cat of another colour. But she's also a human being with an immortal soul to save. I've got a shorter catechism and a small tooth comb and I'm going to do my duty by her, now that I've set my hand to the plough, believe me."

Mary received the news with chastened satisfaction.

"It's better luck than I expected," she said.

"You'll have to mind your p's and q's with Mrs. Elliott," said Nan.

"Well, I can do that," flashed Mary. "I know how to behave when I want to just as well as you, Nan Blythe."

"You mustn't use bad words, you know, Mary," said Una anxiously.

"I s'pose she'd die of horror if I did," grinned Mary, her white eyes shining with unholy glee over the idea. "But you needn't worry, Una. Butter won't melt in my mouth after this. I'll be all prunes and prisms."

"Nor tell lies," added Faith.

"Not even to get off from a whipping?" pleaded Mary.

"Mrs. Elliott will NEVER whip you -- NEVER," exclaimed Di.

"Won't she?" said Mary skeptically. "If I ever find myself in a place where I ain't licked I'll think it's heaven all right. No fear of me telling lies then. I ain't fond of telling 'em -- I'd ruther not, if it comes to that."

The day before Mary's departure from the manse they had a picnic in her honour in Rainbow Valley, and that evening all the manse children gave her something from their scanty store of treasured things for a keepsake. Carl gave her his Noah's ark and Jerry his second best jew's-harp. Faith gave her a little hairbrush with a mirror in the back of it, which Mary had always considered very wonderful. Una hesitated between an old beaded purse and a gay picture of Daniel in the lion's den, and finally offered Mary her choice. Mary really hankered after the beaded purse, but she knew Una loved it, so she said,

"Give me Daniel. I'd rusher have it 'cause I'm partial to lions. Only I wish they'd et Daniel up. It would have been more exciting."

At bedtime Mary coaxed Una to sleep with her.

"It's for the last time," she said, "and it's raining tonight, and I hate sleeping up there alone when it's raining on account of that graveyard. I don't mind it on fine nights, but a night like this I can't see anything but the rain pouring down on them old white stones, and the wind round the window sounds as if them dead people were trying to get in and crying 'cause they couldn't."

"I like rainy nights," said Una, when they were cuddled down together in the little attic room, "and so do the Blythe girls."

"I don't mind 'em when I'm not handy to graveyards," said Mary. "If I was alone here I'd cry my eyes out I'd be so lonesome. I feel awful bad to be leaving you all."

"Mrs. Elliott will let you come up and play in Rainbow Valley quite often I'm sure," said Una. "And you WILL be a good girl, won't you, Mary?"

"Oh, I'll try," sighed Mary. "But it won't be as easy for me to be good -- inside, I mean, as well as outside -- as it is for you. You hadn't such scalawags of relations as I had."

"But your people must have had some good qualities as well as bad ones," argued Una. "You must live up to them and never mind their bad ones."

"I don't believe they had any good qualities," said Mary gloomily. "I never heard of any. My grandfather had money, but they say he was a rascal. No, I'll just have to start out on my own hook and do the best I can."

"And God will help you, you know, Mary, if you ask Him."

"I don't know about that."

"Oh, Mary. You know we asked God to get a home for you and He did."

"I don't see what He had to do with it," retorted Mary. "It was you put it into Mrs. Elliott's head."

"But God put it into her HEART to take you. All my putting it into her HEAD wouldn't have done any good if He hadn't."

"Well, there may be something in that," admitted Mary. "Mind you, I haven't got anything against God, Una. I'm willing to give Him a chance. But, honest, I think He's an awful lot like your father -- just absent-minded and never taking any notice of a body most of the time, but sometimes waking up all of a suddent and being awful good and kind and sensible."

"Oh, Mary, no!" exclaimed horrified Una. "God isn't a bit like father -- I mean He's a thousand times better and kinder."

"If He's as good as your father He'll do for me," said Mary. "When your father was talking to me I felt as if I never could be bad any more."

"I wish you'd talk to father about Him," sighed Una. "He can explain it all so much better than I can."

"Why, so I will, next time he wakes up," promised Mary. "That night he talked to me in the study he showed me real clear that my praying didn't kill Mrs. Wiley. My mind's been easy since, but I'm real cautious about praying. I guess the old rhyme is the safest. Say, Una, it seems to me if one has to pray to anybody it'd be better to pray to the devil than to God. God's good, anyhow so you say, so He won't do you any harm, but from all I can make out the devil needs to be pacified. I think the sensible way would be to say to HIM, 'Good devil, please don't tempt me. Just leave me alone, please.' Now, don't you?"

"Oh, no, no, Mary. I'm sure it couldn't be right to pray to the devil. And it wouldn't do any good because he's bad. It might aggravate him and he'd be worse than ever."

"Well, as to this God-matter," said Mary stubbornly, "since you and I can't settle it, there ain't no use in talking more about it until we've a chanct to find out the rights of it. I'll do the best I can alone till then."

"If mother was alive she could tell us everything," said Una with a sigh.

"I wisht she was alive," said Mary. "I don't know what's going to become of you youngsters when I'm gone. Anyhow, DO try and keep the house a little tidy. The way people talks about it is scandalous. And the first thing you know your father will be getting married again and then your noses will be out of joint."

Una was startled. The idea of her father marrying again had never presented itself to her before. She did not like it and she lay silent under the chill of it.

"Stepmothers are AWFUL creatures," Mary went on. "I could make your blood run cold if I was to tell you all I know about 'em. The Wilson kids across the road from Wiley's had a stepmother. She was just as bad to 'em as Mrs. Wiley was to me. It'll be awful if you get a stepmother."

"I'm sure we won't," said Una tremulously. "Father won't marry anybody else."

"He'll be hounded into it, I expect," said Mary darkly. "All the old maids in the settlement are after him. There's no being up to them. And the worst of stepmothers is, they always set your father against you. He'd never care anything about you again. He'd always take her part and her children's part. You see, she'd make him believe you were all bad."

"I wish you hadn't told me this, Mary," cried Una. "It makes me feel so unhappy."

"I only wanted to warn you," said Mary, rather repentantly. "Of course, your father's so absent-minded he mightn't happen to think of getting married again. But it's better to be prepared."

Long after Mary slept serenely little Una lay awake, her eyes smarting with tears. On, how dreadful it would be if her father should marry somebody who would make him hate her and Jerry and Faith and Carl! She couldn't bear it -- she couldn't!

Mary had not instilled any poison of the kind Miss Cornelia had feared into the manse children's minds. Yet she had certainly contrived to do a little mischief with the best of intentions. But she slept dreamlessly, while Una lay awake and the rain fell and the wind wailed around the old gray manse. And the Rev. John Meredith forgot to go to bed at all because he was absorbed in reading a life of St. Augustine. It was gray dawn when he finished it and went upstairs, wrestling with the problems of two thousand years ago. The door of the girls' room was open and he saw Faith lying asleep, rosy and beautiful. He wondered where Una was. Perhaps she had gone over to "stay all night" with the Blythe girls. She did this occasionally, deeming it a great treat. John Meredith sighed. He felt that Una's whereabouts ought not to be a mystery to him. Cecelia would have looked after her better than that.

If only Cecelia were still with him! How pretty and gay she had been! How the old manse up at Maywater had echoed to her songs! And she had gone away so suddenly, taking her laughter and music and leaving silence -- so suddenly that he had never quite got over his feeling of amazement. How could SHE, the beautiful and vivid, have died?

The idea of a second marriage had never presented itself seriously to John Meredith. He had loved his wife so deeply that he believed he could never care for any woman again. He had a vague idea that before very long Faith would be old enough to take her mother's place. Until then, he must do the best he could alone. He sighed and went to his room, where the bed was still unmade. Aunt Martha had forgotten it, and Mary had not dared to make it because Aunt Martha had forbidden her to meddle with anything in the minister's room. But Mr. Meredith did not notice that it was unmade. His last thoughts were of St. Augustine.



Chapter X. The Manse Girls Clean House

"Ugh," said Faith, sitting up in bed with a shiver. "It's raining. I do hate a rainy Sunday. Sunday is dull enough even when it's fine."

"We oughtn't to find Sunday dull," said Una sleepily, trying to pull her drowsy wits together with an uneasy conviction that they had overslept.

"But we DO, you know," said Faith candidly. "Mary Vance says most Sundays are so dull she could hang herself."

"We ought to like Sunday better than Mary Vance," said Una remorsefully. "We're the minister's children."

"I wish we were a blacksmith's children," protested Faith angrily, hunting for her stockings. "THEN people wouldn't expect us to be better than other children. JUST look at the holes in my heels. Mary darned them all up before she went away, but they're as bad as ever now. Una, get up. I can't get the breakfast alone. Oh, dear. I wish father and Jerry were home. You wouldn't think we'd miss father much -- we don't see much of him when he is home. And yet EVERYTHING seems gone. I must run in and see how Aunt Martha is."

"Is she any better?" asked Una, when Faith returned.

"No, she isn't. She's groaning with the misery still. Maybe we ought to tell Dr. Blythe. But she says not -- she never had a doctor in her life and she isn't going to begin now. She says doctors just live by poisoning people. Do you suppose they do?"

"No, of course not," said Una indignantly. "I'm sure Dr. Blythe wouldn't poison anybody."

"Well, we'll have to rub Aunt Martha's back again after breakfast. We'd better not make the flannels as hot as we did yesterday."

Faith giggled over the remembrance. They had nearly scalded the skin off poor Aunt Martha's back. Una sighed. Mary Vance would have known just what the precise temperature of flannels for a misery back should be. Mary knew everything. They knew nothing. And how could they learn, save by bitter experience for which, in this instance, unfortunate Aunt Martha had paid?

The preceding Monday Mr. Meredith had left for Nova Scotia to spend his short vacation, taking Jerry with him. On Wednesday Aunt Martha was suddenly seized with a recurring and mysterious ailment which she always called "the misery," and which was tolerably certain to attack her at the most inconvenient times. She could not rise from her bed, any movement causing agony. A doctor she flatly refused to have. Faith and Una cooked the meals and waited on her. The less said about the meals the better -- yet they were not much worse than Aunt Martha's had been. There were many women in the village who would have been glad to come and help, but Aunt Martha refused to let her plight be known.

"You must worry on till I kin git around," she groaned. "Thank goodness, John isn't here. There's a plenty o' cold biled meat and bread and you kin try your hand at making porridge."

The girls had tried their hand, but so far without much success. The first day it had been too thin. The next day so thick that you could cut it in slices. And both days it had been burned.

"I hate porridge," said Faith viciously. "When I have a house of my own I'm NEVER going to have a single bit of porridge in it."

"What'll your children do then?" asked Una. "Children have to have porridge or they won't grow. Everybody says so."

"They'll have to get along without it or stay runts," retorted Faith stubbornly. "Here, Una, you stir it while I set the table. If I leave it for a minute the horrid stuff will burn. It's half past nine. We'll be late for Sunday School."

"I haven't seen anyone going past yet," said Una. "There won't likely be many out. Just see how it's pouring. And when there's no preaching the folks won't come from a distance to bring the children."

"Go and call Carl," said Faith.

Carl, it appeared, had a sore throat, induced by getting wet in the Rainbow Valley marsh the previous evening while pursuing dragon-flies. He had come home with dripping stockings and boots and had sat out the evening in them. He could not eat any breakfast and Faith made him go back to bed again. She and Una left the table as it was and went to Sunday School. There was no one in the school room when they got there and no one came. They waited until eleven and then went home.

"There doesn't seem to be anybody at the Methodist Sunday School either," said Una.

"I'm GLAD," said Faith. "I'd hate to think the Methodists were better at going to Sunday School on rainy Sundays than the Presbyterians. But there's no preaching in their Church to-day, either, so likely their Sunday School is in the afternoon."

Una washed the dishes, doing them quite nicely, for so much had she learned from Mary Vance. Faith swept the floor after a fashion and peeled the potatoes for dinner, cutting her finger in the process.

"I wish we had something for dinner besides ditto," sighed Una. "I'm so tired of it. The Blythe children don't know what ditto is. And we NEVER have any pudding. Nan says Susan would faint if they had no pudding on Sundays. Why aren't we like other people, Faith?"

"I don't want to be like other people," laughed Faith, tying up her bleeding finger. "I like being myself. It's more interesting. Jessie Drew is as good a housekeeper as her mother, but would you want to be as stupid as she is?"

"But our house isn't right. Mary Vance says so. She says people talk about it being so untidy."

Faith had an inspiration.

"We'll clean it all up," she cried. "We'll go right to work to-morrow. It's a real good chance when Aunt Martha is laid up and can't interfere with us. We'll have it all lovely and clean when father comes home, just like it was when Mary went away. ANY ONE can sweep and dust and wash windows. People won't be able to talk about us any more. Jem Blythe says it's only old cats that talk, but their talk hurts just as much as anybody's."

"I hope it will be fine to-morrow," said Una, fired with enthusiasm. "Oh, Faith, it will be splendid to be all cleaned up and like other people."

"I hope Aunt Martha's misery will last over to-morrow," said Faith. "If it doesn't we won't get a single thing done."

Faith's amiable wish was fulfilled. The next day found Aunt Martha still unable to rise. Carl, too, was still sick and easily prevailed on to stay in bed. Neither Faith nor Una had any idea how sick the boy really was; a watchful mother would have had a doctor without delay; but there was no mother, and poor little Carl, with his sore throat and aching head and crimson cheeks, rolled himself up in his twisted bedclothes and suffered alone, somewhat comforted by the companionship of a small green lizard in the pocket of his ragged nighty.

The world was full of summer sunshine after the rain. It was a peerless day for house-cleaning and Faith and Una went gaily to work.

"We'll clean the dining-room and the parlour," said Faith. "It wouldn't do to meddle with the study, and it doesn't matter much about the upstairs. The first thing is to take everything out."

Accordingly, everything was taken out. The furniture was piled on the veranda and lawn and the Methodist graveyard fence was gaily draped with rugs. An orgy of sweeping followed, with an attempt at dusting on Una's part, while Faith washed the windows of the dining-room, breaking one pane and cracking two in the process. Una surveyed the streaked result dubiously.

"They don't look right, somehow," she said. "Mrs. Elliott's and Susan's windows just shine and sparkle."

"Never mind. They let the sunshine through just as well," said Faith cheerfully. "They MUST be clean after all the soap and water I've used, and that's the main thing. Now, it's past eleven, so I'll wipe up this mess on the floor and we'll go outside. You dust the furniture and I'll shake the rugs. I'm going to do it in the graveyard. I don't want to send dust flying all over the lawn."

Faith enjoyed the rug shaking. To stand on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone, flapping and shaking rugs, was real fun. To be sure, Elder Abraham Clow and his wife, driving past in their capacious double-seated buggy, seemed to gaze at her in grim disapproval.

"Isn't that a terrible sight?" said Elder Abraham solemnly.

"I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes," said Mrs. Elder Abraham, more solemnly still.

Faith waved a door mat cheerily at the Clow party. It did not worry her that the elder and his wife did not return her greeting. Everybody knew that Elder Abraham had never been known to smile since he had been appointed Superintendent of the Sunday School fourteen years previously. But it hurt her that Minnie and Adella Clow did not wave back. Faith liked Minnie and Adella. Next to the Blythes, they were her best friends in school and she always helped Adella with her sums. This was gratitude for you. Her friends cut her because she was shaking rugs in an old graveyard where, as Mary Vance said, not a living soul had been buried for years. Faith flounced around to the veranda, where she found Una grieved in spirit because the Clow girls had not waved to her, either.

"I suppose they're mad over something," said Faith. "Perhaps they're jealous because we play so much in Rainbow Valley with the Blythes. Well, just wait till school opens and Adella wants me to show her how to do her sums! We'll get square then. Come on, let's put the things back in. I'm tired to death and I don't believe the rooms will look much better than before we started -- though I shook out pecks of dust in the graveyard. I HATE house-cleaning."

It was two o'clock before the tired girls finished the two rooms. They got a dreary bite in the kitchen and intended to wash the dishes at once. But Faith happened to pick up a new story-book Di Blythe had lent her and was lost to the world until sunset. Una took a cup of rank tea up to Carl but found him asleep; so she curled herself up on Jerry's bed and went to sleep too. Meanwhile, a weird story flew through Glen St. Mary and folks asked each other seriously what was to be done with those manse youngsters.

"That is past laughing at, believe ME," said Miss Cornelia to her husband, with a heavy sigh. "I couldn't believe it at first. Miranda Drew brought the story home from the Methodist Sunday School this afternoon and I simply scoffed at it. But Mrs. Elder Abraham says she and the Elder saw it with their own eyes."

"Saw what?" asked Marshall.

"Faith and Una Meredith stayed home from Sunday School this morning and CLEANED HOUSE," said Miss Cornelia, in accents of despair. "When Elder Abraham went home from the church -- he had stayed behind to straighten out the library books -- he saw them shaking rugs in the Methodist graveyard. I can never look a Methodist in the face again. Just think what a scandal it will make!"

A scandal it assuredly did make, growing more scandalous as it spread, until the over-harbour people heard that the manse children had not only cleaned house and put out a washing on Sunday, but had wound up with an afternoon picnic in the graveyard while the Methodist Sunday School was going on. The only household which remained in blissful ignorance of the terrible thing was the manse itself; on what Faith and Una fondly believed to be Tuesday it rained again; for the next three days it rained; nobody came near the manse; the manse folk went nowhere; they might have waded through the misty Rainbow Valley up to Ingleside, but all the Blythe family, save Susan and the doctor, were away on a visit to Avonlea.

"This is the last of our bread," said Faith, "and the ditto is done. If Aunt Martha doesn't get better soon WHAT will we do?"

"We can buy some bread in the village and there's the codfish Mary dried," said Una. "But we don't know how to cook it."

"Oh, that's easy," laughed Faith. "You just boil it."

Boil it they did; but as it did not occur to them to soak it beforehand it was too salty to eat. That night they were very hungry; but by the following day their troubles were over. Sunshine returned to the world; Carl was well and Aunt Martha's misery left her as suddenly as it had come; the butcher called at the manse and chased famine away. To crown all, the Blythes returned home, and that evening they and the manse children and Mary Vance kept sunset tryst once more in Rainbow Valley, where the daisies were floating upon the grass like spirits of the dew and the bells on the Tree Lovers rang like fairy chimes in the scented twilight.



Chapter XI. A Dreadful Discovery

"Well, you kids have gone and done it now," was Mary's greeting, as she joined them in the Valley. Miss Cornelia was up at Ingleside, holding agonized conclave with Anne and Susan, and Mary hoped that the session might be a long one, for it was all of two weeks since she had been allowed to revel with her chums in the dear valley of rainbows.

"Done what?" demanded everybody but Walter, who was day-dreaming as usual.

"It's you manse young ones, I mean," said Mary. "It was just awful of you. I wouldn't have done such a thing for the world, and I weren't brought up in a manse -- weren't brought up ANYWHERE -- just COME up."

"What have WE done?" asked Faith blankly.

"Done! You'd BETTER ask! The talk is something terrible. I expect it's ruined your father in this congregation. He'll never be able to live it down, poor man! Everybody blames him for it, and that isn't fair. But nothing IS fair in this world. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

"What HAVE we done?" asked Una again, despairingly. Faith said nothing, but her eyes flashed golden-brown scorn at Mary.

"Oh, don't pretend innocence," said Mary, witheringly. "Everybody knows what you have done."

"I don't," interjected Jem Blythe indignantly. "Don't let me catch you making Una cry, Mary Vance. What are you talking about?"

"I s'pose you don't know, since you're just back from up west," said Mary, somewhat subdued. Jem could always manage her. "But everybody else knows, you'd better believe."

"Knows what?"

"That Faith and Una stayed home from Sunday School last Sunday and CLEANED HOUSE."

"We didn't," cried Faith and Una, in passionate denial.

Mary looked haughtily at them.

"I didn't suppose you'd deny it, after the way you've combed ME down for lying," she said. "What's the good of saying you didn't? Everybody knows you DID. Elder Clow and his wife saw you. Some people say it will break up the church, but I don't go that far. You ARE nice ones."

Nan Blythe stood up and put her arms around the dazed Faith and Una.

"They were nice enough to take you in and feed you and clothe you when you were starving in Mr. Taylor's barn, Mary Vance," she said. "You are VERY grateful, I must say."

"I AM grateful," retorted Mary. "You'd know it if you'd heard me standing up for Mr. Meredith through thick and thin. I've blistered my tongue talking for him this week. I've said again and again that he isn't to blame if his young ones did clean house on Sunday. He was away -- and they knew better."

"But we didn't," protested Una. "It was MONDAY we cleaned house. Wasn't it, Faith?"

"Of course it was," said Faith, with flashing eyes. "We went to Sunday School in spite of the rain -- and no one came -- not even Elder Abraham, for all his talk about fair-weather Christians."

"It was Saturday it rained," said Mary. "Sunday was as fine as silk. I wasn't at Sunday School because I had toothache, but every one else was and they saw all your stuff out on the lawn. And Elder Abraham and Mrs. Elder Abraham saw you shaking rugs in the graveyard."

Una sat down among the daisies and began to cry.

"Look here," said Jem resolutely, "this thing must be cleared up. SOMEBODY has made a mistake. Sunday WAS fine, Faith. How could you have thought Saturday was Sunday?"

"Prayer-meeting was Thursday night," cried Faith, "and Adam flew into the soup-pot on Friday when Aunt Martha's cat chased him, and spoiled our dinner; and Saturday there was a snake in the cellar and Carl caught it with a forked stick and carried it out, and Sunday it rained. So there!"

"Prayer-meeting was Wednesday night," said Mary. "Elder Baxter was to lead and he couldn't go Thursday night and it was changed to Wednesday. You were just a day out, Faith Meredith, and you DID work on Sunday."

Suddenly Faith burst into a peal of laughter.

"I suppose we did. What a joke!"

"It isn't much of a joke for your father," said Mary sourly.

"It'll be all right when people find out it was just a mistake," said Faith carelessly. "We'll explain."

"You can explain till you're black in the face," said Mary, "but a lie like that'll travel faster'n further than you ever will. I'VE seen more of the world than you and I know. Besides, there are plenty of folks won't believe it was a mistake."

"They will if I tell them," said Faith.

"You can't tell everybody," said Mary. "No, I tell you you've disgraced your father."

Una's evening was spoiled by this dire reflection, but Faith refused to be made uncomfortable. Besides, she had a plan that would put everything right. So she put the past with its mistake behind her and gave herself over to enjoyment of the present. Jem went away to fish and Walter came out of his reverie and proceeded to describe the woods of heaven. Mary pricked up her ears and listened respectfully. Despite her awe of Walter she revelled in his "book talk." It always gave her a delightful sensation. Walter had been reading his Coleridge that day, and he pictured a heaven where

"There were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree, And there were forests ancient as the hills Enfolding sunny spots of greenery."

"I didn't know there was any woods in heaven," said Mary, with a long breath. "I thought it was all streets -- and streets -- AND streets."

"Of course there are woods," said Nan. "Mother can't live without trees and I can't, so what would be the use of going to heaven if there weren't any trees?"

"There are cities, too," said the young dreamer, "splendid cities -- coloured just like the sunset, with sapphire towers and rainbow domes. They are built of gold and diamonds -- whole streets of diamonds, flashing like the sun. In the squares there are crystal fountains kissed by the light, and everywhere the asphodel blooms -- the flower of heaven."

"Fancy!" said Mary. "I saw the main street in Charlottetown once and I thought it was real grand, but I s'pose it's nothing to heaven. Well, it all sounds gorgeous the way you tell it, but won't it be kind of dull, too?"

"Oh, I guess we can have some fun when the angels' backs are turned," said Faith comfortably.

"Heaven is ALL fun," declared Di.

"The Bible doesn't say so," cried Mary, who had read so much of the Bible on Sunday afternoons under Miss Cornelia's eye that she now considered herself quite an authority on it.

"Mother says the Bible language is figurative," said Nan.

"Does that mean that it isn't true?" asked Mary hopefully.

"No -- not exactly -- but I think it means that heaven will be just like what you'd like it to be."

"I'd like it to be just like Rainbow Valley," said Mary, "with all you kids to gas and play with. THAT'S good enough for me. Anyhow, we can't go to heaven till we're dead and maybe not then, so what's the use of worrying? Here's Jem with a string of trout and it's my turn to fry them."

"We ought to know more about heaven than Walter does when we're the minister's family," said Una, as they walked home that night.

"We KNOW just as much, but Walter can IMAGINE," said Faith. "Mrs. Elliott says he gets it from his mother."

"I do wish we hadn't made that mistake about Sunday," sighed Una.

"Don't worry over that. I've thought of a great plan to explain so that everybody will know," said Faith. "Just wait till to-morrow night."



Chapter XII. An Explanation And A Dare

The Rev. Dr. Cooper preached in Glen St. Mary the next evening and the Presbyterian Church was crowded with people from near and far. The Reverend Doctor was reputed to be a very eloquent speaker; and, bearing in mind the old dictum that a minister should take his best clothes to the city and his best sermons to the country, he delivered a very scholarly and impressive discourse. But when the folks went home that night it was not of Dr. Cooper's sermon they talked. They had completely forgotten all about it.

Dr. Cooper had concluded with a fervent appeal, had wiped the perspiration from his massive brow, had said "Let us pray" as he was famed for saying it, and had duly prayed. There was a slight pause. In Glen St. Mary church the old fashion of taking the collection after the sermon instead of before still held -- mainly because the Methodists had adopted the new fashion first, and Miss Cornelia and Elder Clow would not hear of following where Methodists had led. Charles Baxter and Thomas Douglas, whose duty it was to pass the plates, were on the point of rising to their feet. The organist had got out the music of her anthem and the choir had cleared its throat. Suddenly Faith Meredith rose in the manse pew, walked up to the pulpit platform, and faced the amazed audience.

Miss Cornelia half rose in her seat and then sat down again. Her pew was far back and it occurred to her that whatever Faith meant to do or say would be half done or said before she could reach her. There was no use making the exhibition worse than it had to be. With an anguished glance at Mrs. Dr. Blythe, and another at Deacon Warren of the Methodist Church, Miss Cornelia resigned herself to another scandal.

"If the child was only dressed decently itself," she groaned in spirit.

Faith, having spilled ink on her good dress, had serenely put on an old one of faded pink print. A caticornered rent in the skirt had been darned with scarlet tracing cotton and the hem had been let down, showing a bright strip of unfaded pink around the skirt. But Faith was not thinking of her clothes at all. She was feeling suddenly nervous. What had seemed easy in imagination was rather hard in reality. Confronted by all those staring questioning eyes Faith's courage almost failed her. The lights were so bright, the silence so awesome. She thought she could not speak after all. But she MUST -- her father MUST be cleared of suspicion. Only -- the words would NOT come.

Una's little pearl-pure face gleamed up at her beseechingly from the manse pew. The Blythe children were lost in amazement. Back under the gallery Faith saw the sweet graciousness of Miss Rosemary West's smile and the amusement of Miss Ellen's. But none of these helped her. It was Bertie Shakespeare Drew who saved the situation. Bertie Shakespeare sat in the front seat of the gallery and he made a derisive face at Faith. Faith promptly made a dreadful one back at him, and, in her anger over being grimaced at by Bertie Shakespeare, forgot her stage fright. She found her voice and spoke out clearly and bravely.

"I want to explain something," she said, "and I want to do it now because everybody will hear it that heard the other. People are saying that Una and I stayed home last Sunday and cleaned house instead of going to Sunday School. Well, we did -- but we didn't mean to. We got mixed up in the days of the week. It was all Elder Baxter's fault" -- sensation in Baxter's pew -- "because he went and changed the prayer-meeting to Wednesday night and then we thought Thursday was Friday and so on till we thought Saturday was Sunday. Carl was laid up sick and so was Aunt Martha, so they couldn't put us right. We went to Sunday School in all that rain on Saturday and nobody came. And then we thought we'd clean house on Monday and stop old cats from talking about how dirty the manse was" -- general sensation all over the church -- "and we did. I shook the rugs in the Methodist graveyard because it was such a convenient place and not because I meant to be disrespectful of the dead. It isn't the dead folks who have made the fuss over this -- it's the living folks. And it isn't right for any of you to blame my father for this, because he was away and didn't know, and anyhow we thought it was Monday. He's just the best father that ever lived in the world and we love him with all our hearts."

Faith's bravado ebbed out in a sob. She ran down the steps and flashed out of the side door of the church. There the friendly starlit, summer night comforted her and the ache went out of her eyes and throat. She felt very happy. The dreadful explanation was over and everybody knew now that her father wasn't to blame and that she and Una were not so wicked as to have cleaned house knowingly on Sunday.

Inside the church people gazed blankly at each other, but Thomas Douglas rose and walked up the aisle with a set face. HIS duty was clear; the collection must be taken if the skies fell. Taken it was; the choir sang the anthem, with a dismal conviction that it fell terribly flat, and Dr. Cooper gave out the concluding hymn and pronounced the benediction with considerably less unction than usual. The Reverend Doctor had a sense of humour and Faith's performance tickled him. Besides, John Meredith was well known in Presbyterian circles.

Mr. Meredith returned home the next afternoon, but before his coming Faith contrived to scandalize Glen St. Mary again. In the reaction from Sunday evening's intensity and strain she was especially full of what Miss Cornelia would have called "devilment" on Monday. This led her to dare Walter Blythe to ride through Main Street on a pig, while she rode another one.

The pigs in question were two tall, lank animals, supposed to belong to Bertie Shakespeare Drew's father, which had been haunting the roadside by the manse for a couple of weeks. Walter did not want to ride a pig through Glen St. Mary, but whatever Faith Meredith dared him to do must be done. They tore down the hill and through the village, Faith bent double with laughter over her terrified courser, Walter crimson with shame. They tore past the minister himself, just coming home from the station; he, being a little less dreamy and abstracted than usual -- owing to having had a talk on the train with Miss Cornelia who always wakened him up temporarily -- noticed them, and thought he really must speak to Faith about it and tell her that such conduct was not seemly. But he had forgotten the trifling incident by the time he reached home. They passed Mrs. Alec Davis, who shrieked in horror, and they passed Miss Rosemary West who laughed and sighed. Finally, just before the pigs swooped into Bertie Shakespeare Drew's back yard, never to emerge therefrom again, so great had been the shock to their nerves -- Faith and Walter jumped off, as Dr. and Mrs. Blythe drove swiftly by.

"So that is how you bring up your boys," said Gilbert with mock severity.

"Perhaps I do spoil them a little," said Anne contritely, "but, oh, Gilbert, when I think of my own childhood before I came to Green Gables I haven't the heart to be very strict. How hungry for love and fun I was -- an unloved little drudge with never a chance to play! They do have such good times with the manse children."

"What about the poor pigs?" asked Gilbert.

Anne tried to look sober and failed.

"Do you really think it hurt them?" she said. "I don't think anything could hurt those animals. They've been the plague of the neighbourhood this summer and the Drews WON'T shut them up. But I'll talk to Walter -- if I can keep from laughing when I do it."

Miss Cornelia came up to Ingleside that evening to relieve her feelings over Sunday night. To her surprise she found that Anne did not view Faith's performance in quite the same light as she did.

"I thought there was something brave and pathetic in her getting up there before that churchful of people, to confess," she said. "You could see she was frightened to death -- yet she was bound to clear her father. I loved her for it."

"Oh, of course, the poor child meant well," sighed Miss Cornelia, "but just the same it was a terrible thing to do, and is making more talk than the house-cleaning on Sunday. THAT had begun to die away, and this has started it all up again. Rosemary West is like you -- she said last night as she left the church that it was a plucky thing for Faith to do, but it made her feel sorry for the child, too. Miss Ellen thought it all a good joke, and said she hadn't had as much fun in church for years. Of course THEY don't care -- they are Episcopalians. But we Presbyterians feel it. And there were so many hotel people there that night and scores of Methodists. Mrs. Leander Crawford cried, she felt so bad. And Mrs. Alec Davis said the little hussy ought to be spanked."

"Mrs. Leander Crawford is always crying in church," said Susan contemptuously. "She cries over every affecting thing the minister says. But you do not often see her name on a subscription list, Mrs. Dr. dear. Tears come cheaper. She tried to talk to me one day about Aunt Martha being such a dirty housekeeper; and I wanted to say, 'Every one knows that YOU have been seen mixing up cakes in the kitchen wash-pan, Mrs. Leander Crawford!' But I did not say it, Mrs. Dr. dear, because I have too much respect for myself to condescend to argue with the likes of her. But I could tell worse things than THAT of Mrs. Leander Crawford, if I was disposed to gossip. And as for Mrs. Alec Davis, if she had said that to me, Mrs. Dr. dear, do you know what I would have said? I would have said, 'I have no doubt you would like to spank Faith, Mrs. Davis, but you will never have the chance to spank a minister's daughter either in this world or in that which is to come.'"

"If poor Faith had only been decently dressed," lamented Miss Cornelia again, "it wouldn't have been quite that bad. But that dress looked dreadful, as she stood there upon the platform."

"It was clean, though, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. "They ARE clean children. They may be very heedless and reckless, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I am not saying they are not, but they NEVER forget to wash behind their ears."

"The idea of Faith forgetting what day was Sunday," persisted Miss Cornelia. "She will grow up just as careless and impractical as her father, believe ME. I suppose Carl would have known better if he hadn't been sick. I don't know what was wrong with him, but I think it very likely he had been eating those blueberries that grew in the graveyard. No wonder they made him sick. If I was a Methodist I'd try to keep my graveyard cleaned up at least."

"I am of the opinion that Carl only ate the sours that grow on the dyke," said Susan hopefully. "I do not think ANY minister's son would eat blueberries that grew on the graves of dead people. You know it would not be so bad, Mrs. Dr. dear, to eat things that grew on the dyke."

"The worst of last night's performance was the face Faith made made at somebody in the congregation before she started in," said Miss Cornelia. "Elder Clow declares she made it at him. And DID you hear that she was seen riding on a pig to-day?"

"I saw her. Walter was with her. I gave him a little -- a VERY little -- scolding about it. He did not say much, but he gave me the impression that it had been his idea and that Faith was not to blame."

"I do not not believe THAT, Mrs. Dr. dear," cried Susan, up in arms. "That is just Walter's way -- to take the blame on himself. But you know as well as I do, Mrs. Dr. dear, that that blessed child would never have thought of riding on a pig, even if he does write poetry."

"Oh, there's no doubt the notion was hatched in Faith Meredith's brain," said Miss Cornelia. "And I don't say that I'm sorry that Amos Drew's old pigs did get their come-uppance for once. But the minister's daughter!"

"AND the doctor's son!" said Anne, mimicking Miss Cornelia's tone. Then she laughed. "Dear Miss Cornelia, they're only little children. And you KNOW they've never yet done anything bad -- they're just heedless and impulsive -- as I was myself once. They'll grow sedate and sober -- as I've done."

Miss Cornelia laughed, too.

"There are times, Anne dearie, when I know by your eyes that YOUR soberness is put on like a garment and you're really aching to do something wild and young again. Well, I feel encouraged. Somehow, a talk with you always does have that effect on me. Now, when I go to see Barbara Samson, it's just the opposite. She makes me feel that everything's wrong and always will be. But of course living all your life with a man like Joe Samson wouldn't be exactly cheering."

"It is a very strange thing to think that she married Joe Samson after all her chances," remarked Susan. "She was much sought after when she was a girl. She used to boast to me that she had twenty-one beaus and Mr. Pethick."

"What was Mr. Pethick?"

"Well, he was a sort of hanger-on, Mrs. Dr. dear, but you could not exactly call him a beau. He did not really have any intentions. Twenty-one beaus -- and me that never had one! But Barbara went through the woods and picked up the crooked stick after all. And yet they say her husband can make better baking powder biscuits than she can, and she always gets him to make them when company comes to tea."

"Which reminds ME that I have company coming to tea to-morrow and I must go home and set my bread," said Miss Cornelia. "Mary said she could set it and no doubt she could. But while I live and move and have my being I set my own bread, believe me."

"How is Mary getting on?" asked Anne.

"I've no fault to find with Mary," said Miss Cornelia rather gloomily. "She's getting some flesh on her bones and she's clean and respectful -- though there's more in her than I can fathom. She's a sly puss. If you dug for a thousand years you couldn't get to the bottom of that child's mind, believe ME! As for work, I never saw anything like her. She EATS it up. Mrs. Wiley may have been cruel to her, but folks needn't say she made Mary work. Mary's a born worker. Sometimes I wonder which will wear out first -- her legs or her tongue. I don't have enough to do to keep me out of mischief these days. I'll be real glad when school opens, for then I'll have something to do again. Mary doesn't want to go to school, but I put my foot down and said that go she must. I shall NOT have the Methodists saying that I kept her out of school while I lolled in idleness."



Chapter XIII. The House On The Hill

There was a little unfailing spring, always icy cold and crystal pure, in a certain birch-screened hollow of Rainbow Valley in the lower corner near the marsh. Not a great many people knew of its existence. The manse and Ingleside children knew, of course, as they knew everything else about the magic valley. Occasionally they went there to get a drink, and it figured in many of their plays as a fountain of old romance. Anne knew of it and loved it because it somehow reminded her of the beloved Dryad's Bubble at Green Gables. Rosemary West knew of it; it was her fountain of romance, too. Eighteen years ago she had sat behind it one spring twilight and heard young Martin Crawford stammer out a confession of fervent, boyish love. She had whispered her own secret in return, and they had kissed and promised by the wild wood spring. They had never stood together by it again -- Martin had sailed on his fatal voyage soon after; but to Rosemary West it was always a sacred spot, hallowed by that immortal hour of youth and love. Whenever she passed near it she turned aside to hold a secret tryst with an old dream -- a dream from which the pain had long gone, leaving only its unforgettable sweetness.

The spring was a hidden thing. You might have passed within ten feet of it and never have suspected its existence. Two generations past a huge old pine had fallen almost across it. Nothing was left of the tree but its crumbling trunk out of which the ferns grew thickly, making a green roof and a lacy screen for the water. A maple-tree grew beside it with a curiously gnarled and twisted trunk, creeping along the ground for a little way before shooting up into the air, and so forming a quaint seat; and September had flung a scarf of pale smoke-blue asters around the hollow.

John Meredith, taking the cross-lots road through Rainbow Valley on his way home from some pastoral visitations around the Harbour head one evening, turned aside to drink of the little spring. Walter Blythe had shown it to him one afternoon only a few days before, and they had had a long talk together on the maple seat. John Meredith, under all his shyness and aloofness, had the heart of a boy. He had been called Jack in his youth, though nobody in Glen St. Mary would ever have believed it. Walter and he had taken to each other and had talked unreservedly. Mr. Meredith found his way into some sealed and sacred chambers of the lad's soul wherein not even Di had ever looked. They were to be chums from that friendly hour and Walter knew that he would never be frightened of the minister again.

"I never believed before that it was possible to get really acquainted with a minister," he told his mother that night.

John Meredith drank from his slender white hand, whose grip of steel always surprised people who were unacquainted with it, and then sat down on the maple seat. He was in no hurry to go home; this was a beautiful spot and he was mentally weary after a round of rather uninspiring conversations with many good and stupid people. The moon was rising. Rainbow Valley was wind-haunted and star-sentinelled only where he was, but afar from the upper end came the gay notes of children's laughter and voices.

The ethereal beauty of the asters in the moonlight, the glimmer of the little spring, the soft croon of the brook, the wavering grace of the brackens all wove a white magic round John Meredith. He forgot congregational worries and spiritual problems; the years slipped away from him; he was a young divinity student again and the roses of June were blooming red and fragrant on the dark, queenly head of his Cecilia. He sat there and dreamed like any boy. And it was at this propitious moment that Rosemary West stepped aside from the by-path and stood beside him in that dangerous, spell-weaving place. John Meredith stood up as she came in and saw her -- REALLY saw her -- for the first time.

He had met her in his church once or twice and shaken hands with her abstractedly as he did with anyone he happened to encounter on his way down the aisle. He had never met her elsewhere, for the Wests were Episcopalians, with church affinities in Lowbridge, and no occasion for calling upon them had ever arisen. Before to-night, if anyone had asked John Meredith what Rosemary West looked like he would not have had the slightest notion. But he was never to forget her, as she appeared to him in the glamour of kind moonlight by the spring.

She was certainly not in the least like Cecilia, who had always been his ideal of womanly beauty. Cecilia had been small and dark and vivacious -- Rosemary West was tall and fair and placid, yet John Meredith thought he had never seen so beautiful a woman.

She was bareheaded and her golden hair -- hair of a warm gold, "molasses taffy" colour as Di Blythe had said -- was pinned in sleek, close coils over her head; she had large, tranquil, blue eyes that always seemed full of friendliness, a high white forehead and a finely shaped face.

Rosemary West was always called a "sweet woman." She was so sweet that even her high-bred, stately air had never gained for her the reputation of being "stuck-up," which it would inevitably have done in the case of anyone else in Glen St. Mary. Life had taught her to be brave, to be patient, to love, to forgive. She had watched the ship on which her lover went sailing out of Four Winds Harbour into the sunset. But, though she watched long, she had never seen it coming sailing back. That vigil had taken girlhood from her eyes, yet she kept her youth to a marvellous degree. Perhaps this was because she always seemed to preserve that attitude of delighted surprise towards life which most of us leave behind in childhood -- an attitude which not only made Rosemary herself seem young, but flung a pleasing illusion of youth over the consciousness of every one who talked to her.

John Meredith was startled by her loveliness and Rosemary was startled by his presence. She had never thought she would find anyone by that remote spring, least of all the recluse of Glen St. Mary manse. She almost dropped the heavy armful of books she was carrying home from the Glen lending library, and then, to cover her confusion, she told one of those small fibs which even the best of women do tell at times.

"I -- I came for a drink," she said, stammering a little, in answer to Mr. Meredith's grave "good evening, Miss West." She felt that she was an unpardonable goose and she longed to shake herself. But John Meredith was not a vain man and he knew she would likely have been as much startled had she met old Elder Clow in that unexpected fashion. Her confusion put him at ease and he forgot to be shy; besides, even the shyest of men can sometimes be quite audacious in moonlight.

"Let me get you a cup," he said smiling. There was a cup near by, if he had only known it, a cracked, handleless blue cup secreted under the maple by the Rainbow Valley children; but he did not know it, so he stepped out to one of the birch-trees and stripped a bit of its white skin away. Deftly he fashioned this into a three-cornered cup, filled it from the spring, and handed it to Rosemary.

Rosemary took it and drank every drop to punish herself for her fib, for she was not in the least thirsty, and to drink a fairly large cupful of water when you are not thirsty is somewhat of an ordeal. Yet the memory of that draught was to be very pleasant to Rosemary. In after years it seemed to her that there was something sacramental about it. Perhaps this was because of what the minister did when she handed him back the cup. He stooped again and filled it and drank of it himself. It was only by accident that he put his lips just where Rosemary had put hers, and Rosemary knew it. Nevertheless, it had a curious significance for her. They two had drunk of the same cup. She remembered idly that an old aunt of hers used to say that when two people did this their after-lives would be linked in some fashion, whether for good or ill.

John Meredith held the cup uncertainly. He did not know what to do with it. The logical thing would have been to toss it away, but somehow he was disinclined to do this. Rosemary held out her hand for it.

"Will you let me have it?" she said. "You made it so knackily. I never saw anyone make a birch cup so since my little brother used to make them long ago -- before he died."

"I learned how to make them when I was a boy, camping out one summer. An old hunter taught me," said Mr. Meredith. "Let me carry your books, Miss West."

Rosemary was startled into another fib and said oh, they were not heavy. But the minister took them from her with quite a masterful air and they walked away together. It was the first time Rosemary had stood by the valley spring without thinking of Martin Crawford. The mystic tryst had been broken.

The little by-path wound around the marsh and then struck up the long wooded hill on the top of which Rosemary lived. Beyond, through the trees, they could see the moonlight shining across the level summer fields. But the little path was shadowy and narrow. Trees crowded over it, and trees are never quite as friendly to human beings after nightfall as they are in daylight. They wrap themselves away from us. They whisper and plot furtively. If they reach out a hand to us it has a hostile, tentative touch. People walking amid trees after night always draw closer together instinctively and involuntarily, making an alliance, physical and mental, against certain alien powers around them. Rosemary's dress brushed against John Meredith as they walked. Not even an absent-minded minister, who was after all a young man still, though he firmly believed he had outlived romance, could be insensible to the charm of the night and the path and the companion.

It is never quite safe to think we have done with life. When we imagine we have finished our story fate has a trick of turning the page and showing us yet another chapter. These two people each thought their hearts belonged irrevocably to the past; but they both found their walk up that hill very pleasant. Rosemary thought the Glen minister was by no means as shy and tongue-tied as he had been represented. He seemed to find no difficulty in talking easily and freely. Glen housewives would have been amazed had they heard him. But then so many Glen housewives talked only gossip and the price of eggs, and John Meredith was not interested in either. He talked to Rosemary of books and music and wide-world doings and something of his own history, and found that she could understand and respond. Rosemary, it appeared, possessed a book which Mr. Meredith had not read and wished to read. She offered to lend it to him and when they reached the old homestead on the hill he went in to get it.

The house itself was an old-fashioned gray one, hung with vines, through which the light in the sitting-room winked in friendly fashion. It looked down the Glen, over the harbour, silvered in the moonlight, to the sand-dunes and the moaning ocean. They walked in through a garden that always seemed to smell of roses, even when no roses were in bloom. There was a sisterhood of lilies at the gate and a ribbon of asters on either side of the broad walk, and a lacery of fir trees on the hill's edge beyond the house.

"You have the whole world at your doorstep here," said John Meredith, with a long breath. "What a view -- what an outlook! At times I feel stifled down there in the Glen. You can breathe up here."

"It is calm to-night," said Rosemary laughing. "If there were a wind it would blow your breath away. We get 'a' the airts the wind can blow' up here. This place should be called Four Winds instead of the Harbour."

"I like wind," he said. "A day when there is no wind seems to me DEAD. A windy day wakes me up." He gave a conscious laugh. "On a calm day I fall into day dreams. No doubt you know my reputation, Miss West. If I cut you dead the next time we meet don't put it down to bad manners. Please understand that it is only abstraction and forgive me -- and speak to me."

They found Ellen West in the sitting room when they went in. She laid her glasses down on the book she had been reading and looked at them in amazement tinctured with something else. But she shook hands amiably with Mr. Meredith and he sat down and talked to her, while Rosemary hunted out his book.

Ellen West was ten years older than Rosemary, and so different from her that it was hard to believe they were sisters. She was dark and massive, with black hair, thick, black eyebrows and eyes of the clear, slaty blue of the gulf water in a north wind. She had a rather stern, forbidding look, but she was in reality very jolly, with a hearty, gurgling laugh and a deep, mellow, pleasant voice with a suggestion of masculinity about it. She had once remarked to Rosemary that she would really like to have a talk with that Presbyterian minister at the Glen, to see if he could find a word to say to a woman when he was cornered. She had her chance now and she tackled him on world politics. Miss Ellen, who was a great reader, had been devouring a book on the Kaiser of Germany, and she demanded Mr. Meredith's opinion of him.

"A dangerous man," was his answer.

"I believe you!" Miss Ellen nodded. "Mark my words, Mr. Meredith, that man is going to fight somebody yet. He's ACHING to. He is going to set the world on fire."

"If you mean that he will wantonly precipitate a great war I hardly think so," said Mr. Meredith. "The day has gone by for that sort of thing."

"Bless you, it hasn't," rumbled Ellen. "The day never goes by for men and nations to make asses of themselves and take to the fists. The millenniun isn't THAT near, Mr. Meredith, and YOU don't think it is any more than I do. As for this Kaiser, mark my words, he is going to make a heap of trouble" -- and Miss Ellen prodded her book emphatically with her long finger. "Yes, if he isn't nipped in the bud he's going to make trouble. WE'LL live to see it -- you and I will live to see it, Mr. Meredith. And who is going to nip him? England should, but she won't. WHO is going to nip him? Tell me that, Mr. Meredith."

Mr. Meredith couldn't tell her, but they plunged into a discussion of German militarism that lasted long after Rosemary had found the book. Rosemary said nothing, but sat in a little rocker behind Ellen and stroked an important black cat meditatively. John Meredith hunted big game in Europe with Ellen, but he looked oftener at Rosemary than at Ellen, and Ellen noticed it. After Rosemary had gone to the door with him and come back Ellen rose and looked at her accusingly.

"Rosemary West, that man has a notion of courting you."

Rosemary quivered. Ellen's speech was like a blow to her. It rubbed all the bloom off the pleasant evening. But she would not let Ellen see how it hurt her.

"Nonsense," she said, and laughed, a little too carelessly. "You see a beau for me in every bush, Ellen. Why he told me all about his wife to-night -- how much she was to him -- how empty her death had left the world."

"Well, that may be HIS way of courting," retorted Ellen. "Men have all kinds of ways, I understand. But don't forget your promise, Rosemary."

"There is no need of my either forgetting or remembering it," said Rosemary, a little wearily. "YOU forget that I'm an old maid, Ellen. It is only your sisterly delusion that I am still young and blooming and dangerous. Mr. Meredith merely wants to be a friend -- if he wants that much itself. He'll forget us both long before he gets back to the manse."

"I've no objection to your being friends with him," conceded Ellen, "but it musn't go beyond friendship, remember. I'm always suspicious of widowers. They are not given to romantic ideas about friendship. They're apt to mean business. As for this Presbyterian man, what do they call him shy for? He's not a bit shy, though he may be absent-minded -- so absent-minded that he forgot to say goodnight to ME when you started to go to the door with him. He's got brains, too. There's so few men round here that can talk sense to a body. I've enjoyed the evening. I wouldn't mind seeing more of him. But no philandering, Rosemary, mind you -- no philandering."

Rosemary was quite used to being warned by Ellen from philandering if she so much as talked five minutes to any marriageable man under eighty or over eighteen. She had always laughed at the warning with unfeigned amusement. This time it did not amuse her -- it irritated her a little. Who wanted to philander?

"Don't be such a goose, Ellen," she said with unaccustomed shortness as she took her lamp. She went upstairs without saying goodnight.

Ellen shook her head dubiously and looked at the black cat.

"What is she so cross about, St. George?" she asked. "When you howl you're hit, I've always heard, George. But she promised, Saint -- she promised, and we Wests always keep our word. So it won't matter if he does want to philander, George. She promised. I won't worry."

Upstairs, in her room, Rosemary sat for a long while looking out of the window across the moonlit garden to the distant, shining harbour. She felt vaguely upset and unsettled. She was suddenly tired of outworn dreams. And in the garden the petals of the last red rose were scattered by a sudden little wind. Summer was over -- it was autumn.



Chapter XIV. Mrs. Alec Davis Makes A Call

John Meredith walked slowly home. At first he thought a little about Rosemary, but by the time he reached Rainbow Valley he had forgotten all about her and was meditating on a point regarding German theology which Ellen had raised. He passed through Rainbow Valley and knew it not. The charm of Rainbow Valley had no potency against German theology. When he reached the manse he went to his study and took down a bulky volume in order to see which had been right, he or Ellen. He remained immersed in its mazes until dawn, struck a new trail of speculation and pursued it like a sleuth hound for the next week, utterly lost to the world, his parish and his family. He read day and night; he forgot to go to his meals when Una was not there to drag him to them; he never thought about Rosemary or Ellen again. Old Mrs. Marshall, over-harbour, was very ill and sent for him, but the message lay unheeded on his desk and gathered dust. Mrs. Marshall recovered but never forgave him. A young couple came to the manse to be married and Mr. Meredith, with unbrushed hair, in carpet slippers and faded dressing gown, married them. To be sure, he began by reading the funeral service to them and got along as far as "ashes to ashes and dust to dust" before he vaguely suspected that something was wrong.

"Dear me," he said absently, "that is strange -- very strange."

The bride, who was very nervous, began to cry. The bridegroom, who was not in the least nervous, giggled.

"Please, sir, I think you're burying us instead of marrying us," he said.

"Excuse me," said Mr. Meredith, as it it did not matter much. He turned up the marriage service and got through with it, but the bride never felt quite properly married for the rest of her life.

He forgot his prayer-meeting again -- but that did not matter, for it was a wet night and nobody came. He might even have forgotten his Sunday service if it had not been for Mrs. Alec Davis. Aunt Martha came in on Saturday afternoon and told him that Mrs. Davis was in the parlour and wanted to see him. Mr. Meredith sighed. Mrs. Davis was the only woman in Glen St. Mary church whom he positively detested. Unfortunately, she was also the richest, and his board of managers had warned Mr. Meredith against offending her. Mr. Meredith seldom thought of such a worldly matter as his stipend; but the managers were more practical. Also, they were astute. Without mentioning money, they contrived to instil into Mr. Meredith's mind a conviction that he should not offend Mrs. Davis. Otherwise, he would likely have forgotten all about her as soon as Aunt Martha had gone out. As it was, he turned down his Ewald with a feeling of annoyance and went across the hall to the parlour.

Mrs. Davis was sitting on the sofa, looking about her with an air of scornful disapproval.

What a scandalous room! There were no curtains on the window. Mrs. Davis did not know that Faith and Una had taken them down the day before to use as court trains in one of their plays and had forgotten to put them up again, but she could not have accused those windows more fiercely if she had known. The blinds were cracked and torn. The pictures on the walls were crooked; the rugs were awry; the vases were full of faded flowers; the dust lay in heaps -- literally in heaps.

"What are we coming to?" Mrs. Davis asked herself, and then primmed up her unbeautiful mouth.

Jerry and Carl had been whooping and sliding down the banisters as she came through the hall. They did not see her and continued whooping and sliding, and Mrs. Davis was convinced they did it on purpose. Faith's pet rooster ambled through the hall, stood in the parlour doorway and looked at her. Not liking her looks, he did not venture in. Mrs. Davis gave a scornful sniff. A pretty manse, indeed, where roosters paraded the halls and stared people out of countenance.

"Shoo, there," commanded Mrs. Davis, poking her flounced, changeable-silk parasol at him.

Adam shooed. He was a wise rooster and Mrs. Davis had wrung the necks of so many roosters with her own fair hands in the course of her fifty years that an air of the executioner seemed to hang around her. Adam scuttled through the hall as the minister came in.

Mr. Meredith still wore slippers and dressing gown, and his dark hair still fell in uncared-for locks over his high brow. But he looked the gentleman he was; and Mrs. Alec Davis, in her silk dress and beplumed bonnet, and kid gloves and gold chain looked the vulgar, coarse-souled woman she was. Each felt the antagonisn of the other's personality. Mr. Meredith shrank, but Mrs. Davis girded up her loins for the fray. She had come to the manse to propose a certain thing to the minister and she meant to lose no time in proposing it. She was going to do him a favour -- a great favour -- and the sooner he was made aware of it the better. She had been thinking about it all summer and had come to a decision at last. This was all that mattered, Mrs. Davis thought. When she decided a thing it WAS decided. Nobody else had any say in the matter. That had always been her attitude. When she had made her mind up to marry Alec Davis she had married him and that was the end to it. Alec had never known how it happened, but what odds? So in this case -- Mrs. Davis had arranged everything to her own satisfaction. Now it only remained to inform Mr. Meredith.

"Will you please shut that door?" said Mrs. Davis, unprimming her mouth slightly to say it, but speaking with asperity. "I have something important to say, and I can't say it with that racket in the hall."

Mr. Meredith shut the door meekly. Then he sat down before Mrs. Davis. He was not wholly aware of her yet. His mind was still wrestling with Ewald's arguments. Mrs. Davis sensed this detachment and it annoyed her.

"I have come to tell you, Mr. Meredith," she said aggressively, "that I have decided to adopt Una."

"To -- adopt -- Una!" Mr. Meredith gazed at her blankly, not understanding in the least.

"Yes. I've been thinking it over for some time. I have often thought of adopting a child, since my husband's death. But it seemed so hard to get a suitable one. It is very few children I would want to take into MY home. I wouldn't think of taking a home child -- some outcast of the slums in all probability. And there is hardly ever any other child to be got. One of the fishermen down at the harbour died last fall and left six youngsters. They tried to get me to take one, but I soon gave them to understand that I had no idea of adopting trash like that. Their grandfather stole a horse. Besides, they were all boys and I wanted a girl -- a quiet, obedient girl that I could train up to be a lady. Una will suit me exactly. She would be a nice little thing if she was properly looked after -- so different from Faith. I would never dream of adopting Faith. But I'll take Una and I'll give her a good home, and up-bringing, Mr. Meredith, and if she behaves herself I'll leave her all my money when I die. Not one of my own relatives shall have a cent of it in any case, I'm determined on that. It was the idea of aggravating them that set me to thinking of adopting a child as much as anything in the first place. Una shall be well dressed and educated and trained, Mr. Meredith, and I shall give her music and painting lessons and treat her as if she was my own."

Mr. Meredith was wide enough awake by this time. There was a faint flush in his pale cheek and a dangerous light in his fine dark eyes. Was this woman, whose vulgarity and consciousness of money oozed out of her at every pore, actually asking him to give her Una -- his dear little wistful Una with Cecilia's own dark-blue eyes -- the child whom the dying mother had clasped to her heart after the other children had been led weeping from the room. Cecilia had clung to her baby until the gates of death had shut between them. She had looked over the little dark head to her husband.

"Take good care of her, John," she had entreated. "She is so small -- and sensitive. The others can fight their way -- but the world will hurt HER. Oh, John, I don't know what you and she are going to do. You both need me so much. But keep her close to you -- keep her close to you."

These had been almost her last words except a few unforgettable ones for him alone. And it was this child whom Mrs. Davis had coolly announced her intention of taking from him. He sat up straight and looked at Mrs. Davis. In spite of the worn dressing gown and the frayed slippers there was something about him that made Mrs. Davis feel a little of the old reverence for "the cloth" in which she had been brought up. After all, there WAS a certain divinity hedging a minister, even a poor, unworldly, abstracted one.

"I thank you for your kind intentions, Mrs. Davis," said Mr. Meredith with a gentle, final, quite awful courtesy, "but I cannot give you my child."

Mrs. Davis looked blank. She had never dreamed of his refusing.

"Why, Mr. Meredith," she said in astonishment. "You must be cr -- you can't mean it. You must think it over -- think of all the advantages I can give her."

"There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis. It is entirely out of the question. All the worldly advantages it is in your power to bestow on her could not compensate for the loss of a father's love and care. I thank you again -- but it is not to be thought of."

Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the power of old habit to control. Her broad red face turned purple and her voice trembled.

"I thought you'd be only too glad to let me have her," she sneered.

"Why did you think that?" asked Mr. Meredith quietly.

"Because nobody ever supposed you cared anything about any of your children," retorted Mrs. Davis contemptuously. "You neglect them scandalously. It is the talk of the place. They aren't fed and dressed properly, and they're not trained at all. They have no more manners than a pack of wild Indians. You never think of doing your duty as a father. You let a stray child come here among them for a fortnight and never took any notice of her -- a child that swore like a trooper I'm told. YOU wouldn't have cared if they'd caught small-pox from her. And Faith made an exhibition of herself getting up in preaching and making that speech! And she rid a pig down the street -- under your very eyes I understand. The way they act is past belief and you never lift a finger to stop them or try to teach them anything. And now when I offer one of them a good home and good prospects you refuse it and insult me. A pretty father you, to talk of loving and caring for your children!"

"That will do, woman!" said Mr. Meredith. He stood up and looked at Mrs. Davis with eyes that made her quail. "That will do," he repeated. "I desire to hear no more, Mrs. Davis. You have said too much. It may be that I have been remiss in some respects in my duty as a parent, but it is not for you to remind me of it in such terms as you have used. Let us say good afternoon."

Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable as good afternoon, but she took her departure. As she swept past the minister a large, plump toad, which Carl had secreted under the lounge, hopped out almost under her feet. Mrs. Davis gave a shriek and in trying to avoid treading on the awful thing, lost her balance and her parasol. She did not exactly fall, but she staggered and reeled across the room in a very undignified fashion and brought up against the door with a thud that jarred her from head to foot. Mr. Meredith, who had not seen the toad, wondered if she had been attacked with some kind of apoplectic or paralytic seizure, and ran in alarm to her assistance. But Mrs. Davis, recovering her feet, waved him back furiously.

"Don't you dare to touch me," she almost shouted. "This is some more of your children's doings, I suppose. This is no fit place for a decent woman. Give me my umbrella and let me go. I'll never darken the doors of your manse or your church again."

Mr. Meredith picked up the gorgeous parasol meekly enough and gave it to her. Mrs. Davis seized it and marched out. Jerry and Carl had given up banister sliding and were sitting on the edge of the veranda with Faith. Unfortunately, all three were singing at the tops of their healthy young voices "There'll be a hot time in the old town to-night." Mrs. Davis believed the song was meant for her and her only. She stopped and shook her parasol at them.

"Your father is a fool," she said, "and you are three young varmints that ought to be whipped within an inch of your lives."

"He isn't," cried Faith. "We're not," cried the boys. But Mrs. Davis was gone.

"Goodness, isn't she mad!" said Jerry. "And what is a 'varmint' anyhow?"

John Meredith paced up and down the parlour for a few minutes; then he went back to his study and sat down. But he did not return to his German theology. He was too grievously disturbed for that. Mrs. Davis had wakened him up with a vengeance. WAS he such a remiss, careless father as she had accused him of being? HAD he so scandalously neglected the bodily and spiritual welfare of the four little motherless creatures dependent on him? WERE his people talking of it as harshly as Mrs. Davis had declared? It must be so, since Mrs. Davis had come to ask for Una in the full and confident belief that he would hand the child over to her as unconcernedly and gladly as one might hand over a strayed, unwelcome kitten. And, if so, what then?

John Meredith groaned and resumed his pacing up and down the dusty, disordered room. What could he do? He loved his children as deeply as any father could and he knew, past the power of Mrs. Davis or any of her ilk, to disturb his conviction, that they loved him devotedly. But WAS he fit to have charge of them? He knew -- none better -- his weaknesses and limitations. What was needed was a good woman's presence and influence and common sense. But how could that be arranged? Even were he able to get such a housekeeper it would cut Aunt Martha to the quick. She believed she could still do all that was meet and necessary. He could not so hurt and insult the poor old woman who had been so kind to him and his. How devoted she had been to Cecilia! And Cecilia had asked him to be very considerate of Aunt Martha. To be sure, he suddenly remembered that Aunt Martha had once hinted that he ought to marry again. He felt she would not resent a wife as she would a housekeeper. But that was out of the question. He did not wish to marry -- he did not and could not care for anyone. Then what could he do? It suddenly occurred to him that he would go over to Ingleside and talk over his difficulties with Mrs. Blythe. Mrs. Blythe was one of the few women he never felt shy or tongue-tied with. She was always so sympathetic and refreshing. It might be that she could suggest some solution of his problems. And even if she could not Mr. Meredith felt that he needed a little decent human companionship after his dose of Mrs. Davis -- something to take the taste of her out of his soul.

He dressed hurriedly and ate his supper less abstractedly than usual. It occurred to him that it was a poor meal. He looked at his children; they were rosy and healthy looking enough -- except Una, and she had never been very strong even when her mother was alive. They were all laughing and talking -- certainly they seemed happy. Carl was especially happy because he had two most beautiful spiders crawling around his supper plate. Their voices were pleasant, their manners did not seem bad, they were considerate of and gentle to one another. Yet Mrs. Davis had said their behaviour was the talk of the congregation.

As Mr. Meredith went through his gate Dr. Blythe and Mrs. Blythe drove past on the road that led to Lowbridge. The minister's face fell. Mrs. Blythe was going away -- there was no use in going to Ingleside. And he craved a little companionship more than ever. As he gazed rather hopelessly over the landscape the sunset light struck on a window of the old West homestead on the hill. It flared out rosily like a beacon of good hope. He suddenly remembered Rosemary and Ellen West. He thought that he would relish some of Ellen's pungent conversation. He thought it would be pleasant to see Rosemary's slow, sweet smile and calm, heavenly blue eyes again. What did that old poem of Sir Philip Sidney's say? -- "continual comfort in a face" -- that just suited her. And he needed comfort. Why not go and call? He remembered that Ellen had asked him to drop in sometimes and there was Rosemary's book to take back -- he ought to take it back before he forgot. He had an uneasy suspicion that there were a great many books in his library which he had borrowed at sundry times and in divers places and had forgotten to take back. It was surely his duty to guard against that in this case. He went back into his study, got the book, and plunged downward into Rainbow Valley.



Chapter XV. More Gossip

On the evening after Mrs. Myra Murray of the over-harbour section had been buried Miss Cornelia and Mary Vance came up to Ingleside. There were several things concerning which Miss Cornelia wished to unburden her soul. The funeral had to be all talked over, of course. Susan and Miss Cornelia thrashed this out between them; Anne took no part or delight in such goulish conversations. She sat a little apart and watched the autumnal flame of dahlias in the garden, and the dreaming, glamorous harbour of the September sunset. Mary Vance sat beside her, knitting meekly. Mary's heart was down in the Rainbow Valley, whence came sweet, distance-softened sounds of children's laughter, but her fingers were under Miss Cornelia's eye. She had to knit so many rounds of her stocking before she might go to the valley. Mary knit and held her tongue, but used her ears.

"I never saw a nicer looking corpse," said Miss Cornelia judicially. "Myra Murray was always a pretty woman -- she was a Corey from Lowbridge and the Coreys were noted for their good looks."

"I said to the corpse as I passed it, 'poor woman. I hope you are as happy as you look.'" sighed Susan. "She had not changed much. That dress she wore was the black satin she got for her daughter's wedding fourteen years ago. Her Aunt told her then to keep it for her funeral, but Myra laughed and said, 'I may wear it to my funeral, Aunty, but I will have a good time out of it first.' And I may say she did. Myra Murray was not a woman to attend her own funeral before she died. Many a time afterwards when I saw her enjoying herself out in company I thought to myself, 'You are a handsome woman, Myra Murray, and that dress becomes you, but it will likely be your shroud at last.' And you see my words have come true, Mrs. Marshall Elliott."

Susan sighed again heavily. She was enjoying herself hugely. A funeral was really a delightful subject of conversation.

"I always liked to meet Myra," said Miss Cornelia. "She was always so gay and cheerful -- she made you feel better just by her handshake. Myra always made the best of things."

"That is true," asserted Susan. "Her sister-in-law told me that when the doctor told her at last that he could do nothing for her and she would never rise from that bed again, Myra said quite cheerfully, 'Well, if that is so, I'm thankful the preserving is all done, and I will not have to face the fall house-cleaning. I always liked house-cleaning in spring,' she says, 'but I always hated it in the fall. I will get clear of it this year, thank goodness.' There are people who would call that levity, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and I think her sister-in-law was a little ashamed of it. She said perhaps her sickness had made Myra a little light-headed. But I said, 'No, Mrs. Murray, do not worry over it. It was just Myra's way of looking at the bright side.'"

"Her sister Luella was just the opposite," said Miss Cornelia. "There was no bright side for Luella -- there was just black and shades of gray. For years she used always to be declaring she was going to die in a week or so. 'I won't be here to burden you long,' she would tell her family with a groan. And if any of them ventured to talk about their little future plans she'd groan also and say, 'Ah, I won't be here then.' When I went to see her I always agreed with her and it made her so mad that she was always quite a lot better for several days afterwards. She has better health now but no more cheerfulness. Myra was so different. She was always doing or saying something to make some one feel good. Perhaps the men they married had something to do with it. Luella's man was a Tartar, believe ME, while Jim Murray was decent, as men go. He looked heart-broken to-day. It isn't often I feel sorry for a man at his wife's funeral, but I did feel for Jim Murray."

"No wonder he looked sad. He will not get a wife like Myra again in a hurry," said Susan. "Maybe he will not try, since his children are all grown up and Mirabel is able to keep house. But there is no predicting what a widower may or may not do and I, for one, will not try."

"We'll miss Myra terrible in church," said Miss Cornelia. "She was such a worker. Nothing ever stumped HER. If she couldn't get over a difficulty she'd get around it, and if she couldn't get around it she'd pretend it wasn't there -- and generally it wasn't. 'I'll keep a stiff upper lip to my journey's end,' said she to me once. Well, she has ended her journey."

"Do you think so?" asked Anne suddenly, coming back from dreamland. "I can't picture HER journey as being ended. Can YOU think of her sitting down and folding her hands -- that eager, asking spirit of hers, with its fine adventurous outlook? No, I think in death she just opened a gate and went through -- on -- on -- to new, shining adventures."

"Maybe -- maybe," assented Miss Cornelia. "Do you know, Anne dearie, I never was much taken with this everlasting rest doctrine myself -- though I hope it isn't heresy to say so. I want to bustle round in heaven the same as here. And I hope there'll be a celestial substitute for pies and doughnuts -- something that has to be MADE. Of course, one does get awful tired at times -- and the older you are the tireder you get. But the very tiredest could get rested in something short of eternity, you'd think -- except, perhaps, a lazy man."

"When I meet Myra Murray again," said Anne, "I want to see her coming towards me, brisk and laughing, just as she always did here."

"Oh, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, in a shocked tone, "you surely do not think that Myra will be laughing in the world to come?"

"Why not, Susan? Do you think we will be crying there?"

"No, no, Mrs. Dr. dear, do not misunderstand me. I do not think we shall be either crying or laughing."

"What then?"

"Well," said Susan, driven to it, "it is my opinion, Mrs. Dr. dear, that we shall just look solemn and holy."

"And do you really think, Susan," said Anne, looking solemn enough, "that either Myra Murray or I could look solemn and holy all the time -- ALL the time, Susan?"

"Well," admitted Susan reluctantly, "I might go so far as to say that you both would have to smile now and again, but I can never admit that there will be laughing in heaven. The idea seems really irreverent, Mrs. Dr. dear."

"Well, to come back to earth," said Miss Cornelia, "who can we get to take Myra's class in Sunday School? Julia Clow has been teaching it since Myra took ill, but she's going to town for the winter and we'll have to get somebody else."

"I heard that Mrs. Laurie Jamieson wanted it," said Anne. "The Jamiesons have come to church very regularly since they moved to the Glen from Lowbridge."

"New brooms!" said Miss Cornelia dubiously. "Wait till they've gone regularly for a year."

"You cannot depend on Mrs. Jamieson a bit, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan solemnly. "She died once and when they were measuring her for her coffin, after laying her out just beautiful, did she not go and come back to life! Now, Mrs. Dr. dear, you know you CANNOT depend on a woman like that."

"She might turn Methodist at any moment," said Miss Cornelia. "They tell me they went to the Methodist Church at Lowbridge quite as often as to the Presbyterian. I haven't caught them at it here yet, but I would not approve of taking Mrs. Jamieson into the Sunday School. Yet we must not offend them. We are losing too many people, by death or bad temper. Mrs. Alec Davis has left the church, no one knows why. She told the managers that she would never pay another cent to Mr. Meredith's salary. Of course, most people say that the children offended her, but somehow I don't think so. I tried to pump Faith, but all I could get out of her was that Mrs. Davis had come, seemingly in high good humour, to see her father, and had left in an awful rage, calling them all 'varmints!'"

"Varmints, indeed!" said Susan furiously. "Does Mrs. Alec Davis forget that her uncle on her mother's side was suspected of poisoning his wife? Not that it was ever proved, Mrs. Dr. dear, and it does not do to believe all you hear. But if I had an uncle whose wife died without any satisfactory reason, I would not go about the country calling innocent children varmints."

"The point is," said Miss Cornelia, "that Mrs. Davis paid a large subscription, and how its loss is going to be made up is a problem. And if she turns the other Douglases against Mr. Meredith, as she will certainly try to do, he will just have to go."

"I do not think Mrs. Alec Davis is very well liked by the rest of the clan," said Susan. "It is not likely she will be able to influence them."

"But those Douglases all hang together so. If you touch one, you touch all. We can't do without them, so much is certain. They pay half the salary. They are not mean, whatever else may be said of them. Norman Douglas used to give a hundred a year long ago before he left."

"What did he leave for?" asked Anne.

"He declared a member of the session cheated him in a cow deal. He hasn't come to church for twenty years. His wife used to come regular while she was alive, poor thing, but he never would let her pay anything, except one red cent every Sunday. She felt dreadfully humiliated. I don't know that he was any too good a husband to her, though she was never heard to complain. But she always had a cowed look. Norman Douglas didn't get the woman he wanted thirty years ago and the Douglases never liked to put up with second best."

"Who was the woman he did want."

"Ellen West. They weren't engaged exactly, I believe, but they went about together for two years. And then they just broke off -- nobody ever know why. Just some silly quarrel, I suppose. And Norman went and married Hester Reese before his temper had time to cool -- married her just to spite Ellen, I haven't a doubt. So like a man! Hester was a nice little thing, but she never had much spirit and he broke what little she had. She was too meek for Norman. He needed a woman who could stand up to him. Ellen would have kept him in fine order and he would have liked her all the better for it. He despised Hester, that is the truth, just because she always gave in to him. I used to hear him say many a time, long ago when he was a young fellow 'Give me a spunky woman -- spunk for me every time.' And then he went and married a girl who couldn't say boo to a goose -- man-like. That family of Reeses were just vegetables. They went through the motions of living, but they didn't LIVE."

"Russell Reese used his first wife's wedding-ring to marry his second," said Susan reminiscently. "That was TOO economical in my opinion, Mrs. Dr. dear. And his brother John has his own tombstone put up in the over-harbour graveyard, with everything on it but the date of death, and he goes and looks at it every Sunday. Most folks would not consider that much fun, but it is plain he does. People do have such different ideas of enjoyment. As for Norman Douglas, he is a perfect heathen. When the last minister asked him why he never went to church he said 'Too many ugly women there, parson -- too many ugly women!' I should like to go to such a man, Mrs. Dr. dear, and say to him solemnly, 'There is a hell!'"

"Oh, Norman doesn't believe there is such a place," said Miss Cornelia. "I hope he'll find out his mistake when he comes to die. There, Mary, you've knit your three inches and you can go and play with the children for half an hour."

Mary needed no second bidding. She flew to Rainbow Valley with a heart as light as her heels, and in the course of conversation told Faith Meredith all about Mrs. Alec Davis.

"And Mrs. Elliott says that she'll turn all the Douglases against your father and then he'll have to leave the Glen because his salary won't be paid," concluded Mary. "I don't know what is to be done, honest to goodness. If only old Norman Douglas would come back to church and pay, it wouldn't be so bad. But he won't -- and the Douglases will leave -- and you all will have to go."

Faith carried a heavy heart to bed with her that night. The thought of leaving the Glen was unbearable. Nowhere else in the world were there such chums as the Blythes. Her little heart had been wrung when they had left Maywater -- she had shed many bitter tears when she parted with Maywater chums and the old manse there where her mother had lived and died. She could not contemplate calmly the thought of such another and harder wrench. She COULDN'T leave Glen St. Mary and dear Rainbow Valley and that delicious graveyard.

"It's awful to be minister's family," groaned Faith into her pillow. "Just as soon as you get fond of a place you are torn up by the roots. I'll never, never, NEVER marry a minister, no matter how nice he is."

Faith sat up in bed and looked out of the little vine-hung window. The night was very still, the silence broken only by Una's soft breathing. Faith felt terribly alone in the world. She could see Glen St. Mary lying under the starry blue meadows of the autumn night. Over the valley a light shone from the girls' room at Ingleside, and another from Walter's room. Faith wondered if poor Walter had toothache again. Then she sighed, with a little passing sigh of envy of Nan and Di. They had a mother and a settled home -- THEY were not at the mercy of people who got angry without any reason and called you a varmint. Away beyond the Glen, amid fields that were very quiet with sleep, another light was burning. Faith knew it shone in the house where Norman Douglas lived. He was reputed to sit up all hours of the night reading. Mary had said if he could only be induced to return to the church all would be well. And why not? Faith looked at a big, low star hanging over the tall, pointed spruce at the gate of the Methodist Church and had an inspiration. She knew what ought to be done and she, Faith Meredith, would do it. She would make everything right. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned from the lonely, dark world and cuddled down beside Una.



Chapter XVI. Tit For Tat

With Faith, to decide was to act. She lost no time in carrying out the idea. As soon as she came home from school the next day she left the manse and made her way down the Glen. Walter Blythe joined her as she passed the post office.

"I'm going to Mrs. Elliott's on an errand for mother," he said. "Where are you going, Faith?"

"I am going somewhere on church business," said Faith loftily. She did not volunteer any further information and Walter felt rather snubbed. They walked on in silence for a little while. It was a warm, windy evening with a sweet, resinous air. Beyond the sand dunes were gray seas, soft and beautiful. The Glen brook bore down a freight of gold and crimson leaves, like fairy shallops. In Mr. James Reese's buckwheat stubble-land, with its beautiful tones of red and brown, a crow parliament was being held, whereat solemn deliberations regarding the welfare of crowland were in progress. Faith cruelly broke up the august assembly by climbing up on the fence and hurling a broken rail at it. Instantly the air was filled with flapping black wings and indignant caws.

"Why did you do that?" said Walter reproachfully. "They were having such a good time."

"Oh, I hate crows," said Faith airily. "The are so black and sly I feel sure they're hypocrites. They steal little birds' eggs out of their nests, you know. I saw one do it on our lawn last spring. Walter, what makes you so pale to-day? Did you have the toothache again last night?"

Walter shivered.

"Yes -- a raging one. I couldn't sleep a wink -- so I just paced up and down the floor and imagined I was an early Christian martyr being tortured at the command of Nero. That helped ever so much for a while -- and then I got so bad I couldn't imagine anything."

"Did you cry?" asked Faith anxiously.

"No -- but I lay down on the floor and groaned," admitted Walter. "Then the girls came in and Nan put cayenne pepper in it -- and that made it worse -- Di made me hold a swallow of cold water in my mouth -- and I couldn't stand it, so they called Susan. Susan said it served me right for sitting up in the cold garret yesterday writing poetry trash. But she started up the kitchen fire and got me a hot-water bottle and it stopped the toothache. As soon as I felt better I told Susan my poetry wasn't trash and she wasn't any judge. And she said no, thank goodness she was not and she did not know anything about poetry except that it was mostly a lot of lies. Now you know, Faith, that isn't so. That is one reason why I like writing poetry -- you can say so many things in it that are true in poetry but wouldn't be true in prose. I told Susan so, but she said to stop my jawing and go to sleep before the water got cold, or she'd leave me to see if rhyming would cure toothache, and she hoped it would be a lesson to me."

"Why don't you go to the dentist at Lowbridge and get the tooth out?"

Walter shivered again.

"They want me to -- but I can't. It would hurt so."

"Are you afraid of a little pain?" asked Faith contemptuously.

Walter flushed.

"It would be a BIG pain. I hate being hurt. Father said he wouldn't insist on my going -- he'd wait until I'd made up my own mind to go."

"It wouldn't hurt as long as the toothache," argued Faith, "You've had five spells of toothache. If you'd just go and have it out there'd be no more bad nights. I had a tooth out once. I yelled for a moment, but it was all over then -- only the bleeding."

"The bleeding is worst of all -- it's so ugly," cried Walter. "It just made me sick when Jem cut his foot last summer. Susan said I looked more like fainting than Jem did. But I couldn't hear to see Jem hurt, either. Somebody is always getting hurt, Faith -- and it's awful. I just can't BEAR to see things hurt. It makes me just want to run -- and run -- and run -- till I can't hear or see them."

"There's no use making a fuss over anyone getting hurt," said Faith, tossing her curls. "Of course, if you've hurt yourself very bad, you have to yell -- and blood IS messy -- and I don't like seeing other people hurt, either. But I don't want to run -- I want to go to work and help them. Your father HAS to hurt people lots of times to cure them. What would they do if HE ran away?"

"I didn't say I WOULD run. I said I WANTED to run. That's a different thing. I want to help people, too. But oh, I wish there weren't any ugly, dreadful things in the world. I wish everything was glad and beautiful."

"Well, don't let's think of what isn't," said Faith. "After all, there's lots of fun in being alive. You wouldn't have toothache if you were dead, but still, wouldn't you lots rather be alive than dead? I would, a hundred times. Oh, here's Dan Reese. He's been down to the harbour for fish."

"I hate Dan Reese," said Walter.

"So do I. All us girls do. I'm just going to walk past and never take the least notice of him. You watch me!"

Faith accordingly stalked past Dan with her chin out and an expression of scorn that bit into his soul. He turned and shouted after her.

"Pig-girl! Pig-girl!! Pig-girl!!!" in a crescendo of insult.

Faith walked on, seemingly oblivious. But her lip trembled slightly with a sense of outrage. She knew she was no match for Dan Reese when it came to an exchange of epithets. She wished Jem Blythe had been with her instead of Walter. If Dan Reese had dared to call her a pig-girl in Jem's hearing, Jem would have wiped up the dust with him. But it never occurred to Faith to expect Walter to do it, or blame him for not doing it. Walter, she knew, never fought other boys. Neither did Charlie Clow of the north road. The strange part was that, while she despised Charlie for a coward, it never occurred to her to disdain Walter. It was simply that he seemed to her an inhabitant of a world of his own, where different traditions prevailed. Faith would as soon have expected a starry-eyed young angel to pummel dirty, freckled Dan Reese for her as Walter Blythe. She would not have blamed the angel and she did not blame Walter Blythe. But she wished that sturdy Jem or Jerry had been there and Dan's insult continued to rankle in her soul.

Walter was pale no longer. He had flushed crimson and his beautiful eyes were clouded with shame and anger. He knew that he ought to have avenged Faith. Jem would have sailed right in and made Dan eat his words with bitter sauce. Ritchie Warren would have overwhelmed Dan with worse "names" than Dan had called Faith. But Walter could not -- simply could not -- "call names." He knew he would get the worst of it. He could never conceive or utter the vulgar, ribald insults of which Dan Reese had unlimited command. And as for the trial by fist, Walter couldn't fight. He hated the idea. It was rough and painful -- and, worst of all, it was ugly. He never could understand Jem's exultation in an occasional conflict. But he wished he COULD fight Dan Reese. He was horribly ashamed because Faith Meredith had been insulted in his presence and he had not tried to punish her insulter. He felt sure she must despise him. She had not even spoken to him since Dan had called her pig-girl. He was glad when they came to the parting of the ways.

Faith, too, was relieved, though for a different reason. She wanted to be alone because she suddenly felt rather nervous about her errand. Impulse had cooled, especially since Dan had bruised her self-respect. She must go through with it, but she no longer had enthusiasm to sustain her. She was going to see Norman Douglas and ask him to come back to church, and she began to be afraid of him. What had seemed so easy and simple up at the Glen seemed very different down here. She had heard a good deal about Norman Douglas, and she knew that even the biggest boys in school were afraid of him. Suppose he called her something nasty -- she had heard he was given to that. Faith could not endure being called names -- they subdued her far more quickly than a physical blow. But she would go on -- Faith Meredith always went on. If she did not her father might have to leave the Glen.

At the end of the long lane Faith came to the house -- a big, old-fashioned one with a row of soldierly Lombardies marching past it. On the back veranda Norman Douglas himself was sitting, reading a newspaper. His big dog was beside him. Behind, in the kitchen, where his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, was getting supper, there was a clatter of dishes -- an angry clatter, for Norman Douglas had just had a quarrel with Mrs. Wilson, and both were in a very bad temper over it. Consequently, when Faith stepped on the veranda and Norman Douglas lowered his newspaper she found herself looking into the choleric eyes of an irritated man.

Norman Douglas was rather a fine-looking personage in his way. He had a sweep of long red beard over his broad chest and a mane of red hair, ungrizzled by the years, on his massive head. His high, white forehead was unwrinkled and his blue eyes could flash still with all the fire of his tempestuous youth. He could be very amiable when he liked, and he could be very terrible. Poor Faith, so anxiously bent on retrieving the situation in regard to the church, had caught him in one of his terrible moods.

He did not know who she was and he gazed at her with disfavour. Norman Douglas liked girls of spirit and flame and laughter. At this moment Faith was very pale. She was of the type to which colour means everything. Lacking her crimson cheeks she seemed meek and even insignificant. She looked apologetic and afraid, and the bully in Norman Douglas's heart stirred.

"Who the dickens are you? And what do you want here?" he demanded in his great resounding voice, with a fierce scowl.

For once in her life Faith had nothing to say. She had never supposed Norman Douglas was like THIS. She was paralyzed with terror of him. He saw it and it made him worse.

"What's the matter with you?" he boomed. "You look as if you wanted to say something and was scared to say it. What's troubling you? Confound it, speak up, can't you?"

No. Faith could not speak up. No words would come. But her lips began to tremble.

"For heaven's sake, don't cry," shouted Norman. "I can't stand snivelling. If you've anything to say, say it and have done. Great Kitty, is the girl possessed of a dumb spirit? Don't look at me like that -- I'm human -- I haven't got a tail! Who are you -- who are you, I say?"

Norman's voice could have been heard at the harbour. Operations in the kitchen were suspended. Mrs. Wilson was listening open-eared and eyed. Norman put his huge brown hands on his knees and leaned forward, staring into Faith's pallid, shrinking face. He seemed to loom over her like some evil giant out of a fairy tale. She felt as if he would eat her up next thing, body and bones.

"I -- am -- Faith -- Meredith," she said, in little more than a whisper.

"Meredith, hey? One of the parson's youngsters, hey? I've heard of you -- I've heard of you! Riding on pigs and breaking the Sabbath! A nice lot! What do you want here, hey? What do you want of the old pagan, hey? I don't ask favours of parsons -- and I don't give any. What do you want, I say?"

Faith wished herself a thousand miles away. She stammered out her thought in its naked simplicity.

"I came -- to ask you -- to go to church -- and pay -- to the salary."

Norman glared at her. Then he burst forth again.

"You impudent hussy -- you! Who put you up to it, jade? Who put you up to it?"

"Nobody," said poor Faith.

"That's a lie. Don't lie to me! Who sent you here? It wasn't your father -- he hasn't the smeddum of a flea -- but he wouldn't send you to do what he dassn't do himself. I suppose it was some of them confounded old maids at the Glen, was it -- was it, hey?"

"No -- I -- I just came myself."

"Do you take me for a fool?" shouted Norman.

"No -- I thought you were a gentleman," said Faith faintly, and certainly without any thought of being sarcastic.

Norman bounced up.

"Mind your own business. I don't want to hear another word from you. If you wasn't such a kid I'd teach you to interfere in what doesn't concern you. When I want parsons or pill-dosers I'll send for them. Till I do I'll have no truck with them. Do you understand? Now, get out, cheese-face."

Faith got out. She stumbled blindly down the steps, out of the yard gate and into the lane. Half way up the lane her daze of fear passed away and a reaction of tingling anger possessed her. By the time she reached the end of the lane she was in such a furious temper as she had never experienced before. Norman Douglas' insults burned in her soul, kindling a scorching flame. Go home! Not she! She would go straight back and tell that old ogre just what she thought of him -- she would show him -- oh, wouldn't she! Cheese-face, indeed!

Unhesitatingly she turned and walked back. The veranda was deserted and the kitchen door shut. Faith opened the door without knocking, and went in. Norman Douglas had just sat down at the supper table, but he still held his newspaper. Faith walked inflexibly across the room, caught the paper from his hand, flung it on the floor and stamped on it. Then she faced him, with her flashing eyes and scarlet cheeks. She was such a handsome young fury that Norman Douglas hardly recognized her.

"What's brought you back?" he growled, but more in bewilderment than rage.

Unquailingly she glared back into the angry eyes against which so few people could hold their own.

"I have come back to tell you exactly what I think of you," said Faith in clear, ringing tones. "I am not afraid of you. You are a rude, unjust, tyrannical, disagreeable old man. Susan says you are sure to go to hell, and I was sorry for you, but I am not now. Your wife never had a new hat for ten years -- no wonder she died. I am going to make faces at you whenever I see you after this. Every time I am behind you you will know what is happening. Father has a picture of the devil in a book in his study, and I mean to go home and write your name under it. You are an old vampire and I hope you'll have the Scotch fiddle!"

Faith did not know what a vampire meant any more than she knew what the Scotch fiddle was. She had heard Susan use the expressions and gathered from her tone that both were dire things. But Norman Douglas knew what the latter meant at least. He had listened in absolute silence to Faith's tirade. When she paused for breath, with a stamp of her foot, he suddenly burst into loud laughter. With a mighty slap of hand on knee he exclaimed,

"I vow you've got spunk, after all -- I like spunk. Come, sit down -- sit down!"

"I will not." Faith's eyes flashed more passionately. She thought she was being made fun of -- treated contemptuously. She would have enjoyed another explosion of rage, but this cut deep. "I will not sit down in your house. I am going home. But I am glad I came back here and told you exactly what my opinion of you is."

"So am I -- so am I," chuckled Norman. "I like you -- you're fine -- you're great. Such roses -- such vim! Did I call her cheese-face? Why, she never smelt a cheese. Sit down. If you'd looked like that at the first, girl! So you'll write my name under the devil's picture, will you? But he's black, girl, he's black -- and I'm red. It won't do -- it won't do! And you hope I'll have the Scotch fiddle, do you? Lord love you, girl, I had IT when I was a boy. Don't wish it on me again. Sit down -- sit in. We'll tak' a cup o' kindness."

"No, thank you," said Faith haughtily.

"Oh, yes, you will. Come, come now, I apologize, girl -- I apologize. I made a fool of myself and I'm sorry. Man can't say fairer. Forget and forgive. Shake hands, girl -- shake hands. She won't -- no, she won't! But she must! Look-a-here, girl, if you'll shake hands and break bread with me I'll pay what I used to to the salary and I'll go to church the first Sunday in every month and I'll make Kitty Alec hold her jaw. I'm the only one in the clan can do it. Is it a bargain, girl?"

It seemed a bargain. Faith found herself shaking hands with the ogre and then sitting at his board. Her temper was over -- Faith's tempers never lasted very long -- but its excitement still sparkled in her eyes and crimsoned her cheeks. Norman Douglas looked at her admiringly.

"Go, get some of your best preserves, Wilson," he ordered, "and stop sulking, woman, stop sulking. What if we did have a quarrel, woman? A good squall clears the air and briskens things up. But no drizzling and fogging afterwards -- no drizzling and fogging, woman. I can't stand that. Temper in a woman but no tears for me. Here, girl, is some messed up meat and potatoes for you. Begin on that. Wilson has some fancy name for it, but I call lit macanaccady. Anything I can't analyze in the eating line I call macanaccady and anything wet that puzzles me I call shallamagouslem. Wilson's tea is shallamagouslem. I swear she makes it out of burdocks. Don't take any of the ungodly black liquid -- here's some milk for you. What did you say your name was?"

"Faith."

"No name that -- no name that! I can't stomach such a name. Got any other?"

"No, sir."

"Don't like the name, don't like it. There's no smeddum to it. Besides, it makes me think of my Aunt Jinny. She called her three girls Faith, Hope, and Charity. Faith didn't believe in anything -- Hope was a born pessimist -- and Charity was a miser. You ought to be called Red Rose -- you look like one when you're mad. I'LL call you Red Rose. And you've roped me into promising to go to church? But only once a month, remember -- only once a month. Come now, girl, will you let me off? I used to pay a hundred to the salary every year and go to church. If I promise to pay two hundred a year will you let me off going to church? Come now!"

"No, no, sir," said Faith, dimpling roguishly. "I want you to go to church, too."

"Well, a bargain is a bargain. I reckon I can stand it twelve times a year. What a sensation it'll make the first Sunday I go! And old Susan Baker says I'm going to hell, hey? Do you believe I'll go there -- come, now, do you?"

"I hope not, sir," stammered Faith in some confusion.

"WHY do you hope not? Come, now, WHY do you hope not? Give us a reason, girl -- give us a reason."

"It -- it must be a very -- uncomfortable place, sir."

"Uncomfortable? All depends on your taste in comfortable, girl. I'd soon get tired of angels. Fancy old Susan in a halo, now!"

Faith did fancy it, and it tickled her so much that she had to laugh. Norman eyed her approvingly.

"See the fun of it, hey? Oh, I like you -- you're great. About this church business, now -- can your father preach?"

"He is a splendid preacher," said loyal Faith.

"He is, hey? I'll see -- I'll watch out for flaws. He'd better be careful what he says before ME. I'll catch him -- I'll trip him up -- I'll keep tabs on his arguments. I'm bound to have some fun out of this church going business. Does he ever preach hell?"

"No -- o -- o -- I don't think so."

"Too bad. I like sermons on that subject. You tell him that if he wants to keep me in good humour to preach a good rip-roaring sermon on hell once every six months -- and the more brimstone the better. I like 'em smoking. And think of all the pleasure he'd give the old maids, too. They'd all keep looking at old Norman Douglas and thinking, 'That's for you, you old reprobate. That's what's in store for YOU!' I'll give an extra ten dollars every time you get your father to preach on hell. Here's Wilson and the jam. Like that, hey? IT isn't macanaccady. Taste!"

Faith obediently swallowed the big spoonful Norman held out to her. Luckily it WAS good.

"Best plum jam in the world," said Norman, filling a large saucer and plumping it down before her. "Glad you like it. I'll give you a couple of jars to take home with you. There's nothing mean about me -- never was. The devil can't catch me at THAT corner, anyhow. It wasn't my fault that Hester didn't have a new hat for ten years. It was her own -- she pinched on hats to save money to give yellow fellows over in China. I never gave a cent to missions in my life -- never will. Never you try to bamboozle me into that! A hundred a year to the salary and church once a month -- but no spoiling good heathens to make poor Christians! Why, girl, they wouldn't be fit for heaven or hell -- clean spoiled for either place -- clean spoiled. Hey, Wilson, haven't you got a smile on yet? Beats all how you women can sulk! I never sulked in my life -- it's just one big flash and crash with me and then -- pouf -- the squall's over and the sun is out and you could eat out of my hand."

Norman insisted on driving Faith home after supper and he filled the buggy up with apples, cabbages, potatoes and pumpkins and jars of jam.

"There's a nice little tom-pussy out in the barn. I'll give you that too, if you'd like it. Say the word," he said.

"No, thank you," said Faith decidedly. "I don't like cats, and besides, I have a rooster."

"Listen to her. You can't cuddle a rooster as you can a kitten. Who ever heard of petting a rooster? Better take little Tom. I want to find a good home for him."

"No. Aunt Martha has a cat and he would kill a strange kitten."

Norman yielded the point rather reluctantly. He gave Faith an exciting drive home, behind his wild two-year old, and when he had let her out at the kitchen door of the manse and dumped his cargo on the back veranda he drove away shouting,

"It's only once a month -- only once a month, mind!"

Faith went up to bed, feeling a little dizzy and breathless, as if she had just escaped from the grasp of a genial whirlwind. She was happy and thankful. No fear now that they would have to leave the Glen and the graveyard and Rainbow Valley. But she fell asleep troubled by a disagreeable subconsciousness that Dan Reese had called her pig-girl and that, having stumbled on such a congenial epithet, he would continue to call her so whenever opportunity offered.



Chapter XVII. A Double Victory

Norman Douglas came to church the first Sunday in November and made all the sensation he desired. Mr. Meredith shook hands with him absently on the church steps and hoped dreamily that Mrs. Douglas was well.

"She wasn't very well just before I buried her ten years ago, but I reckon she has better health now," boomed Norman, to the horror and amusement of every one except Mr. Meredith, who was absorbed in wondering if he had made the last head of his sermon as clear as he might have, and hadn't the least idea what Norman had said to him or he to Norman.

Norman intercepted Faith at the gate.

"Kept my word, you see -- kept my word, Red Rose. I'm free now till the first Sunday in December. Fine sermon, girl -- fine sermon. Your father has more in his head than he carries on his face. But he contradicted himself once -- tell him he contradicted himself. And tell him I want that brimstone sermon in December. Great way to wind up the old year -- with a taste of hell, you know. And what's the matter with a nice tasty discourse on heaven for New Year's? Though it wouldn't be half as interesting as hell, girl -- not half. Only I'd like to know what your father thinks about heaven -- he CAN think -- rarest thing in the world -- a person who can think. But he DID contradict himself. Ha, ha! Here's a question you might ask him sometime when he's awake, girl. 'Can God make a stone so big He couldn't lift it Himself?' Don't forget now. I want to hear his opinion on it. I've stumped many a minister with that, girl."

Faith was glad to escape him and run home. Dan Reese, standing among the crowd of boys at the gate, looked at her and shaped his mouth into "pig-girl," but dared not utter it aloud just there. Next day in school was a different matter. At noon recess Faith encountered Dan in the little spruce plantation behind the school and Dan shouted once more,

"Pig-girl! Pig-girl! ROOSTER-GIRL!"

Walter Blythe suddenly rose from a mossy cushion behind a little clump of firs where he had been reading. He was very pale, but his eyes blazed.

"You hold your tongue, Dan Reese!" he said.

"Oh, hello, Miss Walter," retorted Dan, not at all abashed. He vaulted airily to the top of the rail fence and chanted insultingly,

"Cowardy, cowardy-custard Stole a pot of mustard, Cowardy, cowardy-custard!"

"You are a coincidence!" said Walter scornfully, turning still whiter. He had only a very hazy idea what a coincidence was, but Dan had none at all and thought it must be something peculiarly opprobrious.

"Yah! Cowardy!" he yelled gain. "Your mother writes lies -- lies -- lies! And Faith Meredith is a pig-girl -- a -- pig-girl -- a pig-girl! And she's a rooster-girl -- a rooster-girl -- a rooster-girl! Yah! Cowardy -- cowardy -- cust -- "

Dan got no further. Walter had hurled himself across the intervening space and knocked Dan off the fence backward with one well-directed blow. Dan's sudden inglorious sprawl was greeted with a burst of laughter and a clapping of hands from Faith. Dan sprang up, purple with rage, and began to climb the fence. But just then the school-bell rang and Dan knew what happened to boys who were late during Mr. Hazard's regime.

"We'll fight this out," he howled. "Cowardy!"

"Any time you like," said Walter.

"Oh, no, no, Walter," protested Faith. "Don't fight him. I don't mind what he says -- I wouldn't condescend to mind the like of HIM."

"He insulted you and he insulted my mother," said Walter, with the same deadly calm. "Tonight after school, Dan."

"I've got to go right home from school to pick taters after the harrows, dad says," answered Dan sulkily. "But to-morrow night'll do."

"All right -- here to-morrow night," agreed Walter.

"And I'll smash your sissy-face for you," promised Dan.

Walter shuddered -- not so much from fear of the threat as from repulsion over the ugliness and vulgarity of it. But he held his head high and marched into school. Faith followed in a conflict of emotions. She hated to think of Walter fighting that little sneak, but oh, he had been splendid! And he was going to fight for HER -- Faith Meredith -- to punish her insulter! Of course he would win -- such eyes spelled victory.

Faith's confidence in her champion had dimmed a little by evening, however. Walter had seemed so very quiet and dull the rest of the day in school.

"If it were only Jem," she sighed to Una, as they sat on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone in the graveyard. "HE is such a fighter -- he could finish Dan off in no time. But Walter doesn't know much about fighting."

"I'm so afraid he'll be hurt," sighed Una, who hated fighting and couldn't understand the subtle, secret exultation she divined in Faith.

"He oughtn't to be," said Faith uncomfortably. "He's every bit as big as Dan."

"But Dan's so much older," said Una. "Why, he's nearly a year older."

"Dan hasn't done much fighting when you come to count up," said Faith. "I believe he's really a coward. He didn't think Walter would fight, or he wouldn't have called names before him. Oh, if you could just have seen Walter's face when he looked at him, Una! It made me shiver -- with a nice shiver. He looked just like Sir Galahad in that poem father read us on Saturday."

"I hate the thought of them fighting and I wish it could be stopped," said Una.

"Oh, it's got to go on now," cried Faith. "It's a matter of honour. Don't you DARE tell anyone, Una. If you do I'll never tell you secrets again!"

"I won't tell," agreed Una. "But I won't stay to-morrow to watch the fight. I'm coming right home."

"Oh, all right. I have to be there -- it would be mean not to, when Walter is fighting for me. I'm going to tie my colours on his arm -- that's the thing to do when he's my knight. How lucky Mrs. Blythe gave me that pretty blue hair-ribbon for my birthday! I've only worn it twice so it will be almost new. But I wish I was sure Walter would win. It will be so -- so HUMILIATING if he doesn't."

Faith would have been yet more dubious if she could have seen her champion just then. Walter had gone home from school with all his righteous anger at a low ebb and a very nasty feeling in its place. He had to fight Dan Reese the next night -- and he didn't want to -- he hated the thought of it. And he kept thinking of it all the time. Not for a minute could he get away from the thought. Would it hurt much? He was terribly afraid that it would hurt. And would he be defeated and shamed?

He could not eat any supper worth speaking of. Susan had made a big batch of his favourite monkey-faces, but he could choke only one down. Jem ate four. Walter wondered how he could. How could ANYBODY eat? And how could they all talk gaily as they were doing? There was mother, with her shining eyes and pink cheeks. SHE didn't know her son had to fight next day. Would she be so gay if she knew, Walter wondered darkly. Jem had taken Susan's picture with his new camera and the result was passed around the table and Susan was terribly indignant over it.

"I am no beauty, Mrs. Dr. dear, and well I know it, and have always known it," she said in an aggrieved tone, "but that I am as ugly as that picture makes me out I will never, no, never believe."

Jem laughed over this and Anne laughed again with him. Walter couldn't endure it. He got up and fled to his room.

"That child has got something on his mind, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. "He has et next to nothing. Do you suppose he is plotting another poem?"

Poor Walter was very far removed in spirit from the starry realms of poesy just then. He propped his elbow on his open window-sill and leaned his head drearily on his hands.

"Come on down to the shore, Walter," cried Jem, busting in. "The boys are going to burn the sand-hill grass to-night. Father says we can go. Come on."

At any other time Walter would have been delighted. He gloried in the burning of the sand-hill grass. But now he flatly refused to go, and no arguments or entreaties could move him. Disappointed Jem, who did not care for the long dark walk to Four Winds Point alone, retreated to his museum in the garret and buried himself in a book. He soon forgot his disappointment, revelling with the heroes of old romance, and pausing occasionally to picture himself a famous general, leading his troops to victory on some great battlefield.

Walter sat at his window until bedtime. Di crept in, hoping to be told what was wrong, but Walter could not talk of it, even to Di. Talking of it seemed to give it a reality from which he shrank. It was torture enough to think of it. The crisp, withered leaves rustled on the maple trees outside his window. The glow of rose and flame had died out of the hollow, silvery sky, and the full moon was rising gloriously over Rainbow Valley. Afar off, a ruddy woodfire was painting a page of glory on the horizon beyond the hills. It was a sharp, clear evening when far-away sounds were heard distinctly. A fox was barking across the pond; an engine was puffing down at the Glen station; a blue-jay was screaming madly in the maple grove; there was laughter over on the manse lawn. How could people laugh? How could foxes and blue-jays and engines behave as if nothing were going to happen on the morrow?

"Oh, I wish it was over," groaned Walter.

He slept very little that night and had hard work choking down his porridge in the morning. Susan WAS rather lavish in her platefuls. Mr. Hazard found him an unsatisfactory pupil that day. Faith Meredith's wits seemed to be wool-gathering, too. Dan Reese kept drawing surreptitious pictures of girls, with pig or rooster heads, on his slate and holding them up for all to see. The news of the coming battle had leaked out and most of the boys and many of the girls were in the spruce plantation when Dan and Walter sought it after school. Una had gone home, but Faith was there, having tied her blue ribbon around Walter's arm. Walter was thankful that neither Jem nor Di nor Nan were among the crowd of spectators. Somehow they had not heard of what was in the wind and had gone home, too. Walter faced Dan quite undauntedly now. At the last moment all his fear had vanished, but he still felt disgust at the idea of fighting. Dan, it was noted, was really paler under his freckles than Walter was. One of the older boys gave the word and Dan struck Walter in the face.

Walter reeled a little. The pain of the blow tingled through all his sensitive frame for a moment. Then he felt pain no longer. Something, such as he had never experienced before, seemed to roll over him like a flood. His face flushed crimson, his eyes burned like flame. The scholars of Glen St. Mary school had never dreamed that "Miss Walter" could look like that. He hurled himself forward and closed with Dan like a young wildcat.

There were no particular rules in the fights of the Glen school boys. It was catch-as-catch can, and get your blows in anyhow. Walter fought with a savage fury and a joy in the struggle against which Dan could not hold his ground. It was all over very speedily. Walter had no clear consciousness of what he was doing until suddenly the red mist cleared from his sight and he found himself kneeling on the body of the prostrate Dan whose nose -- oh, horror! -- was spouting blood.

"Have you had enough?" demanded Walter through his clenched teeth.

Dan sulkily admitted that he had.

"My mother doesn't write lies?"

"No."

"Faith Meredith isn't a pig-girl?"

"No."

"Nor a rooster-girl?"

"No."

"And I'm not a coward?"

"No."

Walter had intended to ask, "And you are a liar?" but pity intervened and he did not humiliate Dan further. Besides, that blood was so horrible.

"You can go, then," he said contemptuously.

There was a loud clapping from the boys who were perched on the rail fence, but some of the girls were crying. They were frightened. They had seen schoolboy fights before, but nothing like Walter as he had grappled with Dan. There had been something terrifying about him. They thought he would kill Dan. Now that all was over they sobbed hysterically -- except Faith, who still stood tense and crimson cheeked.

Walter did not stay for any conqueror's meed. He sprang over the fence and rushed down the spruce hill to Rainbow Valley. He felt none of the victor's joy, but he felt a certain calm satisfaction in duty done and honour avenged -- mingled with a sickish qualm when he thought of Dan's gory nose. It had been so ugly, and Walter hated ugliness.

Also, he began to realize that he himself was somewhat sore and battered up. His lip was cut and swollen and one eye felt very strange. In Rainbow Valley he encountered Mr. Meredith, who was coming home from an afternoon call on the Miss Wests. That reverend gentleman looked gravely at him.

"It seems to me that you have been fighting, Walter?"

"Yes, sir," said Walter, expecting a scolding.

"What was it about?"

"Dan Reese said my mother wrote lies and that that Faith was a pig-girl," answered Walter bluntly.

"Oh -- h! Then you were certainly justified, Walter."

"Do you think it's right to fight, sir?" asked Walter curiously.

"Not always -- and not often -- but sometimes -- yes, sometimes," said John Meredith. "When womenkind are insulted for instance -- as in your case. My motto, Walter, is, don't fight till you're sure you ought to, and THEN put every ounce of you into it. In spite of sundry discolorations I infer that you came off best."

"Yes. I made him take it all back."

"Very good -- very good, indeed. I didn't think you were such a fighter, Walter."

"I never fought before -- and I didn't want to right up to the last -- and then," said Walter, determined to make a clean breast of it, "I liked it while I was at it."

The Rev. John's eyes twinkled.

"You were -- a little frightened -- at first?"

"I was a whole lot frightened," said honest Walter. "But I'm not going to be frightened any more, sir. Being frightened of things is worse than the things themselves. I'm going to ask father to take me over to Lowbridge to-morrow to get my tooth out."

"Right again. 'Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears.' Do you know who wrote that, Walter? It was Shakespeare. Was there any feeling or emotion or experience of the human heart that that wonderful man did not know? When you go home tell your mother I am proud of you."

Walter did not tell her that, however; but he told her all the rest, and she sympathized with him and told him she was glad he had stood up for her and Faith, and she anointed his sore spots and rubbed cologne on his aching head.

"Are all mothers as nice as you?" asked Walter, hugging her. "You're WORTH standing up for."

Miss Cornelia and Susan were in the living room when Anne came downstairs, and listened to the story with much enjoyment. Susan in particular was highly gratified.

"I am real glad to hear he has had a good fight, Mrs. Dr. dear. Perhaps it may knock that poetry nonsense out of him. And I never, no, never could bear that little viper of a Dan Reese. Will you not sit nearer to the fire, Mrs. Marshall Elliott? These November evenings are very chilly."

"Thank you, Susan, I'm not cold. I called at the manse before I came here and got quite warm -- though I had to go to the kitchen to do it, for there was no fire anywhere else. The kitchen looked as if it had been stirred up with a stick, believe ME. Mr. Meredith wasn't home. I couldn't find out where he was, but I have an idea that he was up at the Wests'. Do you know, Anne dearie, they say he has been going there frequently all the fall and people are beginning to think he is going to see Rosemary."

"He would get a very charming wife if he married Rosemary," said Anne, piling driftwood on the fire. "She is one of the most delightful girls I've ever known -- truly one of the race of Joseph."

"Ye -- s -- only she is an Episcopalian," said Miss Cornelia doubtfully. "Of course, that is better than if she was a Methodist -- but I do think Mr. Meredith could find a good enough wife in his own denomination. However, very likely there is nothing in it. It's only a month ago that I said to him, 'You ought to marry again, Mr. Meredith.' He looked as shocked as if I had suggested something improper. 'My wife is in her grave, Mrs. Elliott,' he said, in that gentle, saintly way of his. 'I suppose so,' I said, 'or I wouldn't be advising you to marry again.' Then he looked more shocked than ever. So I doubt if there is much in this Rosemary story. If a single minister calls twice at a house where there is a single woman all the gossips have it he is courting her."

"It seems to me -- if I may presume to say so -- that Mr. Meredith is too shy to go courting a second wife," said Susan solemnly.

"He ISN'T shy, believe ME," retorted Miss Cornelia. "Absent-minded, -- yes -- but shy, no. And for all he is so abstracted and dreamy he has a very good opinion of himself, man-like, and when he is really awake he wouldn't think it much of a chore to ask any woman to have him. No, the trouble is, he's deluding himself into believing that his heart is buried, while all the time it's beating away inside of him just like anybody else's. He may have a notion of Rosemary West and he may not. If he has, we must make the best of it. She is a sweet girl and a fine housekeeper, and would make a good mother for those poor, neglected children. And," concluded Miss Cornelia resignedly, "my own grandmother was an Episcopalian."



Chapter XVIII. Mary Brings Evil Tidings

Mary Vance, whom Mrs. Elliott had sent up to the manse on an errand, came tripping down Rainbow Valley on her way to Ingleside where she was to spend the afternoon with Nan and Di as a Saturday treat. Nan and Di had been picking spruce gum with Faith and Una in the manse woods and the four of them were now sitting on a fallen pine by the brook, all, it must be admitted, chewing rather vigorously. The Ingleside twins were not allowed to chew spruce gum anywhere but in the seclusion of Rainbow Valley, but Faith and Una were unrestricted by such rules of etiquette and cheerfully chewed it everywhere, at home and abroad, to the very proper horror of the Glen. Faith had been chewing it in church one day; but Jerry had realized the enormity of THAT, and had given her such an older-brotherly scolding that she never did it again.

"I was so hungry I just felt as if I had to chew something," she protested. "You know well enough what breakfast was like, Jerry Meredith. I COULDN'T eat scorched porridge and my stomach just felt so queer and empty. The gum helped a lot -- and I didn't chew VERY hard. I didn't make any noise and I never cracked the gum once."

"You mustn't chew gum in church, anyhow," insisted Jerry. "Don't let me catch you at it again."

"You chewed yourself in prayer-meeting last week," cried Faith.

"THAT'S different," said Jerry loftily. "Prayer-meeting isn't on Sunday. Besides, I sat away at the back in a dark seat and nobody saw me. You were sitting right up front where every one saw you. And I took the gum out of my mouth for the last hymn and stuck it on the back of the pew right up in front where every one saw you. Then I came away and forgot it. I went back to get it next morning, but it was gone. I suppose Rod Warren swiped it. And it was a dandy chew."

Mary Vance walked down the Valley with her head held high. She had on a new blue velvet cap with a scarlet rosette in it, a coat of navy blue cloth and a little squirrel-fur muff. She was very conscious of her new clothes and very well pleased with herself. Her hair was elaborately crimped, her face was quite plump, her cheeks rosy, her white eyes shining. She did not look much like the forlorn and ragged waif the Merediths had found in the old Taylor barn. Una tried not to feel envious. Here was Mary with a new velvet cap, but she and Faith had to wear their shabby old gray tams again this winter. Nobody ever thought of getting them new ones and they were afraid to ask their father for them for fear that he might be short of money and then he would feel badly. Mary had told them once that ministers were always short of money, and found it "awful hard" to make ends meet. Since then Faith and Una would have gone in rags rather than ask their father for anything if they could help it. They did not worry a great deal over their shabbiness; but it was rather trying to see Mary Vance coming out in such style and putting on such airs about it, too. The new squirrel muff was really the last straw. Neither Faith nor Una had ever had a muff, counting themselves lucky if they could compass mittens without holes in them. Aunt Martha could not see to darn holes and though Una tried to, she made sad cobbling. Somehow, they could not make their greeting of Mary very cordial. But Mary did not mind or notice that; she was not overly sensitive. She vaulted lightly to a seat on the pine tree, and laid the offending muff on a bough. Una saw that it was lined with shirred red satin and had red tassels. She looked down at her own rather purple, chapped, little hands and wondered if she would ever, EVER be able to put them into a muff like that.

"Give us a chew," said Mary companionably. Nan, Di and Faith all produced an amber-hued knot or two from their pockets and passed them to Mary. Una sat very still. She had four lovely big knots in the pocket of her tight, thread-bare little jacket, but she wasn't going to give one of them to Mary Vance -- not one Let Mary pick her own gum! People with squirrel muffs needn't expect to get everything in the world.

"Great day, isn't it?" said Mary, swinging her legs, the better, perhaps, to display new boots with very smart cloth tops. Una tucked HER feet under her. There was a hole in the toe of one of her boots and both laces were much knotted. But they were the best she had. Oh, this Mary Vance! Why hadn't they left her in the old barn?

Una never felt badly because the Ingleside twins were better dressed than she and Faith were. THEY wore their pretty clothes with careless grace and never seemed to think about them at all. Somehow, they did not make other people feel shabby. But when Mary Vance was dressed up she seemed fairly to exude clothes -- to walk in an atmosphere of clothes -- to make everybody else feel and think clothes. Una, as she sat there in the honey-tinted sunshine of the gracious December afternoon, was acutely and miserably conscious of everything she had on -- the faded tam, which was yet her best, the skimpy jacket she had worn for three winters, the holes in her skirt and her boots, the shivering insufficiency of her poor little undergarments. Of course, Mary was going out for a visit and she was not. But even if she had been she had nothing better to put on and in this lay the sting.

"Say, this is great gum. Listen to me cracking it. There ain't any gum spruces down at Four Winds," said Mary. "Sometimes I just hanker after a chew. Mrs. Elliott won't let me chew gum if she sees me. She says it ain't lady-like. This lady-business puzzles me. I can't get on to all its kinks. Say, Una, what's the matter with you? Cat got your tongue?"

"No," said Una, who could not drag her fascinated eyes from that squirrel muff. Mary leaned past her, picked it up and thrust it into Una's hands.

"Stick your paws in that for a while," she ordered. "They look sorter pinched. Ain't that a dandy muff? Mrs. Elliott give it to me last week for a birthday present. I'm to get the collar at Christmas. I heard her telling Mr. Elliott that."

"Mrs. Elliott is very good to you," said Faith.

"You bet she is. And I'M good to her, too," retorted Mary. "I work like a nigger to make it easy for her and have everything just as she likes it. We was made for each other. 'Tisn't every one could get along with her as well as I do. She's pizen neat, but so am I, and so we agree fine."

"I told you she would never whip you."

"So you did. She's never tried to lay a finger on me and I ain't never told a lie to her -- not one, true's you live. She combs me down with her tongue sometimes though, but that just slips off ME like water off a duck's back. Say, Una, why didn't you hang on to the muff?"

Una had put it back on the bough.

"My hands aren't cold, thank you," she said stiffly.

"Well, if you're satisfied, I am. Say, old Kitty Alec has come back to church as meek as Moses and nobody knows why. But everybody is saying it was Faith brought Norman Douglas out. His housekeeper says you went there and gave him an awful tongue-lashing. Did you?"

"I went and asked him to come to church," said Faith uncomfortably.

"Fancy your spunk!" said Mary admiringly. "I wouldn't have dared do that and I'm not so slow. Mrs. Wilson says the two of you jawed something scandalous, but you come off best and then he just turned round and like to eat you up. Say, is your father going to preach here to-morrow?"

"No. He's going to exchange with Mr. Perry from Charlottetown. Father went to town this morning and Mr. Perry is coming out to-night."

"I THOUGHT there was something in the wind, though old Martha wouldn't give me any satisfaction. But I felt sure she wouldn't have been killing that rooster for nothing."

"What rooster? What do you mean?" cried Faith, turning pale.

"I don't know what rooster. I didn't see it. When she took the butter Mrs. Elliott sent up she said she'd been out to the barn killing a rooster for dinner tomorrow."

Faith sprang down from the pine.

"It's Adam -- we have no other rooster -- she has killed Adam."

"Now, don't fly off the handle. Martha said the butcher at the Glen had no meat this week and she had to have something and the hens were all laying and too poor."

"If she has killed Adam -- " Faith began to run up the hill.

Mary shrugged her shoulders.

"She'll go crazy now. She was so fond of that Adam. He ought to have been in the pot long ago -- he'll be as tough as sole leather. But I wouldn't like to be in Martha's shoes. Faith's just white with rage; Una, you'd better go after her and try to peacify her."

Mary had gone a few steps with the Blythe girls when Una suddenly turned and ran after her.

"Here's some gum for you, Mary," she said, with a little repentant catch in her voice, thrusting all her four knots into Mary's hands, "and I'm glad you have such a pretty muff."

"Why, thanks," said Mary, rather taken by surprise. To the Blythe girls, after Una had gone, she said, "Ain't she a queer little mite? But I've always said she had a good heart."



Chapter XIX. Poor Adam!

When Una got home Faith was lying face downwards on her bed, utterly refusing to be comforted. Aunt Martha had killed Adam. He was reposing on a platter in the pantry that very minute, trussed and dressed, encircled by his liver and heart and gizzard. Aunt Martha heeded Faith's passion of grief and anger not a whit.

"We had to have something for the strange minister's dinner," she said. "You're too big a girl to make such a fuss over an old rooster. You knew he'd have to be killed sometime."

"I'll tell father when he comes home what you've done," sobbed Faith.

"Don't you go bothering your poor father. He has troubles enough. And I'M housekeeper here."

"Adam was MINE -- Mrs. Johnson gave him to me. You had no business to touch him," stormed Faith.

"Don't you get sassy now. The rooster's killed and there's an end of it. I ain't going to set no strange minister down to a dinner of cold b'iled mutton. I was brought up to know better than that, if I have come down in the world."

Faith would not go down to supper that night and she would not go to church the next morning. But at dinner time she went to the table, her eyes swollen with crying, her face sullen.

The Rev. James Perry was a sleek, rubicund man, with a bristling white moustache, bushy white eyebrows, and a shining bald head. He was certainly not handsome and he was a very tiresome, pompous sort of person. But if he had looked like the Archangel Michael and talked with the tongues of men and angels Faith would still have utterly detested him. He carved Adam up dexterously, showing off his plump white hands and very handsome diamond ring. Also, he made jovial remarks all through the performance. Jerry and Carl giggled, and even Una smiled wanly, because she thought politeness demanded it. But Faith only scowled darkly. The Rev. James thought her manners shockingly bad. Once, when he was delivering himself of an unctuous remark to Jerry, Faith broke in rudely with a flat contradiction. The Rev. James drew his bushy eyebrows together at her.

"Little girls should not interrupt," he said, "and they should not contradict people who know far more than they do."

This put Faith in a worse temper than ever. To be called "little girl" as if she were no bigger than chubby Rilla Blythe over at Ingleside! It was insufferable. And how that abominable Mr. Perry did eat! He even picked poor Adam's bones. Neither Faith nor Una would touch a mouthful, and looked upon the boys as little better than cannibals. Faith felt that if that awful repast did not soon come to an end she would wind it up by throwing something at Mr. Perry's gleaming head. Fortunately, Mr. Perry found Aunt Martha's leathery apple pie too much even for his powers of mastication and the meal came to an end, after a long grace in which Mr. Perry offered up devout thanks for the food which a kind and beneficent Providence had provided for sustenance and temperate pleasure.

"God hadn't a single thing to do with providing Adam for you," muttered Faith rebelliously under her breath.

The boys gladly made their escape to outdoors, Una went to help Aunt Martha with the dishes -- though that rather grumpy old dame never welcomed her timid assistance -- and Faith betook herself to the study where a cheerful wood fire was burning in the grate. She thought she would thereby escape from the hated Mr. Perry, who had announced his intention of taking a nap in his room during the afternoon. But scarcely had Faith settled herself in a corner, with a book, when he walked in and, standing before the fire, proceeded to survey the disorderly study with an air of disapproval.

"You father's books seem to be in somewhat deplorable confusion, my little girl," he said severely.

Faith darkled in her corner and said not a word. She would NOT talk to this -- this creature.

"You should try to put them in order," Mr. Perry went on, playing with his handsome watch chain and smiling patronizingly on Faith. "You are quite old enough to attend to such duties. MY little daughter at home is only ten and she is already an excellent little housekeeper and the greatest help and comfort to her mother. She is a very sweet child. I wish you had the privilege of her acquaintance. She could help you in many ways. Of course, you have not had the inestimable privilege of a good mother's care and training. A sad lack -- a very sad lack. I have spoken more than once to your father in this connection and pointed out his duty to him faithfully, but so far with no effect. I trust he may awaken to a realization of his responsibility before it is too late. In the meantime, it is your duty and privilege to endeavour to take your sainted mother's place. You might exercise a great influence over your brothers and your little sister -- you might be a true mother to them. I fear that you do not think of these things as you should. My dear child, allow me to open your eyes in regard to them."

Mr. Perry's oily, complacent voice trickled on. He was in his element. Nothing suited him better than to lay down the law, patronize and exhort. He had no idea of stopping, and he did not stop. He stood before the fire, his feet planted firmly on the rug, and poured out a flood of pompous platitudes. Faith heard not a word. She was really not listening to him at all. But she was watching his long black coat-tails with impish delight growing in her brown eyes. Mr. Perry was standing VERY near the fire. His coat-tails began to scorch -- his coat-tails began to smoke. He still prosed on, wrapped up in his own eloquence. The coat-tails smoked worse. A tiny spark flew up from the burning wood and alighted in the middle of one. It clung and caught and spread into a smouldering flame. Faith could restrain herself no longer and broke into a stifled giggle.

Mr. Perry stopped short, angered over this impertinence. Suddenly he became conscious that a reek of burning cloth filled the room. He whirled round and saw nothing. Then he clapped his hands to his coat-tails and brought them around in front of him. There was already quite a hole in one of them -- and this was his new suit. Faith shook with helpless laughter over his pose and expression.

"Did you see my coat-tails burning?" he demanded angrily.

"Yes, sir," said Faith demurely.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, glaring at her.

"You said it wasn't good manners to interrupt, sir," said Faith, more demurely still.

"If -- if I was your father, I would give you a spanking that you would remember all your life, Miss," said a very angry reverend gentleman, as he stalked out of the study. The coat of Mr. Meredith's second best suit would not fit Mr. Perry, so he had to go to the evening service with his singed coat-tail. But he did not walk up the aisle with his usual consciousness of the honour he was conferring on the building. He never would agree to an exchange of pulpits with Mr. Meredith again, and he was barely civil to the latter when they met for a few minutes at the station the next morning. But Faith felt a certain gloomy satisfaction. Adam was partially avenged.



Chapter XX. Faith Makes A Friend

Next day in school was a hard one for Faith. Mary Vance had told the tale of Adam, and all the scholars, except the Blythes, thought it quite a joke. The girls told Faith, between giggles, that it was too bad, and the boys wrote sardonic notes of condolence to her. Poor Faith went home from school feeling her very soul raw and smarting within her.

"I'm going over to Ingleside to have a talk with Mrs. Blythe," she sobbed. "SHE won't laugh at me, as everybody else does. I've just GOT to talk to somebody who understands how bad I feel."

She ran down through Rainbow Valley. Enchantment had been at work the night before. A light snow had fallen and the powdered firs were dreaming of a spring to come and a joy to be. The long hill beyond was richly purple with leafless beeches. The rosy light of sunset lay over the world like a pink kiss. Of all the airy, fairy places, full of weird, elfin grace, Rainbow Valley that winter evening was the most beautiful. But all its dreamlike loveliness was lost on poor, sore-hearted little Faith.

By the brook she came suddenly upon Rosemary West, who was sitting on the old pine tree. She was on her way home from Ingleside, where she had been giving the girls their music lesson. She had been lingering in Rainbow Valley quite a little time, looking across its white beauty and roaming some by-ways of dream. Judging from the expression of her face, her thoughts were pleasant ones. Perhaps the faint, occasional tinkle from the bells on the Tree Lovers brought the little lurking smile to her lips. Or perhaps it was occasioned by the consciousness that John Meredith seldom failed to spend Monday evening in the gray house on the white wind-swept hill.

Into Rosemary's dreams burst Faith Meredith full of rebellious bitterness. Faith stopped abruptly when she saw Miss West. She did not know her very well -- just well enough to speak to when they met. And she did not want to see any one just then -- except Mrs. Blythe. She knew her eyes and nose were red and swollen and she hated to have a stranger know she had been crying.

"Good evening, Miss West," she said uncomfortably.

"What is the matter, Faith?" asked Rosemary gently.

"Nothing," said Faith rather shortly.

"Oh!" Rosemary smiled. "You mean nothing that you can tell to outsiders, don't you?"

Faith looked at Miss West with sudden interest. Here was a person who understood things. And how pretty she was! How golden her hair was under her plumy hat! How pink her cheeks were over her velvet coat! How blue and companionable her eyes were! Faith felt that Miss West could be a lovely friend -- if only she were a friend instead of a stranger!

"I -- I'm going up to tell Mrs. Blythe," said Faith. "She always understands -- she never laughs at us. I always talk things over with her. It helps."

"Dear girlie, I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mrs. Blythe isn't home," said Miss West, sympathetically. "She went to Avonlea to-day and isn't coming back till the last of the week."

Faith's lip quivered.

"Then I might as well go home again," she said miserably.

"I suppose so -- unless you think you could bring yourself to talk it over with me instead," said Miss Rosemary gently. "It IS such a help to talk things over. I know. I don't suppose I can be as good at understanding as Mrs. Blythe -- but I promise you that I won't laugh."

"You wouldn't laugh outside," hesitated Faith. "But you might -- inside."

"No, I wouldn't laugh inside, either. Why should I? Something has hurt you -- it never amuses me to see anybody hurt, no matter what hurts them. If you feel that you'd like to tell me what has hurt you I'll be glad to listen. But if you think you'd rather not -- that's all right, too, dear."

Faith took another long, earnest look into Miss West's eyes. They were very serious -- there was no laughter in them, not even far, far back. With a little sigh she sat down on the old pine beside her new friend and told her all about Adam and his cruel fate.

Rosemary did not laugh or feel like laughing. She understood and sympathized -- really, she was almost as good as Mrs. Blythe -- yes, quite as good.

"Mr. Perry is a minister, but he should have been a BUTCHER," said Faith bitterly. "He is so fond of carving things up. He ENJOYED cutting poor Adam to pieces. He just sliced into him as if he were any common rooster."

"Between you and me, Faith, I don't like Mr. Perry very well myself," said Rosemary, laughing a little -- but at Mr. Perry, not at Adam, as Faith clearly understood. "I never did like him. I went to school with him -- he was a Glen boy, you know -- and he was a most detestable little prig even then. Oh, how we girls used to hate holding his fat, clammy hands in the ring-around games. But we must remember, dear, that he didn't know that Adam had been a pet of yours. He thought he WAS just a common rooster. We must be just, even when we are terribly hurt."

"I suppose so," admitted Faith. "But why does everybody seem to think it funny that I should have loved Adam so much, Miss West? If it had been a horrid old cat nobody would have thought it queer. When Lottie Warren's kitten had its legs cut off by the binder everybody was sorry for her. She cried two days in school and nobody laughed at her, not even Dan Reese. And all her chums went to the kitten's funeral and helped her bury it -- only they couldn't bury its poor little paws with it, because they couldn't find them. It was a horrid thing to have happen, of course, but I don't think it was as dreadful as seeing your pet EATEN UP. Yet everybody laughs at ME."

"I think it is because the name 'rooster' seems rather a funny one," said Rosemary gravely. "There IS something in it that is comical. Now, 'chicken' is different. It doesn't sound so funny to talk of loving a chicken."

"Adam was the dearest little chicken, Miss West. He was just a little golden ball. He would run up to me and peck out of my hand. And he was handsome when he grew up, too -- white as snow, with such a beautiful curving white tail, though Mary Vance said it was too short. He knew his name and always came when I called him -- he was a very intelligent rooster. And Aunt Martha had no right to kill him. He was mine. It wasn't fair, was it, Miss West?"

"No, it wasn't," said Rosemary decidedly. "Not a bit fair. I remember I had a pet hen when I was a little girl. She was such a pretty little thing -- all golden brown and speckly. I loved her as much as I ever loved any pet. She was never killed -- she died of old age. Mother wouldn't have her killed because she was my pet."

"If MY mother had been living she wouldn't have let Adam be killed," said Faith. "For that matter, father wouldn't have either, if he'd been home and known of it. I'm SURE he wouldn't, Miss West."

"I'm sure, too," said Rosemary. There was a little added flush on her face. She looked rather conscious but Faith noticed nothing.

"Was it VERY wicked of me not to tell Mr. Perry his coat-tails were scorching?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, terribly wicked," answered Rosemary, with dancing eyes. "But I would have been just as naughty, Faith -- I wouldn't have told him they were scorching -- and I don't believe I would ever have been a bit sorry for my wickedness, either."

"Una thought I should have told him because he was a minister."

"Dearest, if a minister doesn't behave as a gentleman we are not bound to respect his coat-tails. I know I would just have loved to see Jimmy Perry's coat-tails burning up. It must have been fun."

Both laughed; but Faith ended with a bitter little sigh.

"Well, anyway, Adam is dead and I am NEVER going to love anything again."

"Don't say that, dear. We miss so much out of life if we don't love. The more we love the richer life is -- even if it is only some little furry or feathery pet. Would you like a canary, Faith -- a little golden bit of a canary? If you would I'll give you one. We have two up home."

"Oh, I WOULD like that," cried Faith. "I love birds. Only -- would Aunt Martha's cat eat it? It's so TRAGIC to have your pets eaten. I don't think I could endure it a second time."

"If you hang the cage far enough from the wall I don't think the cat could harm it. I'll tell you just how to take care of it and I'll bring it to Ingleside for you the next time I come down."

To herself, Rosemary was thinking,

"It will give every gossip in the Glen something to talk of, but I WILL not care. I want to comfort this poor little heart."

Faith was comforted. Sympathy and understanding were very sweet. She and Miss Rosemary sat on the old pine until the twilight crept softly down over the white valley and the evening star shone over the gray maple grove. Faith told Rosemary all her small history and hopes, her likes and dislikes, the ins and outs of life at the manse, the ups and downs of school society. Finally they parted firm friends.

Mr. Meredith was, as usual, lost in dreams when supper began that evening, but presently a name pierced his abstraction and brought him back to reality. Faith was telling Una of her meeting with Rosemary.

"She is just lovely, I think," said Faith. "Just as nice as Mrs. Blythe -- but different. I felt as if I wanted to hug her. She did hug ME -- such a nice, velvety hug. And she called me 'dearest.' It THRILLED me. I could tell her ANYTHING."

"So you liked Miss West, Faith?" Mr. Meredith asked, with a rather odd intonation.

"I love her," cried Faith.

"Ah!" said Mr. Meredith. "Ah!"



Chapter XXI. The Impossible Word

John Meredith walked meditatively through the clear crispness of a winter night in Rainbow Valley. The hills beyond glistened with the chill splendid lustre of moonlight on snow. Every little fir tree in the long valley sang its own wild song to the harp of wind and frost. His children and the Blythe lads and lasses were coasting down the eastern slope and whizzing over the glassy pond. They were having a glorious time and their gay voices and gayer laughter echoed up and down the valley, dying away in elfin cadences among the trees. On the right the lights of Ingleside gleamed through the maple grove with the genial lure and invitation which seems always to glow in the beacons of a home where we know there is love and good-cheer and a welcome for all kin, whether of flesh or spirit. Mr. Meredith liked very well on occasion to spend an evening arguing with the doctor by the drift wood fire, where the famous china dogs of Ingleside kept ceaseless watch and ward, as became deities of the hearth, but to-night he did not look that way. Far on the western hill gleamed a paler but more alluring star. Mr. Meredith was on his way to see Rosemary West, and he meant to tell her something which had been slowly blossoming in his heart since their first meeting and had sprung into full flower on the evening when Faith had so warmly voiced her admiration for Rosemary.

He had come to realize that he had learned to care for Rosemary. Not as he had cared for Cecilia, of course. THAT was entirely different. That love of romance and dream and glamour could never, he thought, return. But Rosemary was beautiful and sweet and dear -- very dear. She was the best of companions. He was happier in her company than he had ever expected to be again. She would be an ideal mistress for his home, a good mother to his children.

During the years of his widowhood Mr. Meredith had received innumerable hints from brother members of Presbytery and from many parishioners who could not be suspected of any ulterior motive, as well as from some who could, that he ought to marry again: But these hints never made any impression on him. It was commonly thought he was never aware of them. But he was quite acutely aware of them. And in his own occasional visitations of common sense he knew that the common sensible thing for him to do was to marry. But common sense was not the strong point of John Meredith, and to choose out, deliberately and cold-bloodedly, some "suitable" woman, as one might choose a housekeeper or a business partner, was something he was quite incapable of doing. How he hated that word "suitable." It reminded him so strongly of James Perry. "A SUIT able woman of SUIT able age," that unctuous brother of the cloth had said, in his far from subtle hint. For the moment John Meredith had had a perfectly unbelievable desire to rush madly away and propose marriage to the youngest, most unsuitable woman it was possible to discover.

Mrs. Marshall Elliott was his good friend and he liked her. But when she had bluntly told him he should marry again he felt as if she had torn away the veil that hung before some sacred shrine of his innermost life, and he had been more or less afraid of her ever since. He knew there were women in his congregation "of suitable age" who would marry him quite readily. That fact had seeped through all his abstraction very early in his ministry in Glen St. Mary. They were good, substantial, uninteresting women, one or two fairly comely, the others not exactly so and John Meredith would as soon have thought of marrying any one of them as of hanging himself. He had some ideals to which no seeming necessity could make him false. He could ask no woman to fill Cecilia's place in his home unless he could offer her at least some of the affection and homage he had given to his girlish bride. And where, in his limited feminine acquaintance, was such a woman to be found?

Rosemary West had come into his life on that autumn evening bringing with her an atmosphere in which his spirit recognized native air. Across the gulf of strangerhood they clasped hands of friendship. He knew her better in that ten minutes by the hidden spring than he knew Emmeline Drew or Elizabeth Kirk or Amy Annetta Douglas in a year, or could know them, in a century. He had fled to her for comfort when Mrs. Alec Davis had outraged his mind and soul and had found it. Since then he had gone often to the house on the hill, slipping through the shadowy paths of night in Rainbow Valley so astutely that Glen gossip could never be absolutely certain that he DID go to see Rosemary West. Once or twice he had been caught in the West living room by other visitors; that was all the Ladies' Aid had to go by. But when Elizabeth Kirk heard it she put away a secret hope she had allowed herself to cherish, without a change of expression on her kind plain face, and Emmeline Drew resolved that the next time she saw a certain old bachelor of Lowbridge she would not snub him as she had done at a previous meeting. Of course, if Rosemary West was out to catch the minister she would catch him; she looked younger than she was and MEN thought her pretty; besides, the West girls had money!

"It is to be hoped that he won't be so absent-minded as to propose to Ellen by mistake," was the only malicious thing she allowed herself to say to a sympathetic sister Drew. Emmeline bore no further grudge towards Rosemary. When all was said and done, an unencumbered bachelor was far better than a widower with four children. It had been only the glamour of the manse that had temporarily blinded Emmeline's eyes to the better part.

A sled with three shrieking occupants sped past Mr. Meredith to the pond. Faith's long curls streamed in the wind and her laughter rang above that of the others. John Meredith looked after them kindly and longingly. He was glad that his children had such chums as the Blythes -- glad that they had so wise and gay and tender a friend as Mrs. Blythe. But they needed something more, and that something would be supplied when he brought Rosemary West as a bride to the old manse. There was in her a quality essentially maternal.

It was Saturday night and he did not often go calling on Saturday night, which was supposed to be dedicated to a thoughtful revision of Sunday's sermon. But he had chosen this night because he had learned that Ellen West was going to be away and Rosemary would be alone. Often as he had spent pleasant evenings in the house on the hill he had never, since that first meeting at the spring, seen Rosemary alone. Ellen had always been there.

He did not precisely object to Ellen being there. He liked Ellen West very much and they were the best of friends. Ellen had an almost masculine understanding and a sense of humour which his own shy, hidden appreciation of fun found very agreeable. He liked her interest in politics and world events. There was no man in the Glen, not even excepting Dr. Blythe, who had a better grasp of such things.

"I think it is just as well to be interested in things as long as you live," she had said. "If you're not, it doesn't seem to me that there's much difference between the quick and the dead."

He liked her pleasant, deep, rumbly voice; he liked the hearty laugh with which she always ended up some jolly and well-told story. She never gave him digs about his children as other Glen women did; she never bored him with local gossip; she had no malice and no pettiness. She was always splendidly sincere. Mr. Meredith, who had picked up Miss Cornelia's way of classifying people, considered that Ellen belonged to the race of Joseph. Altogether, an admirable woman for a sister-in-law. Nevertheless, a man did not want even the most admirable of women around when he was proposing to another woman. And Ellen was always around. She did not insist on talking to Mr. Meredith herself all the time. She let Rosemary have a fair share of him. Many evenings, indeed, Ellen effaced herself almost totally, sitting back in the corner with St. George in her lap, and letting Mr. Meredith and Rosemary talk and sing and read books together. Sometimes they quite forgot her presence. But if their conversation or choice of duets ever betrayed the least tendency to what Ellen considered philandering, Ellen promptly nipped that tendency in the bud and blotted Rosemary out for the rest of the evening. But not even the grimmest of amiable dragons can altogether prevent a certain subtle language of eye and smile and eloquent silence; and so the minister's courtship progressed after a fashion.

But if it was ever to reach a climax that climax must come when Ellen was away. And Ellen was so seldom away, especially in winter. She found her own fireside the pleasantest place in the world, she vowed. Gadding had no attraction for her. She was fond of company but she wanted it at home. Mr. Meredith had almost been driven to the conclusion that he must write to Rosemary what he wanted to say, when Ellen casually announced one evening that she was going to a silver wedding next Saturday night. She had been bridesmaid when the principals were married. Only old guests were invited, so Rosemary was not included. Mr. Meredith pricked up his ears a trifle and a gleam flashed into his dreamy dark eyes. Both Ellen and Rosemary saw it; and both Ellen and Rosemary felt, with a tingling shock, that Mr. Meredith would certainly come up the hill next Saturday night.

"Might as well have it over with, St. George," Ellen sternly told the black cat, after Mr. Meredith had gone home and Rosemary had silently gone upstairs. "He means to ask her, St. George -- I'm perfectly sure of that. So he might as well have his chance to do it and find out he can't get her, George. She'd rather like to take him, Saint. I know that -- but she promised, and she's got to keep her promise. I'm rather sorry in some ways, St. George. I don't know of a man I'd sooner have for a brother-in-law if a brother-in-law was convenient. I haven't a thing against him, Saint -- not a thing except that he won't see and can't be made to see that the Kaiser is a menace to the peace of Europe. That's HIS blind spot. But he's good company and I like him. A woman can say anything she likes to a man with a mouth like John Meredith's and be sure of not being misunderstood. Such a man is more precious than rubies, Saint -- and much rarer, George. But he can't have Rosemary -- and I suppose when he finds out he can't have her he'll drop us both. And we'll miss him, Saint -- we'll miss him something scandalous, George. But she promised, and I'll see that she keeps her promise!"

Ellen's face looked almost ugly in its lowering resolution. Upstairs Rosemary was crying into her pillow.

So Mr. Meredith found his lady alone and looking very beautiful. Rosemary had not made any special toilet for the occasion; she wanted to, but she thought it would be absurd to dress up for a man you meant to refuse. So she wore her plain dark afternoon dress and looked like a queen in it. Her suppressed excitement coloured her face to brilliancy, her great blue eyes were pools of light less placid than usual.

She wished the interview were over. She had looked forward to it all day with dread. She felt quite sure that John Meredith cared a great deal for her after a fashion -- and she felt just as sure that he did not care for her as he had cared for his first love. She felt that her refusal would disappoint him considerably, but she did not think it would altogether overwhelm him. Yet she hated to make it; hated for his sake and -- Rosemary was quite honest with herself -- for her own. She knew she could have loved John Meredith if -- if it had been permissible. She knew that life would be a blank thing if, rejected as lover, he refused longer to be a friend. She knew that she could be very happy with him and that she could make him happy. But between her and happiness stood the prison gate of the promise she had made to Ellen years ago. Rosemary could not remember her father. He had died when she was only three years old. Ellen, who had been thirteen, remembered him, but with no special tenderness. He had been a stern, reserved man many years older than his fair, pretty wife. Five years later their brother of twelve died also; since his death the two girls had always lived alone with their mother. They had never mingled very freely in the social life of the Glen or Lowbridge, though where they went the wit and spirit of Ellen and the sweetness and beauty of Rosemary made them welcome guests. Both had what was called "a disappointment" in their girlhood. The sea had not given up Rosemary's lover; and Norman Douglas, then a handsome, red-haired young giant, noted for wild driving and noisy though harmless escapades, had quarrelled with Ellen and left her in a fit of pique.

There were not lacking candidates for both Martin's and Norman's places, but none seemed to find favour in the eyes of the West girls, who drifted slowly out of youth and bellehood without any seeming regret. They were devoted to their mother, who was a chronic invalid. The three had a little circle of home interests -- books and pets and flowers -- which made them happy and contented.

Mrs. West's death, which occurred on Rosemary's twenty-fifth birthday, was a bitter grief to them. At first they were intolerably lonely. Ellen, especially, continued to grieve and brood, her long, moody musings broken only by fits of stormy, passionate weeping. The old Lowbridge doctor told Rosemary that he feared permanent melancholy or worse.

Once, when Ellen had sat all day, refusing either to speak or eat, Rosemary had flung herself on her knees by her sister's side.

"Oh, Ellen, you have me yet," she said imploringly. "Am I nothing to you? We have always loved each other so."

"I won't have you always," Ellen had said, breaking her silence with harsh intensity. "You will marry and leave me. I shall be left all alone. I cannot bear the thought -- I CANNOT. I would rather die."

"I will never marry," said Rosemary, "never, Ellen."

Ellen bent forward and looked searchingly into Rosemary's eyes.

"Will you promise me that solemnly?" she said. "Promise it on mother's Bible."

Rosemary assented at once, quite willing to humour Ellen. What did it matter? She knew quite well she would never want to marry any one. Her love had gone down with Martin Crawford to the deeps of the sea; and without love she could not marry any one. So she promised readily, though Ellen made rather a fearsome rite of it. They clasped hands over the Bible, in their mother's vacant room, and both vowed to each other that they would never marry and would always live together.

Ellen's condition improved from that hour. She soon regained her normal cheery poise. For ten years she and Rosemary lived in the old house happily, undisturbed by any thought of marrying or giving in marriage. Their promise sat very lightly on them. Ellen never failed to remind her sister of it whenever any eligible male creature crossed their paths, but she had never been really alarmed until John Meredith came home that night with Rosemary. As for Rosemary, Ellen's obsession regarding that promise had always been a little matter of mirth to her -- until lately. Now, it was a merciless fetter, self-imposed but never to be shaken off. Because of it to-night she must turn her face from happiness.

It was true that the shy, sweet, rosebud love she had given to her boy-lover she could never give to another. But she knew now that she could give to John Meredith a love richer and more womanly. She knew that he touched deeps in her nature that Martin had never touched -- that had not, perhaps, been in the girl of seventeen to touch. And she must send him away to-night -- send him back to his lonely hearth and his empty life and his heart-breaking problems, because she had promised Ellen, ten years before, on their mother's Bible, that she would never marry.

John Meredith did not immediately grasp his opportunity. On the contrary, he talked for two good hours on the least lover-like of subjects. He even tried politics, though politics always bored Rosemary. The later began to think that she had been altogether mistaken, and her fears and expectations suddenly seemed to her grotesque. She felt flat and foolish. The glow went out of her face and the lustre out of her eyes. John Meredith had not the slightest intention of asking her to marry him.

And then, quite suddenly, he rose, came across the room, and standing by her chair, he asked it. The room had grown terribly still. Even St. George ceased to purr. Rosemary heard her own heart beating and was sure John Meredith must hear it too.

Now was the time for her to say no, gently but firmly. She had been ready for days with her stilted, regretful little formula. And now the words of it had completely vanished from her mind. She had to say no -- and she suddenly found she could not say it. It was the impossible word. She knew now that it was not that she COULD have loved John Meredith, but that she DID love him. The thought of putting him from her life was agony.

She must say SOMETHING; she lifted her bowed golden head and asked him stammeringly to give her a few days for -- for consideration.

John Meredith was a little surprised. He was not vainer than any man has a right to be, but he had expected that Rosemary West would say yes. He had been tolerably sure she cared for him. Then why this doubt -- this hesitation? She was not a school girl to be uncertain as to her own mind. He felt an ugly shock of disappointment and dismay. But he assented to her request with his unfailing gentle courtesy and went away at once.

"I will tell you in a few days," said Rosemary, with downcast eyes and burning face.

When the door shut behind him she went back into the room and wrung her hands.



Chapter XXII. St. George Knows All About It

At midnight Ellen West was walking home from the Pollock silver wedding. She had stayed a little while after the other guests had gone, to help the gray-haired bride wash the dishes. The distance between the two houses was not far and the road good, so that Ellen was enjoying the walk back home in the moonlight.

The evening had been a pleasant one. Ellen, who had not been to a party for years, found it very pleasant. All the guests had been members of her old set and there was no intrusive youth to spoil the flavour, for the only son of the bride and groom was far away at college and could not be present. Norman Douglas had been there and they had met socially for the first time in years, though she had seen him once or twice in church that winter. Not the least sentiment was awakened in Ellen's heart by their meeting. She was accustomed to wonder, when she thought about it at all, how she could ever have fancied him or felt so badly over his sudden marriage. But she had rather liked meeting him again. She had forgotten how bracing and stimulating he could be. No gathering was ever stagnant when Norman Douglas was present. Everybody had been surprised when Norman came. It was well known he never went anywhere. The Pollocks had invited him because he had been one of the original guests, but they never thought he would come. He had taken his second cousin, Amy Annetta Douglas, out to supper and seemed rather attentive to her. But Ellen sat across the table from him and had a spirited argument with him -- an argument during which all his shouting and banter could not fluster her and in which she came off best, flooring Norman so composedly and so completely that he was silent for ten minutes. At the end of which time he had muttered in his ruddy beard -- "spunky as ever -- spunky as ever" -- and began to hector Amy Annetta, who giggled foolishly over his sallies where Ellen would have retorted bitingly.

Ellen thought these things over as she walked home, tasting them with reminiscent relish. The moonlit air sparkled with frost. The snow crisped under her feet. Below her lay the Glen with the white harbour beyond. There was a light in the manse study. So John Meredith had gone home. Had he asked Rosemary to marry him? And after what fashion had she made her refusal known? Ellen felt that she would never know this, though she was quite curious. She was sure Rosemary would never tell her anything about it and she would not dare to ask. She must just be content with the fact of the refusal. After all, that was the only thing that really mattered.

"I hope he'll have sense enough to come back once in a while and be friendly," she said to herself. She disliked so much to be alone that thinking aloud was one of her devices for circumventing unwelcome solitude. "It's awful never to have a man-body with some brains to talk to once in a while. And like as not he'll never come near the house again. There's Norman Douglas, too -- I like that man, and I'd like to have a good rousing argument with him now and then. But he'd never dare come up for fear people would think he was courting me again -- for fear I'D think it, too, most likely -- though he's more a stranger to me now than John Meredith. It seems like a dream that we could ever have been beaus. But there it is -- there's only two men in the Glen I'd ever want to talk to -- and what with gossip and this wretched love-making business it's not likely I'll ever see either of them again. I could," said Ellen, addressing the unmoved stars with a spiteful emphasis, "I could have made a better world myself."

She paused at her gate with a sudden vague feeling of alarm. There was still a light in the living-room and to and fro across the window-shades went the shadow of a woman walking restlessly up and down. What was Rosemary doing up at this hour of the night? And why was she striding about like a lunatic?

Ellen went softly in. As she opened the hall door Rosemary came out of the room. She was flushed and breathless. An atmosphere of stress and passion hung about her like a garment.

"Why aren't you in bed, Rosemary?" demanded Ellen.

"Come in here," said Rosemary intensely. "I want to tell you something."

Ellen composedly removed her wraps and overshoes, and followed her sister into the warm, fire-lighted room. She stood with her hand on the table and waited. She was looking very handsome herself, in her own grim, black-browed style. The new black velvet dress, with its train and V-neck, which she had made purposely for the party, became her stately, massive figure. She wore coiled around her neck the rich heavy necklace of amber beads which was a family heirloom. Her walk in the frosty air had stung her cheeks into a glowing scarlet. But her steel-blue eyes were as icy and unyielding as the sky of the winter night. She stood waiting in a silence which Rosemary could break only by a convulsive effort.

"Ellen, Mr. Meredith was here this evening."

"Yes?"

"And -- and -- he asked me to marry him."

"So I expected. Of course, you refused him?"

"No."

"Rosemary." Ellen clenched her hands and took an involuntary step forward. "Do you mean to tell me that you accepted him?"

"No -- no."

Ellen recovered her self-command.

"What DID you do then?"

"I -- I asked him to give me a few days to think it over."

"I hardly see why that was necessary," said Ellen, coldly contemptuous, "when there is only the one answer you can make him."

Rosemary held out her hands beseechingly.

"Ellen," she said desperately, "I love John Meredith -- I want to be his wife. Will you set me free from that promise?"

"No," said Ellen, merciless, because she was sick from fear.

"Ellen -- Ellen -- "

"Listen," interrupted Ellen. "I did not ask you for that promise. You offered it."

"I know -- I know. But I did not think then that I could ever care for anyone again."

"You offered it," went on Ellen unmovably. "You promised it over our mother's Bible. It was more than a promise -- it was an oath. Now you want to break it."

"I only asked you to set me free from it, Ellen."

"I will not do it. A promise is a promise in my eyes. I will not do it. Break your promise -- be forsworn if you will -- but it shall not be with any assent of mine."

"You are very hard on me, Ellen."

"Hard on you! And what of me? Have you ever given a thought to what my loneliness would be here if you left me? I could not bear it -- I would go crazy. I CANNOT live alone. Haven't I been a good sister to you? Have I ever opposed any wish of yours? Haven't I indulged you in everything?"

"Yes -- yes."

"Then why do you want to leave me for this man whom you hadn't seen a year ago?"

"I love him, Ellen."

"Love! You talk like a school miss instead of a middle-aged woman. He doesn't love you. He wants a housekeeper and a governess. You don't love him. You want to be 'Mrs.' -- you are one of those weak-minded women who think it's a disgrace to be ranked as an old maid. That's all there is to it."

Rosemary quivered. Ellen could not, or would not, understand. There was no use arguing with her.

"So you won't release me, Ellen?"

"No, I won't. And I won't talk of it again. You promised and you've got to keep your word. That's all. Go to bed. Look at the time! You're all romantic and worked up. To-morrow you'll be more sensible. At any rate, don't let me hear any more of this nonsense. Go."

Rosemary went without another word, pale and spiritless. Ellen walked stormily about the room for a few minutes, then paused before the chair where St. George had been calmly sleeping through the whole evening. A reluctant smile overspread her dark face. There had been only one time in her life -- the time of her mother's death -- when Ellen had not been able to temper tragedy with comedy. Even in that long ago bitterness, when Norman Douglas had, after a fashion, jilted her, she had laughed at herself quite as often as she had cried.

"I expect there'll be some sulking, St. George. Yes, Saint, I expect we are in for a few unpleasant foggy days. Well, we'll weather them through, George. We've dealt with foolish children before, Saint. Rosemary'll sulk a while -- and then she'll get over it -- and all will be as before, George. She promised -- and she's got to keep her promise. And that's the last word on the subject I'll say to you or her or anyone, Saint."

But Ellen lay savagely awake till morning.

There was no sulking, however. Rosemary was pale and quiet the next day, but beyond that Ellen could detect no difference in her. Certainly, she seemed to bear Ellen no grudge. It was stormy, so no mention was made of going to church. In the afternoon Rosemary shut herself in her room and wrote a note to John Meredith. She could not trust herself to say "no" in person. She felt quite sure that if he suspected she was saying "no" reluctantly he would not take it for an answer, and she could not face pleading or entreaty. She must make him think she cared nothing at all for him and she could do that only by letter. She wrote him the stiffest, coolest little refusal imaginable. It was barely courteous; it certainly left no loophole of hope for the boldest lover -- and John Meredith was anything but that. He shrank into himself, hurt and mortified, when he read Rosemary's letter next day in his dusty study. But under his mortification a dreadful realization presently made itself felt. He had thought he did not love Rosemary as deeply as he had loved Cecilia. Now, when he had lost her, he knew that he did. She was everything to him -- everything! And he must put her out of his life completely. Even friendship was impossible now. Life stretched before him in intolerable dreariness. He must go on -- there was his work -- his children -- but the heart had gone out of him. He sat alone all that evening in his dark, cold, comfortless study with his head bowed on his hands. Up on the hill Rosemary had a headache and went early to bed, while Ellen remarked to St. George, purring his disdain of foolish humankind, who did not know that a soft cushion was the only thing that really mattered,

"What would women do if headaches had never been invented, St. George? But never mind, Saint. We'll just wink the other eye for a few weeks. I admit I don't feel comfortable myself, George. I feel as if I had drowned a kitten. But she promised, Saint -- and she was the one to offer it, George. Bismillah!"



Chapter XXIII. The Good-Conduct Club

A light rain had been falling all day -- a little, delicate, beautiful spring rain, that somehow seemed to hint and whisper of mayflowers and wakening violets. The harbour and the gulf and the low-lying shore fields had been dim with pearl-gray mists. But now in the evening the rain had ceased and the mists had blown out to sea. Clouds sprinkled the sky over the harbour like little fiery roses. Beyond it the hills were dark against a spendthrift splendour of daffodil and crimson. A great silvery evening star was watching over the bar. A brisk, dancing, new-sprung wind was blowing up from Rainbow Valley, resinous with the odours of fir and damp mosses. It crooned in the old spruces around the graveyard and ruffled Faith's splendid curls as she sat on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone with her arms round Mary Vance and Una. Carl and Jerry were sitting opposite them on another tombstone and all were rather full of mischief after being cooped up all day.

"The air just SHINES to-night, doesn't it? It's been washed so clean, you see," said Faith happily.

Mary Vance eyed her gloomily. Knowing what she knew, or fancied she knew, Mary considered that Faith was far too light-hearted. Mary had something on her mind to say and she meant to say it before she went home. Mrs. Elliott had sent her up to the manse with some new-laid eggs, and had told her not to stay longer than half an hour. The half hour was nearly up, so Mary uncurled her cramped legs from under her and said abruptly,

"Never mind about the air. Just you listen to me. You manse young ones have just got to behave yourselves better than you've been doing this spring -- that's all there is to it. I just come up to-night a-purpose to tell you so. The way people are talking about you is awful."

"What have we been doing now?" cried Faith in amazement, pulling her arm away from Mary. Una's lips trembled and her sensitive little soul shrank within her. Mary was always so brutally frank. Jerry began to whistle out of bravado. He meant to let Mary see he didn't care for HER tirades. Their behaviour was no business of HERS anyway. What right had SHE to lecture them on their conduct?

"Doing now! You're doing ALL the time," retorted Mary. "Just as soon as the talk about one of your didos fades away you do something else to start it up again. It seems to me you haven't any idea of how manse children ought to behave!"

"Maybe YOU can tell us," said Jerry, killingly sarcastic.

Sarcasm was quite thrown away on Mary.

"I can tell you what will happen if you don't learn to behave yourselves. The session will ask your father to resign. There now, Master Jerry-know-it-all. Mrs. Alec Davis said so to Mrs. Elliott. I heard her. I always have my ears pricked up when Mrs. Alec Davis comes to tea. She said you were all going from bad to worse and that though it was only what was to be expected when you had nobody to bring you up, still the congregation couldn't be expected to put up with it much longer, and something would have to be done. The Methodists just laugh and laugh at you, and that hurts the Presbyterian feelings. SHE says you all need a good dose of birch tonic. Lor', if that would make folks good I oughter be a young saint. I'm not telling you this because I want to hurt YOUR feelings. I'm sorry for you" -- Mary was past mistress of the gentle art of condescension. "I understand that you haven't much chance, the way things are. But other people don't make as much allowance as I do. Miss Drew says Carl had a frog in his pocket in Sunday School last Sunday and it hopped out while she was hearing the lesson. She says she's going to give up the class. Why don't you keep your insecks home?"

"I popped it right back in again," said Carl. "It didn't hurt anybody -- a poor little frog! And I wish old Jane Drew WOULD give up our class. I hate her. Her own nephew had a dirty plug of tobacco in his pocket and offered us fellows a chew when Elder Clow was praying. I guess that's worse than a frog."

"No, 'cause frogs are more unexpected-like. They make more of a sensation. 'Sides, he wasn't caught at it. And then that praying competition you had last week has made a fearful scandal. Everybody is talking about it."

"Why, the Blythes were in that as well as us," cried Faith, indignantly. "It was Nan Blythe who suggested it in the first place. And Walter took the prize."

"Well, you get the credit of it any way. It wouldn't have been so bad if you hadn't had it in the graveyard."

"I should think a graveyard was a very good place to pray in," retorted Jerry.

"Deacon Hazard drove past when YOU were praying," said Mary, "and he saw and heard you, with your hands folded over your stomach, and groaning after every sentence. He thought you were making fun of HIM."

"So I was," declared unabashed Jerry. "Only I didn't know he was going by, of course. That was just a mean accident. I wasn't praying in real earnest -- I knew I had no chance of winning the prize. So I was just getting what fun I could out of it. Walter Blythe can pray bully. Why, he can pray as well as dad."

"Una is the only one of US who really likes praying," said Faith pensively.

"Well, if praying scandalizes people so much we mustn't do it any more," sighed Una.

"Shucks, you can pray all you want to, only not in the graveyard -- and don't make a game of it. That was what made it so bad -- that, and having a tea-party on the tombstones."

"We hadn't."

"Well, a soap-bubble party then. You had SOMETHING. The over-harbour people swear you had a tea-party, but I'm willing to take your word. And you used this tombstone as a table."

"Well, Martha wouldn't let us blow bubbles in the house. She was awful cross that day," explained Jerry. "And this old slab made such a jolly table."

"Weren't they pretty?" cried Faith, her eyes sparkling over the remembrance. "They reflected the trees and the hills and the harbour like little fairy worlds, and when we shook them loose they floated away down to Rainbow Valley."

"All but one and it went over and bust up on the Methodist spire," said Carl.

"I'm glad we did it once, anyhow, before we found out it was wrong," said Faith.

"It wouldn't have been wrong to blow them on the lawn," said Mary impatiently. "Seems like I can't knock any sense into your heads. You've been told often enough you shouldn't play in the graveyard. The Methodists are sensitive about it."

"We forget," said Faith dolefully. "And the lawn is so small -- and so caterpillary -- and so full of shrubs and things. We can't be in Rainbow Valley all the time -- and where are we to go?"

"It's the things you DO in the graveyard. It wouldn't matter if you just sat here and talked quiet, same as we're doing now. Well, I don't know what is going to come of it all, but I DO know that Elder Warren is going to speak to your pa about it. Deacon Hazard is his cousin."

"I wish they wouldn't bother father about us," said Una.

"Well, people think he ought to bother himself about you a little more. I don't -- I understand him. He's a child in some ways himself -- that's what he is, and needs some one to look after him as bad as you do. Well, perhaps he'll have some one before long, if all tales is true."

"What do you mean?" asked Faith.

"Haven't you got any idea -- honest?" demanded Mary.

"No, no. What DO you mean?"

"Well, you are a lot of innocents, upon my word. Why, EVERYbody is talking of it. Your pa goes to see Rosemary West. SHE is going to be your step-ma."

"I don't believe it," cried Una, flushing crimson.

"Well, I dunno. I just go by what folks say. I don't give it for a fact. But it would be a good thing. Rosemary West'd make you toe the mark if she came here, I'll bet a cent, for all she's so sweet and smiley on the face of her. They're always that way till they've caught them. But you need some one to bring you up. You're disgracing your pa and I feel for him. I've always thought an awful lot of your pa ever since that night he talked to me so nice. I've never said a single swear word since, or told a lie. And I'd like to see him happy and comfortable, with his buttons on and his meals decent, and you young ones licked into shape, and that old cat of a Martha put in HER proper place. The way she looked at the eggs I brought her to-night. 'I hope they're fresh,' says she. I just wished they WAS rotten. But you just mind that she gives you all one for breakfast, including your pa. Make a fuss if she doesn't. That was what they was sent up for -- but I don't trust old Martha. She's quite capable of feeding 'em to her cat."

Mary's tongue being temporarily tired, a brief silence fell over the graveyard. The manse children did not feel like talking. They were digesting the new and not altogether palatable ideas Mary had suggested to them. Jerry and Carl were somewhat startled. But, after all, what did it matter? And it wasn't likely there was a word of truth in it. Faith, on the whole, was pleased. Only Una was seriously upset. She felt that she would like to get away and cry.

"Will there be any stars in my crown?" sang the Methodist choir, beginning to practise in the Methodist church.

"I want just three," said Mary, whose theological knowledge had increased notably since her residence with Mrs. Elliott. "Just three -- setting up on my head, like a corownet, a big one in the middle and a small one each side."

"Are there different sizes in souls?" asked Carl.

"Of course. Why, little babies must have smaller ones than big men. Well, it's getting dark and I must scoot home. Mrs. Elliott doesn't like me to be out after dark. Laws, when I lived with Mrs. Wiley the dark was just the same as the daylight to me. I didn't mind it no more'n a gray cat. Them days seem a hundred years ago. Now, you mind what I've said and try to behave yourselves, for you pa's sake. I'LL always back you up and defend you -- you can be dead sure of that. Mrs. Elliott says she never saw the like of me for sticking up for my friends. I was real sassy to Mrs. Alec Davis about you and Mrs. Elliott combed me down for it afterwards. The fair Cornelia has a tongue of her own and no mistake. But she was pleased underneath for all, 'cause she hates old Kitty Alec and she's real fond of you. I can see through folks."

Mary sailed off, excellently well pleased with herself, leaving a rather depressed little group behind her.

"Mary Vance always says something that makes us feel bad when she comes up," said Una resentfully.

"I wish we'd left her to starve in the old barn," said Jerry vindictively.

"Oh, that's wicked, Jerry," rebuked Una.

"May as well have the game as the name," retorted unrepentant Jerry. "If people say we're so bad let's BE bad."

"But not if it hurts father," pleaded Faith.

Jerry squirmed uncomfortably. He adored his father. Through the unshaded study window they could see Mr. Meredith at his desk. He did not seem to be either reading or writing. His head was in his hands and there was something in his whole attitude that spoke of weariness and dejection. The children suddenly felt it.

"I dare say somebody's been worrying him about us to-day," said Faith. "I wish we COULD get along without making people talk. Oh -- Jem Blythe! How you scared me!"

Jem Blythe had slipped into the graveyard and sat down beside the girls. He had been prowling about Rainbow Valley and had succeeded in finding the first little star-white cluster of arbutus for his mother. The manse children were rather silent after his coming. Jem was beginning to grow away from them somewhat this spring. He was studying for the entrance examination of Queen's Academy and stayed after school with the older pupils for extra lessons. Also, his evenings were so full of work that he seldom joined the others in Rainbow Valley now. He seemed to be drifting away into grown-up land.

"What is the matter with you all to-night?" he asked. "There's no fun in you."

"Not much," agreed Faith dolefully. "There wouldn't be much fun in you either if YOU knew you were disgracing your father and making people talk about you."

"Who's been talking about you now?"

"Everybody -- so Mary Vance says." And Faith poured out her troubles to sympathetic Jem. "You see," she concluded dolefully, "we've nobody to bring us up. And so we get into scrapes and people think we're bad."

"Why don't you bring yourselves up?" suggested Jem. "I'll tell you what to do. Form a Good-Conduct Club and punish yourselves every time you do anything that's not right."

"That's a good idea," said Faith, struck by it. "But," she added doubtfully, "things that don't seem a bit of harm to US seem simply dreadful to other people. How can we tell? We can't be bothering father all the time -- and he has to be away a lot, anyhow."

"You could mostly tell if you stopped to think a thing over before doing it and ask yourselves what the congregation would say about it," said Jem. "The trouble is you just rush into things and don't think them over at all. Mother says you're all too impulsive, just as she used to be. The Good-Conduct Club would help you to think, if you were fair and honest about punishing yourselves when you broke the rules. You'd have to punish in some way that really HURT, or it wouldn't do any good."

"Whip each other?"

"Not exactly. You'd have to think up different ways of punishment to suit the person. You wouldn't punish each other -- you'd punish YOURSELVES. I read all about such a club in a story-book. You try it and see how it works."

"Let's," said Faith; and when Jem was gone they agreed they would. "If things aren't right we've just got to make them right," said Faith, resolutely.

"We've got to be fair and square, as Jem says," said Jerry. "This is a club to bring ourselves up, seeing there's nobody else to do it. There's no use in having many rules. Let's just have one and any of us that breaks it has got to be punished hard."

"But HOW."

"We'll think that up as we go along. We'll hold a session of the club here in the graveyard every night and talk over what we've done through the day, and if we think we've done anything that isn't right or that would disgrace dad the one that does it, or is responsible for it, must be punished. That's the rule. We'll all decide on the kind of punishment -- it must be made to fit the crime, as Mr. Flagg says. And the one that's, guilty will be bound to carry it out and no shirking. There's going to be fun in this," concluded Jerry, with a relish.

"You suggested the soap-bubble party," said Faith.

"But that was before we'd formed the club," said Jerry hastily. "Everything starts from to-night."

"But what if we can't agree on what's right, or what the punishment ought to be? S'pose two of us thought of one thing and two another. There ought to be five in a club like this."

"We can ask Jem Blythe to be umpire. He is the squarest boy in Glen St. Mary. But I guess we can settle our own affairs mostly. We want to keep this as much of a secret as we can. Don't breathe a word to Mary Vance. She'd want to join and do the bringing up."

"I think," said Faith, "that there's no use in spoiling every day by dragging punishments in. Let's have a punishment day."

"We'd better choose Saturday because there is no school to interfere," suggested Una.

"And spoil the one holiday in the week," cried Faith. "Not much! No, let's take Friday. That's fish day, anyhow, and we all hate fish. We may as well have all the disagreeable things in one day. Then other days we can go ahead and have a good time."

"Nonsense," said Jerry authoritatively. "Such a scheme wouldn't work at all. We'll just punish ourselves as we go along and keep a clear slate. Now, we all understand, don't we? This is a Good-Conduct Club, for the purpose of bringing ourselves up. We agree to punish ourselves for bad conduct, and always to stop before we do anything, no matter what, and ask ourselves if it is likely to hurt dad in any way, and any one who shirks is to be cast out of the club and never allowed to play with the rest of us in Rainbow Valley again. Jem Blythe to be umpire in case of disputes. No more taking bugs to Sunday School, Carl, and no more chewing gum in public, if you please, Miss Faith."

"No more making fun of elders praying or going to the Methodist prayer meeting," retorted Faith.

"Why, it isn't any harm to go to the Methodist prayer meeting," protested Jerry in amazement.

"Mrs. Elliott says it is, She says manse children have no business to go anywhere but to Presbyterian things."

"Darn it, I won't give up going to the Methodist prayer meeting," cried Jerry. "It's ten times more fun than ours is."

"You said a naughty word," cried Faith. "NOW, you've got to punish yourself."

"Not till it's all down in black and white. We're only talking the club over. It isn't really formed until we've written it out and signed it. There's got to be a constitution and by-laws. And you KNOW there's nothing wrong in going to a prayer meeting."

"But it's not only the wrong things we're to punish ourselves for, but anything that might hurt father."

"It won't hurt anybody. You know Mrs. Elliott is cracked on the subject of Methodists. Nobody else makes any fuss about my going. I always behave myself. You ask Jem or Mrs. Blythe and see what they say. I'll abide by their opinion. I'm going for the paper now and I'll bring out the lantern and we'll all sign."

Fifteen minutes later the document was solemnly signed on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone, on the centre of which stood the smoky manse lantern, while the children knelt around it. Mrs. Elder Clow was going past at the moment and next day all the Glen heard that the manse children had been having another praying competition and had wound it up by chasing each other all over the graves with a lantern. This piece of embroidery was probably suggested by the fact that, after the signing and sealing was completed, Carl had taken the lantern and had walked circumspectly to the little hollow to examine his ant-hill. The others had gone quietly into the manse and to bed.

"Do you think it is true that father is going to marry Miss West?" Una had tremulously asked of Faith, after their prayers had been said.

"I don't know, but I'd like it," said Faith.

"Oh, I wouldn't," said Una, chokingly. "She is nice the way she is. But Mary Vance says it changes people ALTOGETHER to be made stepmothers. They get horrid cross and mean and hateful then, and turn your father against you. She says they're sure to do that. She never knew it to fail in a single case."

"I don't believe Miss West would EVER try to do that," cried Faith.

"Mary says ANYBODY would. She knows ALL about stepmothers, Faith -- she says she's seen hundreds of them -- and you've never seen one. Oh, Mary has told me blood-curdling things about them. She says she knew of one who whipped her husband's little girls on their bare shoulders till they bled, and then shut them up in a cold, dark coal cellar all night. She says they're ALL aching to do things like that."

"I don't believe Miss West would. You don't know her as well as I do, Una. Just think of that sweet little bird she sent me. I love it far more even than Adam."

"It's just being a stepmother changes them. Mary says they can't help it. I wouldn't mind the whippings so much as having father hate us."

"You know nothing could make father hate us. Don't be silly, Una. I dare say there's nothing to worry over. Likely if we run our club right and bring ourselves up properly father won't think of marrying any one. And if he does, I KNOW Miss West will be lovely to us."

But Una had no such conviction and she cried herself to sleep.



Chapter XXIV. A Charitable Impulse

For a fortnight things ran smoothly in the Good-Conduct Club. It seemed to work admirably. Not once was Jem Blythe called in as umpire. Not once did any of the manse children set the Glen gossips by the ears. As for their minor peccadilloes at home, they kept sharp tabs on each other and gamely underwent their self-imposed punishment -- generally a voluntary absence from some gay Friday night frolic in Rainbow Valley, or a sojourn in bed on some spring evening when all young bones ached to be out and away. Faith, for whispering in Sunday School, condemned herself to pass a whole day without speaking a single word, unless it was absolutely necessary, and accomplished it. It was rather unfortunate that Mr. Baker from over-harbour should have chosen that evening for calling at the manse, and that Faith should have happened to go to the door. Not one word did she reply to his genial greeting, but went silently away to call her father briefly. Mr. Baker was slightly offended and told his wife when he went home that that the biggest Meredith girl seemed a very shy, sulky little thing, without manners enough to speak when she was spoken to. But nothing worse came of it, and generally their penances did no harm to themselves or anybody else. All of them were beginning to feel quite cocksure that after all, it was a very easy matter to bring yourself up.

"I guess people will soon see that we can behave ourselves properly as well as anybody," said Faith jubilantly. "It isn't hard when we put our minds to it."

She and Una were sitting on the Pollock tombstone. It had been a cold, raw, wet day of spring storm and Rainbow Valley was out of the question for girls, though the manse and the Ingleside boys were down there fishing. The rain had held up, but the east wind blew mercilessly in from the sea, cutting to bone and marrow. Spring was late in spite of its early promise, and there was even yet a hard drift of old snow and ice in the northern corner of the graveyard. Lida Marsh, who had come up to bring the manse a mess of herring, slipped in through the gate shivering. She belonged to the fishing village at the harbour mouth and her father had, for thirty years, made a practice of sending a mess from his first spring catch to the manse. He never darkened a church door; he was a hard drinker and a reckless man, but as long as he sent those herring up to the manse every spring, as his father had done before him, he felt comfortably sure that his account with the Powers That Govern was squared for the year. He would not have expected a good mackerel catch if he had not so sent the first fruits of the season.

Lida was a mite of ten and looked younger, because she was such a small, wizened little creature. To-night, as she sidled boldly enough up to the manse girls, she looked as if she had never been warm since she was born. Her face was purple and her pale-blue, bold little eyes were red and watery. She wore a tattered print dress and a ragged woollen comforter, tied across her thin shoulders and under her arms. She had walked the three miles from the harbour mouth barefooted, over a road where there was still snow and slush and mud. Her feet and legs were as purple as her face. But Lida did not mind this much. She was used to being cold, and she had been going barefooted for a month already, like all the other swarming young fry of the fishing village. There was no self-pity in her heart as she sat down on the tombstone and grinned cheerfully at Faith and Una. Faith and Una grinned cheerfully back. They knew Lida slightly, having met her once or twice the preceding summer when they had gone down the harbour with the Blythes.

"Hello!" said Lida, "ain't this a fierce kind of a night? 'T'ain't fit for a dog to be out, is it?"

"Then why are you out?" asked Faith.

"Pa made me bring you up some herring," returned Lida. She shivered, coughed, and stuck out her bare feet. Lida was not thinking about herself or her feet, and was making no bid for sympathy. She held her feet out instinctively to keep them from the wet grass around the tombstone. But Faith and Una were instantly swamped with a wave of pity for her. She looked so cold -- so miserable.

"Oh, why are you barefooted on such a cold night?" cried Faith. "Your feet must be almost frozen."

"Pretty near," said Lida proudly. "I tell you it was fierce walking up that harbour road."

"Why didn't you put on your shoes and stockings?" asked Una.

"Hain't none to put on. All I had was wore out by the time winter was over," said Lida indifferently.

For a moment Faith stated in horror. This was terrible. Here was a little girl, almost a neighbour, half frozen because she had no shoes or stockings in this cruel spring weather. Impulsive Faith thought of nothing but the dreadfulness of it. In a moment she was pulling off her own shoes and stockings.

"Here, take these and put them right on," she said, forcing them into the hands of the astonished Lida. "Quick now. You'll catch your death of cold. I've got others. Put them right on."

Lida, recovering her wits, snatched at the offered gift, with a sparkle in her dull eyes. Sure she would put them on, and that mighty quick, before any one appeared with authority to recall them. In a minute she had pulled the stockings over her scrawny little legs and slipped Faith's shoes over her thick little ankles.

"I'm obliged to you," she said, "but won't your folks be cross?"

"No -- and I don't care if they are," said Faith. "Do you think I could see any one freezing to death without helping them if I could? It wouldn't be right, especially when my father's a minister."

"Will you want them back? It's awful cold down at the harbour mouth -- long after it's warm up here," said Lida slyly.

"No, you're to keep them, of course. That is what I meant when I gave them. I have another pair of shoes and plenty of stockings."

Lida had meant to stay awhile and talk to the girls about many things. But now she thought she had better get away before somebody came and made her yield up her booty. So she shuffled off through the bitter twilight, in the noiseless, shadowy way she had slipped in. As soon as she was out of sight of the manse she sat down, took off the shoes and stockings, and put them in her herring basket. She had no intention of keeping them on down that dirty harbour road. They were to be kept good for gala occasions. Not another little girl down at the harbour mouth had such fine black cashmere stockings and such smart, almost new shoes. Lida was furnished forth for the summer. She had no qualms in the matter. In her eyes the manse people were quite fabulously rich, and no doubt those girls had slathers of shoes and stockings. Then Lida ran down to the Glen village and played for an hour with the boys before Mr. Flagg's store, splashing about in a pool of slush with the maddest of them, until Mrs. Elliott came along and bade her begone home.

"I don't think, Faith, that you should have done that," said Una, a little reproachfully, after Lida had gone. "You'll have to wear your good boots every day now and they'll soon scuff out."

"I don't care," cried Faith, still in the fine glow of having done a kindness to a fellow creature. "It isn't fair that I should have two pairs of shoes and poor little Lida Marsh not have any. NOW we both have a pair. You know perfectly well, Una, that father said in his sermon last Sunday that there was no real happiness in getting or having -- only in giving. And it's true. I feel FAR happier now than I ever did in my whole life before. Just think of Lida walking home this very minute with her poor little feet all nice and warm and comfy."

"You know you haven't another pair of black cashmere stockings," said Una. "Your other pair were so full of holes that Aunt Martha said she couldn't darn them any more and she cut the legs up for stove dusters. You've nothing but those two pairs of striped stockings you hate so."

All the glow and uplift went out of Faith. Her gladness collapsed like a pricked balloon. She sat for a few dismal minutes in silence, facing the consequences of her rash act.

"Oh, Una, I never thought of that," she said dolefully. "I didn't stop to think at all."

The striped stockings were thick, heavy, coarse, ribbed stockings of blue and red which Aunt Martha had knit for Faith in the winter. They were undoubtedly hideous. Faith loathed them as she had never loathed anything before. Wear them she certainly would not. They were still unworn in her bureau drawer.

"You'll have to wear the striped stockings after this," said Una. "Just think how the boys in school will laugh at you. You know how they laugh at Mamie Warren for her striped stockings and call her barber pole and yours are far worse."

"I won't wear them," said Faith. "I'll go barefooted first, cold as it is."

"You can't go barefooted to church to-morrow. Think what people would say."

"Then I'll stay home."

"You can't. You know very well Aunt Martha will make you go."

Faith did know this. The one thing on which Aunt Martha troubled herself to insist was that they must all go to church, rain or shine. How they were dressed, or if they were dressed at all, never concerned her. But go they must. That was how Aunt Martha had been brought up seventy years ago, and that was how she meant to bring them up.

"Haven't you got a pair you can lend me, Una?" said poor Faith piteously.

Una shook her head. "No, you know I only have the one black pair. And they're so tight I can hardly get them on. They wouldn't go on you. Neither would my gray ones. Besides, the legs of THEM are all darned AND darned."

"I won't wear those striped stockings," said Faith stubbornly. "The feel of them is even worse than the looks. They make me feel as if my legs were as big as barrels and they're so SCRATCHY."

"Well, I don't know what you're going to do."

"If father was home I'd go and ask him to get me a new pair before the store closes. But he won't be home till too late. I'll ask him Monday -- and I won't go to church tomorrow. I'll pretend I'm sick and Aunt Martha'll HAVE to let me stay home."

"That would be acting a lie, Faith," cried Una. "You CAN'T do that. You know it would be dreadful. What would father say if he knew? Don't you remember how he talked to us after mother died and told us we must always be TRUE, no matter what else we failed in. He said we must never tell or act a lie -- he said he'd TRUST us not to. You CAN'T do it, Faith. Just wear the striped stockings. It'll only be for once. Nobody will notice them in church. It isn't like school. And your new brown dress is so long they won't show much. Wasn't it lucky Aunt Martha made it big, so you'd have room to grow in it, for all you hated it so when she finished it?"

"I won't wear those stockings," repeated Faith. She uncoiled her bare, white legs from the tombstone and deliberately walked through the wet, cold grass to the bank of snow. Setting her teeth, she stepped upon it and stood there.

"What are you doing?" cried Una aghast. "You'll catch your death of cold, Faith Meredith."

"I'm trying to," answered Faith. "I hope I'll catch a fearful cold and be AWFUL sick to-morrow. Then I won't be acting a lie. I'm going to stand here as long as I can bear it."

"But, Faith, you might really die. You might get pneumonia. Please, Faith don't. Let's go into the house and get SOMETHING for your feet. Oh, here's Jerry. I'm so thankful. Jerry, MAKE Faith get off that snow. Look at her feet."

"Holy cats! Faith, what ARE you doing?" demanded Jerry. "Are you crazy?"

"No. Go away!" snapped Faith.

"Then are you punishing yourself for something? It isn't right, if you are. You'll be sick."

"I want to be sick. I'm not punishing myself. Go away."

"Where's her shoes and stockings?" asked Jerry of Una.

"She gave them to Lida Marsh."

"Lida Marsh? What for?"

"Because Lida had none -- and her feet were so cold. And now she wants to be sick so that she won't have to go to church to-morrow and wear her striped stockings. But, Jerry, she may die."

"Faith," said Jerry, "get off that ice-bank or I'll pull you off."

"Pull away," dared Faith.

Jerry sprang at her and caught her arms. He pulled one way and Faith pulled another. Una ran behind Faith and pushed. Faith stormed at Jerry to leave her alone. Jerry stormed back at her not to be a dizzy idiot; and Una cried. They made no end of noise and they were close to the road fence of the graveyard. Henry Warren and his wife drove by and heard and saw them. Very soon the Glen heard that the manse children had been having an awful fight in the graveyard and using most improper language. Meanwhile, Faith had allowed herself to be pulled off the ice because her feet were aching so sharply that she was ready to get off any way. They all went in amiably and went to bed. Faith slept like a cherub and woke in the morning without a trace of a cold. She felt that she couldn't feign sickness and act a lie, after remembering that long-ago talk with her father. But she was still as fully determined as ever that she would not wear those abominable stockings to church.



Chapter XXV. Another Scandal And Another "Explanation"

Faith went early to Sunday School and was seated in the corner of her class pew before any one came. Therefore, the dreadful truth did not burst upon any one until Faith left the class pew near the door to walk up to the manse pew after Sunday School. The church was already half filled and all who were sitting near the aisle saw that the minister's daughter had boots on but no stockings!

Faith's new brown dress, which Aunt Martha had made from an ancient pattern, was absurdly long for her, but even so it did not meet her boot-tops. Two good inches of bare white leg showed plainly.

Faith and Carl sat alone in the manse pew. Jerry had gone into the gallery to sit with a chum and the Blythe girls had taken Una with them. The Meredith children were given to "sitting all over the church" in this fashion and a great many people thought it very improper. The gallery especially, where irresponsible lads congregated and were known to whisper and suspected of chewing tobacco during service, was no place, for a son of the manse. But Jerry hated the manse pew at the very top of the church, under the eyes of Elder Clow and his family. He escaped from it whenever he could.

Carl, absorbed in watching a spider spinning its web at the window, did not notice Faith's legs. She walked home with her father after church and he never noticed them. She got on the hated striped stockings before Jerry and Una arrived, so that for the time being none of the occupants of the manse knew what she had done. But nobody else in Glen St. Mary was ignorant of it. The few who had not seen soon heard. Nothing else was talked of on the way home from church. Mrs. Alec Davis said it was only what she expected, and the next thing you would see some of those young ones coming to church with no clothes on at all. The president of the Ladies' Aid decided that she would bring the matter up at the next Aid meeting, and suggest that they wait in a body on the minister and protest. Miss Cornelia said that she, for her part, gave up. There was no use worrying over the manse fry any longer. Even Mrs. Dr. Blythe felt a little shocked, though she attributed the occurrence solely to Faith's forgetfulness. Susan could not immediately begin knitting stockings for Faith because it was Sunday, but she had one set up before any one else was out of bed at Ingleside the next morning.

"You need not tell me anything but that it was old Martha's fault, Mrs. Dr. dear." she told Anne. "I suppose that poor little child had no decent stockings to wear. I suppose every stocking she had was in holes, as you know very well they generally are. And I think, Mrs. Dr. dear, that the Ladies' Aid would be better employed in knitting some for them than in fighting over the new carpet for the pulpit platform. I am not a Ladies' Aider, but I shall knit Faith two pairs of stockings, out of this nice black yarn, as fast as my fingers can move and that you may tie to. Never shall I forget my sensations, Mrs. Dr. dear, when I saw a minister's child walking up the aisle of our church with no stockings on. I really did not know what way to look."

"And the church was just full of Methodists yesterday, too," groaned Miss Cornelia, who had come up to the Glen to do some shopping and run into Ingleside to talk the affair over. "I don't know how it is, but just as sure as those manse children do something especially awful the church is sure to be crowded with Methodists. I thought Mrs. Deacon Hazard's eyes would drop out of her head. When she came out of church she said, 'Well, that exhibition was no more than decent. I do pity the Presbyterians.' And we just had to TAKE it. There was nothing one could say."

"There was something I could have said, Mrs. Dr. dear, if I had heard her," said Susan grimly. "I would have said, for one thing, that in my opinion clean bare legs were quite as decent as holes. And I would have said, for another, that the Presbyterians did not feel greatly in need of pity seeing that they had a minister who could PREACH and the Methodists had NOT. I could have squelched Mrs. Deacon Hazard, Mrs. Dr dear, and that you may tie to."

"I wish Mr. Meredith didn't preach quite so well and looked after his family a little better," retorted Miss Cornelia. "He could at least glance over his children before they went to church and see that they were quite properly clothed. I'm tired making excuses for him, believe ME."

Meanwhile, Faith's soul was being harrowed up in Rainbow Valley. Mary Vance was there and, as usual, in a lecturing mood. She gave Faith to understand that she had disgraced herself and her father beyond redemption and that she, Mary Vance, was done with her. "Everybody" was talking, and "everybody" said the same thing.

"I simply feel that I can't associate with you any longer," she concluded.

"WE are going to associate with her then," cried Nan Blythe. Nan secretly thought Faith HAD done a awful thing, but she wasn't going to let Mary Vance run matters in this high-handed fashion. "And if YOU are not you needn't come any more to Rainbow Valley, MISS Vance."

Nan and Di both put their arms around Faith and glared defiance at Mary. The latter suddenly crumpled up, sat down on a stump and began to cry.

"It ain't that I don't want to," she wailed. "But if I keep in with Faith people'll be saying I put her up to doing things. Some are saying it now, true's you live. I can't afford to have such things said of me, now that I'm in a respectable place and trying to be a lady. And I never went bare-legged in church in my toughest days. I'd never have thought of doing such a thing. But that hateful old Kitty Alec says Faith has never been the same girl since that time I stayed in the manse. She says Cornelia Elliott will live to rue the day she took me in. It hurts my feelings, I tell you. But it's Mr. Meredith I'm really worried over."

"I think you needn't worry about him," said Di scornfully. "It isn't likely necessary. Now, Faith darling, stop crying and tell us why you did it."

Faith explained tearfully. The Blythe girls sympathized with her, and even Mary Vance agreed that it was a hard position to be in. But Jerry, on whom the thing came like a thunderbolt, refused to be placated. So THIS was what some mysterious hints he had got in school that day meant! He marched Faith and Una home without ceremony, and the Good-Conduct Club held an immediate session in the graveyard to sit in judgment on Faith's case.

"I don't see that it was any harm," said Faith defiantly. "Not MUCH of my legs showed. It wasn't WRONG and it didn't hurt anybody."

"It will hurt Dad. You KNOW it will. You know people blame him whenever we do anything queer."

"I didn't think of that," muttered Faith.

"That's just the trouble. You didn't think and you SHOULD have thought. That's what our Club is for -- to bring us up and MAKE us think. We promised we'd always stop and think before doing things. You didn't and you've got to be punished, Faith -- and real hard, too. You'll wear those striped stockings to school for a week for punishment."

"Oh, Jerry, won't a day do -- two days? Not a whole week!"

"Yes, a whole week," said inexorable Jerry. "It is fair -- ask Jem Blythe if it isn't."

Faith felt she would rather submit then ask Jem Blythe about such a matter. She was beginning to realize that her offence was a quite shameful one.

"I'll do it, then," she muttered, a little sulkily.

"You're getting off easy," said, Jerry severely. "And no matter how we punish you it won't help father. People will always think you just did it for mischief, and they'll blame father for not stopping it. We can never explain it to everybody."

This aspect of the case weighed on Faith's mind. Her own condemnation she could bear, but it tortured her that her father should be blamed. If people knew the true facts of the case they would not blame him. But how could she make them known to all the world? Getting up in church, as she had once done, and explaining the matter was out of the question. Faith had heard from Mary Vance how the congregation had looked upon that performance and realized that she must not repeat it. Faith worried over the problem for half a week. Then she had an inspiration and promptly acted upon it. She spent that evening in the garret, with a lamp and an exercise book, writing busily, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. It was the very thing! How clever she was to have thought of it! It would put everything right and explain everything and yet cause no scandal. It was eleven o'clock when she had finished to her satisfaction and crept down to bed, dreadfully tired, but perfectly happy.

In a few days the little weekly published in the Glen under the name of The Journal came out as usual, and the Glen had another sensation. A letter signed "Faith Meredith" occupied a prominent place on the front page and ran as follows: -- 

"To Whom It May Concern:

"I want to explain to everybody how it was I came to go to church without stockings on, so that everybody will know that father was not to blame one bit for it, and the old gossips need not say he is, because it is not true. I gave my only pair of black stockings to Lida Marsh, because she hadn't any and her poor little feet were awful cold and I was so sorry for her. No child ought to have to go without shoes and stockings in a Christian community before the snow is all gone, and I think the W. F. M. S. ought to have given her stockings. Of course, I know they are sending things to the little heathen children, and that is all right and a kind thing to do. But the little heathen children have lots more warm weather than we have, and I think the women of our church ought to look after Lida and not leave it all to me. When I gave her my stockings I forgot they were the only black pair I had without holes, but I am glad I did give them to her, because my conscience would have been uncomfortable if I hadn't. When she had gone away, looking so proud and happy, the poor little thing, I remembered that all I had to wear were the horrid red and blue things Aunt Martha knit last winter for me out of some yarn that Mrs. Joseph Burr of Upper Glen sent us. It was dreadfully coarse yarn and all knots, and I never saw any of Mrs. Burr's own children wearing things made of such yarn. But Mary Vance says Mrs. Burr gives the minister stuff that she can't use or eat herself, and thinks it ought to go as part of the salary her husband signed to pay, but never does.

"I just couldn't bear to wear those hateful stockings. They were so ugly and rough and felt so scratchy. Everybody would have made fun of me. I thought at first I'd pretend to be sick and not go to church next day, but I decided I couldn't do that, because it would be acting a lie, and father told us after mother died that was something we must never, never do. It is just as bad to act a lie as to tell one, though I know some people, right here in the Glen, who act them, and never seem to feel a bit bad about it. I will not mention any names, but I know who they are and so does father.

"Then I tried my best to catch cold and really be sick by standing on the snowbank in the Methodist graveyard with my bare feet until Jerry pulled me off. But it didn't hurt me a bit and so I couldn't get out of going to church. So I just decided I would put my boots on and go that way. I can't see why it was so wrong and I was so careful to wash my legs just as clean as my face, but, anyway, father wasn't to blame for it. He was in the study thinking of his sermon and other heavenly things, and I kept out of his way before I went to Sunday School. Father does not look at people's legs in church, so of course he did not notice mine, but all the gossips did and talked about it, and that is why I am writing this letter to the Journal to explain. I suppose I did very wrong, since everybody says so, and I am sorry and I am wearing those awful stockings to punish myself, although father bought me two nice new black pairs as soon as Mr. Flagg's store opened on Monday morning. But it was all my fault, and if people blame father for it after they read this they are not Christians and so I do not mind what they say.

"There is another thing I want to explain about before I stop. Mary Vance told me that Mr. Evan Boyd is blaming the Lew Baxters for stealing potatoes out of his field last fall. They did not touch his potatoes. They are very poor, but they are honest. It was us did it -- Jerry and Carl and I. Una was not with us at the time. We never thought it was stealing. We just wanted a few potatoes to cook over a fire in Rainbow Valley one evening to eat with our fried trout. Mr. Boyd's field was the nearest, just between the valley and the village, so we climbed over his fence and pulled up some stalks. The potatoes were awful small, because Mr. Boyd did not put enough fertilizer on them and we had to pull up a lot of stalks before we got enough, and then they were not much bigger than marbles. Walter and Di Blythe helped us eat them, but they did not come along until we had them cooked and did not know where we got them, so they were not to blame at all, only us. We didn't mean any harm, but if it was stealing we are very sorry and we will pay Mr. Boyd for them if he will wait until we grow up. We never have any money now because we are not big enough to earn any, and Aunt Martha says it takes every cent of poor father's salary, even when it is paid up regularly -- and it isn't often -- to run this house. But Mr. Boyd must not blame the Lew Baxters any more, when they were quite innocent, and give them a bad name.

"Yours respectfully,

"Faith Meredith."



Chapter XXVI. Miss Cornelia Gets A New Point Of View

"Susan, after I'm dead I'm going to come back to earth every time when the daffodils blow in this garden," said Anne rapturously. "Nobody may see me, but I'll be here. If anybody is in the garden at the time -- I THINK I'll come on an evening just like this, but it MIGHT be just at dawn -- a lovely, pale-pinky spring dawn -- they'll just see the daffodils nodding wildly as if an extra gust of wind had blown past them, but it will be I."

"Indeed, Mrs. Dr. dear, you will not be thinking of flaunting worldly things like daffies after you are dead," said Susan. "And I do NOT believe in ghosts, seen or unseen."

"Oh, Susan, I shall not be a ghost! That has such a horrible sound. I shall just be ME. And I shall run around in the twilight, whether it is morn or eve, and see all the spots I love. Do you remember how badly I felt when I left our little House of Dreams, Susan? I thought I could never love Ingleside so well. But I do. I love every inch of the ground and every stick and stone on it."

"I am rather fond of the place myself," said Susan, who would have died if she had been removed from it, "but we must not set our affections too much on earthly things, Mrs. Dr. dear. There are such things as fires and earthquakes. We should always be prepared. The Tom MacAllisters over-harbour were burned out three nights ago. Some say Tom MacAllister set the house on fire himself to get the insurance. That may or may not be. But I advise the doctor to have our chimneys seen to at once. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. But I see Mrs. Marshall Elliott coming in at the gate, looking as if she had been sent for and couldn't go."

"Anne dearie, have you seen the Journal to-day?"

Miss Cornelia's voice was trembling, partly from emotion, partly from the fact that she had hurried up from the store too fast and lost her breath.

Anne bent over the daffodils to hide a smile. She and Gilbert had laughed heartily and heartlessly over the front page of the Journal that day, but she knew that to dear Miss Cornelia it was almost a tragedy, and she must not wound her feelings by any display of levity.

"Isn't it dreadful? What IS to be done?" asked Miss Cornelia despairingly. Miss Cornelia had vowed that she was done with worrying over the pranks of the manse children, but she went on worrying just the same.

Anne led the way to the veranda, where Susan was knitting, with Shirley and Rilla conning their primers on either side. Susan was already on her second pair of stockings for Faith. Susan never worried over poor humanity. She did what in her lay for its betterment and serenely left the rest to the Higher Powers.

"Cornelia Elliott thinks she was born to run this world, Mrs. Dr. dear," she had once said to Anne, "and so she is always in a stew over something. I have never thought I was, and so I go calmly along. Not but what it has sometimes occurred to me that things might be run a little better than they are. But it is not for us poor worms to nourish such thoughts. They only make us uncomfortable and do not get us anywhere."

"I don't see that anything can be done -- now -- " said Anne, pulling out a nice, cushiony chair for Miss Cornelia. "But how in the world did Mr. Vickers allow that letter to be printed? Surely he should have known better."

"Why, he's away, Anne dearie -- he's been away to New Brunswick for a week. And that young scalawag of a Joe Vickers is editing the Journal in his absence. Of course, Mr. Vickers would never have put it in, even if he is a Methodist, but Joe would just think it a good joke. As you say, I don't suppose there is anything to be done now, only live it down. But if I ever get Joe Vickers cornered somewhere I'll give him a talking to he won't forget in a hurry. I wanted Marshall to stop our subscription to the Journal instantly, but he only laughed and said that to-day's issue was the only one that had had anything readable in it for a year. Marshall never will take anything seriously -- just like a man. Fortunately, Evan Boyd is like that, too. He takes it as a joke and is laughing all over the place about it. And he's another Methodist! As for Mrs. Burr of Upper Glen, of course she will be furious and they will leave the church. Not that it will be a great loss from any point of view. The Methodists are quite welcome to THEM."

"It serves Mrs. Burr right," said Susan, who had an old feud with the lady in question and had been hugely tickled over the reference to her in Faith's letter. "She will find that she will not be able to cheat the Methodist parson out of HIS salary with bad yarn."

"The worst of it is, there's not much hope of things getting any better," said Miss Cornelia gloomily. "As long as Mr. Meredith was going to see Rosemary West I did hope the manse would soon have a proper mistress. But that is all off. I suppose she wouldn't have him on account of the children -- at least, everybody seems to think so."

"I do not believe that he ever asked her," said Susan, who could not conceive of any one refusing a minister.

"Well, nobody knows anything about THAT. But one thing is certain, he doesn't go there any longer. And Rosemary didn't look well all the spring. I hope her visit to Kingsport will do her good. She's been gone for a month and will stay another month, I understand. I can't remember when Rosemary was away from home before. She and Ellen could never bear to be parted. But I understand Ellen insisted on her going this time. And meanwhile Ellen and Norman Douglas are warming up the old soup."

"Is that really so?" asked Anne, laughing. "I heard a rumour of it, but I hardly believed it."

"Believe it! You may believe it all right, Anne, dearie. Nobody is in ignorance of it. Norman Douglas never left anybody in doubt as to his intentions in regard to anything. He always did his courting before the public. He told Marshall that he hadn't thought about Ellen for years, but the first time he went to church last fall he saw her and fell in love with her all over again. He said he'd clean forgot how handsome she was. He hadn't seen her for twenty years, if you can believe it. Of course he never went to church, and Ellen never went anywhere else round here. Oh, we all know what Norman means, but what Ellen means is a different matter. I shan't take it upon me to predict whether it will be a match or not."

"He jilted her once -- but it seems that does not count with some people, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan remarked rather acidly.

"He jilted her in a fit of temper and repented it all his life," said Miss Cornelia. "That is different from a cold-blooded jilting. For my part, I never detested Norman as some folks do. He could never over-crow ME. I DO wonder what started him coming to church. I have never been able to believe Mrs. Wilsons's story that Faith Meredith went there and bullied him into it. I've always intended to ask Faith herself, but I've never happened to think of it just when I saw her. What influence could SHE have over Norman Douglas? He was in the store when I left, bellowing with laughter over that scandalous letter. You could have heard him at Four Winds Point. 'The greatest girl in the world,' he was shouting. 'She's that full of spunk she's bursting with it. And all the old grannies want to tame her, darn them. But they'll never be able to do it -- never! They might as well try to drown a fish. Boyd, see that you put more fertilizer on your potatoes next year. Ho, ho, ho!' And then he laughed till the roof shook."

"Mr. Douglas pays well to the salary, at least," remarked Susan.

"Oh, Norman isn't mean in some ways. He'd give a thousand without blinking a lash, and roar like a Bull of Bashan if he had to pay five cents too much for anything. Besides, he likes Mr. Meredith's sermons, and Norman Douglas was always willing to shell out if he got his brains tickled up. There is no more Christianity about him than there is about a black, naked heathen in Africa and never will be. But he's clever and well read and he judges sermons as he would lectures. Anyhow, it's well he backs up Mr. Meredith and the children as he does, for they'll need friends more than ever after this. I am tired of making excuses for them, believe ME."

"Do you know, dear Miss Cornelia," said Anne seriously, "I think we have all been making too many excuses. It is very foolish and we ought to stop it. I am going to tell you what I'd LIKE to do. I shan't do it, of course" -- Anne had noted a glint of alarm in Susan's eye -- "it would be too unconventional, and we must be conventional or die, after we reach what is supposed to be a dignified age. But I'd LIKE to do it. I'd like to call a meeting of the Ladies Aid and W.M.S. and the Girls Sewing Society, and include in the audience all and any Methodists who have been criticizing the Merediths -- although I do think if we Presbyterians stopped criticizing and excusing we would find that other denominations would trouble themselves very little about our manse folks. I would say to them, 'Dear Christian friends' -- with marked emphasis on 'Christian' -- I have something to say to you and I want to say it good and hard, that you may take it home and repeat it to your families. You Methodists need not pity us, and we Presbyterians need not pity ourselves. We are not going to do it any more. And we are going to say, boldly and truthfully, to all critics and sympathizers, 'We are PROUD of our minister and his family. Mr. Meredith is the best preacher Glen St. Mary church ever had. Moreover, he is a sincere, earnest teacher of truth and Christian charity. He is a faithful friend, a judicious pastor in all essentials, and a refined, scholarly, well-bred man. His family are worthy of him. Gerald Meredith is the cleverest pupil in the Glen school, and Mr. Hazard says that he is destined to a brilliant career. He is a manly, honourable, truthful little fellow. Faith Meredith is a beauty, and as inspiring and original as she is beautiful. There is nothing commonplace about her. All the other girls in the Glen put together haven't the vim, and wit, and joyousness and 'spunk' she has. She has not an enemy in the world. Every one who knows her loves her. Of how many, children or grown-ups, can that be said? Una Meredith is sweetness personified. She will make a most lovable woman. Carl Meredith, with his love for ants and frogs and spiders, will some day be a naturalist whom all Canada -- nay, all the world, will delight to honour. Do you know of any other family in the Glen, or out of it, of whom all these things can be said? Away with shamefaced excuses and apologies. We REJOICE in our minister and his splendid boys and girls!"

Anne stopped, partly because she was out of breath after her vehement speech and partly because she could not trust herself to speak further in view of Miss Cornelia's face. That good lady was staring helplessly at Anne, apparently engulfed in billows of new ideas. But she came up with a gasp and struck out for shore gallantly.

"Anne Blythe, I wish you WOULD call that meeting and say just that! You've made me ashamed of myself, for one, and far be it from me to refuse to admit it. OF COURSE, that is how we should have talked -- especially to the Methodists. And it's every word of it true -- every word. We've just been shutting our eyes to the big worth-while things and squinting them on the little things that don't really matter a pin's worth. Oh, Anne dearie, I can see a thing when it's hammered into my head. No more apologizing for Cornelia Marshall! I shall hold MY head up after this, believe ME -- though I MAY talk things over with you as usual just to relieve my feelings if the Merediths do any more startling stunts. Even that letter I felt so bad about -- why, it's only a good joke after all, as Norman says. Not many girls would have been cute enough to think of writing it -- and all punctuated so nicely and not one word misspelled. Just let me hear any Methodist say one word about it -- though all the same I'll never forgive Joe Vickers -- believe ME! Where are the rest of your small fry to-night?"

"Walter and the twins are in Rainbow Valley. Jem is studying in the garret."

"They are all crazy about Rainbow Valley. Mary Vance thinks it's the only place in the world. She'd be off up here every evening if I'd let her. But I don't encourage her in gadding. Besides, I miss the creature when she isn't around, Anne dearie. I never thought I'd get so fond of her. Not but what I see her faults and try to correct them. But she has never said one saucy word to me since she came to my house and she is a GREAT help -- for when all is said and done, Anne dearie, I am not so young as I once was, and there is no sense denying it. I was fifty-nine my last birthday. I don't FEEL it, but there is no gainsaying the Family Bible."



Chapter XXVII. A Sacred Concert

In spite of Miss Cornelia's new point of view she could not help feeling a little disturbed over the next performance of the manse children. In public she carried off the situation splendidly, saying to all the gossips the substance of what Anne had said in daffodil time, and saying it so pointedly and forcibly that her hearers found themselves feeling rather foolish and began to think that, after all, they were making too much of a childish prank. But in private Miss Cornelia allowed herself the relief of bemoaning it to Anne.

"Anne dearie, they had a CONCERT IN THE GRAVEYARD last Thursday evening, while the Methodist prayer meeting was going on. There they sat, on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone, and sang for a solid hour. Of course, I understand it was mostly hymns they sang, and it wouldn't have been quite so bad if they'd done nothing else. But I'm told they finished up with Polly Wolly Doodle at full length -- and that just when Deacon Baxter was praying."

"I was there that night," said Susan, "and, although I did not say anything about it to you, Mrs. Dr. dear, I could not help thinking that it was a great pity they picked that particular evening. It was truly blood-curdling to hear them sitting there in that abode of the dead, shouting that frivolous song at the tops of their lungs."

"I don't know what YOU were doing in a Methodist prayer meeting," said Miss Cornelia acidly.

"I have never found that Methodism was catching," retorted Susan stiffly. "And, as I was going to say when I was interrupted, badly as I felt, I did NOT give in to the Methodists. When Mrs. Deacon Baxter said, as we came out, 'What a disgraceful exhibition!' I said, looking her fairly in the eye, 'They are all beautiful singers, and none of YOUR choir, Mrs. Baxter, ever bother themselves coming out to your prayer meeting, it seems. Their voices appear to be in tune only on Sundays!' She was quite meek and I felt that I had snubbed her properly. But I could have done it much more thoroughly, Mrs. Dr. dear, if only they had left out Polly Wolly Doodle. It is truly terrible to think of that being sung in a graveyard."

"Some of those dead folks sang Polly Wolly Doodle when they were living, Susan. Perhaps they like to hear it yet," suggested Gilbert.

Miss Cornelia looked at him reproachfully and made up her mind that, on some future occasion, she would hint to Anne that the doctor should be admonished not to say such things. They might injure his practice. People might get it into their heads that he wasn't orthodox. To be sure, Marshall said even worse things habitually, but then HE was not a public man.

"I understand that their father was in his study all the time, with his windows open, but never noticed them at all. Of course, he was lost in a book as usual. But I spoke to him about it yesterday, when he called."

"How could you dare, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?" asked Susan rebukingly.

"Dare! It's time somebody dared something. Why, they say he knows nothing about that letter of Faith's to the JOURNAL because nobody liked to mention it to him. He never looks at a JOURNAL of course. But I thought he ought to know of this to prevent any such performances in future. He said he would 'discuss it with them.' But of course he'd never think of it again after he got out of our gate. That man has no sense of humour, Anne, believe ME. He preached last Sunday on 'How to Bring up Children.' A beautiful sermon it was, too -- and everybody in church thinking 'what a pity you can't practise what you preach.'"

Miss Cornelia did Mr. Meredith an injustice in thinking he would soon forget what she had told him. He went home much disturbed and when the children came from Rainbow Valley that night, at a much later hour than they should have been prowling in it, he called them into his study.

They went in, somewhat awed. It was such an unusual thing for their father to do. What could he be going to say to them? They racked their memories for any recent transgression of sufficient importance, but could not recall any. Carl had spilled a saucerful of jam on Mrs. Peter Flagg's silk dress two evenings before, when, at Aunt Martha's invitation, she had stayed to supper. But Mr. Meredith had not noticed it, and Mrs. Flagg, who was a kindly soul, had made no fuss. Besides, Carl had been punished by having to wear Una's dress all the rest of the evening.

Una suddenly thought that perhaps her father meant to tell them that he was going to marry Miss West. Her heart began to beat violently and her legs trembled. Then she saw that Mr. Meredith looked very stern and sorrowful. No, it could not be that.

"Children," said Mr. Meredith, "I have heard something that has pained me very much. Is it true that you sat out in the graveyard all last Thursday evening and sang ribald songs while a prayer meeting was being held in the Methodist church?"

"Great Caesar, Dad, we forgot all about it being their prayer meeting night," exclaimed Jerry in dismay.

"Then it is true -- you did do this thing?"

"Why, Dad, I don't know what you mean by ribald songs. We sang hymns -- it was a sacred concert, you know. What harm was that? I tell you we never thought about it's being Methodist prayer meeting night. They used to have their meeting Tuesday nights and since they've changed to Thursdays it's hard to remember."

"Did you sing nothing but hymns?"

"Why," said Jerry, turning red, "we DID sing Polly Wolly Doodle at the last. Faith said, 'Let's have something cheerful to wind up with.' But we didn't mean any harm, Father -- truly we didn't."

"The concert was my idea, Father," said Faith, afraid that Mr. Meredith might blame Jerry too much. "You know the Methodists themselves had a sacred concert in their church three Sunday nights ago. I thought it would be good fun to get one up in imitation of it. Only they had prayers at theirs, and we left that part out, because we heard that people thought it awful for us to pray in a graveyard. YOU were sitting in here all the time," she added, "and never said a word to us."

"I did not notice what you were doing. That is no excuse for me, of course. I am more to blame than you -- I realize that. But why did you sing that foolish song at the end?"

"We didn't think," muttered Jerry, feeling that it was a very lame excuse, seeing that he had lectured Faith so strongly in the Good-Conduct Club sessions for her lack of thought. "We're sorry, Father -- truly, we are. Pitch into us hard -- we deserve a regular combing down."

But Mr. Meredith did no combing down or pitching into. He sat down and gathered his small culprits close to him and talked a little to them, tenderly and wisely. They were overcome with remorse and shame, and felt that they could never be so silly and thoughtless again.

"We've just got to punish ourselves good and hard for this," whispered Jerry as they crept upstairs. "We'll have a session of the Club first thing tomorrow and decide how we'll do it. I never saw father so cut up. But I wish to goodness the Methodists would stick to one night for their prayer meeting and not wander all over the week."

"Anyhow, I'm glad it wasn't what I was afraid it was," murmured Una to herself.

Behind them, in the study, Mr. Meredith had sat down at his desk and buried his face in his arms.

"God help me!" he said. "I'm a poor sort of father. Oh, Rosemary! If you had only cared!"



Chapter XXVIII. A Fast Day

The Good-Conduct Club had a special session the next morning before school. After various suggestions, it was decided that a fast day would be an appropriate punishment.

"We won't eat a single thing for a whole day," said Jerry. "I'm kind of curious to see what fasting is like, anyhow. This will be a good chance to find out."

"What day will we choose for it?" asked Una, who thought it would be quite an easy punishment and rather wondered that Jerry and Faith had not devised something harder.

"Let's pick Monday," said Faith. "We mostly have a pretty FILLING dinner on Sundays, and Mondays meals never amount to much anyhow."

"But that's just the point," exclaimed Jerry. "We mustn't take the easiest day to fast, but the hardest -- and that's Sunday, because, as you say, we mostly have roast beef that day instead of cold ditto. It wouldn't be much punishment to fast from ditto. Let's take next Sunday. It will be a good day, for father is going to exchange for the morning service with the Upper Lowbridge minister. Father will be away till evening. If Aunt Martha wonders what's got into us, we'll tell her right up that we're fasting for the good of our souls, and it is in the Bible and she is not to interfere, and I guess she won't."

Aunt Martha did not. She merely said in her fretful mumbling way, "What foolishness are you young rips up to now?" and thought no more about it. Mr. Meredith had gone away early in the morning before any one was up. He went without his breakfast, too, but that was, of course, of common occurrence. Half of the time he forgot it and there was no one to remind him of it. Breakfast -- Aunt Martha's breakfast -- was not a hard meal to miss. Even the hungry "young rips" did not feel it any great deprivation to abstain from the "lumpy porridge and blue milk" which had aroused the scorn of Mary Vance. But it was different at dinner time. They were furiously hungry then, and the odor of roast beef which pervaded the manse, and which was wholly delightful in spite of the fact that the roast beef was badly underdone, was almost more than they could stand. In desperation they rushed to the graveyard where they couldn't smell it. But Una could not keep her eyes from the dining room window, through which the Upper Lowbridge minister could be seen, placidly eating.

"If I could only have just a weeny, teeny piece," she sighed.

"Now, you stop that," commanded Jerry. "Of course it's hard -- but that's the punishment of it. I could eat a graven image this very minute, but am I complaining? Let's think of something else. We've just got to rise above our stomachs."

At supper time they did not feel the pangs of hunger which they had suffered earlier in the day.

"I suppose we're getting used to it," said Faith. "I feel an awfully queer all-gone sort of feeling, but I can't say I'm hungry."

"My head is funny," said Una. "It goes round and round sometimes."

But she went gamely to church with the others. If Mr. Meredith had not been so wholly wrapped up in and carried away with his subject he might have noticed the pale little face and hollow eyes in the manse pew beneath. But he noticed nothing and his sermon was something longer than usual. Then, just before he gave out the final hymn, Una Meredith tumbled off the seat of the manse pew and lay in a dead faint on the floor.

Mrs. Elder Clow was the first to reach her. She caught the thin little body from the arms of white-faced, terrified Faith and carried it into the vestry. Mr. Meredith forgot the hymn and everything else and rushed madly after her. The congregation dismissed itself as best it could.

"Oh, Mrs. Clow," gasped Faith, "is Una dead? Have we killed her?"

"What is the matter with my child?" demanded the pale father.

"She has just fainted, I think," said Mrs. Clow. "Oh, here's the doctor, thank goodness."

Gilbert did not find it a very easy thing to bring Una back to consciousness. He worked over her for a long time before her eyes opened. Then he carried her over to the manse, followed by Faith, sobbing hysterically in her relief.

"She is just hungry, you know -- she didn't eat a thing to-day -- none of us did -- we were all fasting."

"Fasting!" said Mr. Meredith, and "Fasting?" said the doctor.

"Yes -- to punish ourselves for singing Polly Wolly in the graveyard," said Faith.

"My child, I don't want you to punish yourselves for that," said Mr. Meredith in distress. "I gave you your little scolding -- and you were all penitent -- and I forgave you."

"Yes, but we had to be punished," explained Faith. "It's our rule -- in our Good-Conduct Club, you know -- if we do anything wrong, or anything that is likely to hurt father in the congregation, we HAVE to punish ourselves. We are bringing ourselves up, you know, because there is nobody to do it."

Mr. Meredith groaned, but the doctor got up from Una's side with an air of relief.

"Then this child simply fainted from lack of food and all she needs is a good square meal," he said. "Mrs. Clow, will you be kind enough to see she gets it? And I think from Faith's story that they all would be the better for something to eat, or we shall have more faintings."

"I suppose we shouldn't have made Una fast," said Faith remorsefully. "When I think of it, only Jerry and I should have been punished. WE got up the concert and we were the oldest."

"I sang Polly Wolly just the same as the rest of you," said Una's weak little voice, "so I had to be punished, too."

Mrs. Clow came with a glass of milk, Faith and Jerry and Carl sneaked off to the pantry, and John Meredith went into his study, where he sat in the darkness for a long time, alone with his bitter thoughts. So his children were bringing themselves up because there was "nobody to do it" -- struggling along amid their little perplexities without a hand to guide or a voice to counsel. Faith's innocently uttered phrase rankled in her father's mind like a barbed shaft. There was "nobody" to look after them -- to comfort their little souls and care for their little bodies. How frail Una had looked, lying there on the vestry sofa in that long faint! How thin were her tiny hands, how pallid her little face! She looked as if she might slip away from him in a breath -- sweet little Una, of whom Cecilia had begged him to take such special care. Since his wife's death he had not felt such an agony of dread as when he had hung over his little girl in her unconsciousness. He must do something -- but what? Should he ask Elizabeth Kirk to marry him? She was a good woman -- she would be kind to his children. He might bring himself to do it if it were not for his love for Rosemary West. But until he had crushed that out he could not seek another woman in marriage. And he could not crush it out -- he had tried and he could not. Rosemary had been in church that evening, for the first time since her return from Kingsport. He had caught a glimpse of her face in the back of the crowded church, just as he had finished his sermon. His heart had given a fierce throb. He sat while the choir sang the "collection piece," with his bent head and tingling pulses. He had not seen her since the evening upon which he had asked her to marry him. When he had risen to give out the hymn his hands were trembling and his pale face was flushed. Then Una's fainting spell had banished everything from his mind for a time. Now, in the darkness and solitude of the study it rushed back. Rosemary was the only woman in the world for him. It was of no use for him to think of marrying any other. He could not commit such a sacrilege even for his children's sake. He must take up his burden alone -- he must try to be a better, a more watchful father -- he must tell his children not to be afraid to come to him with all their little problems. Then he lighted his lamp and took up a bulky new book which was setting the theological world by the ears. He would read just one chapter to compose his mind. Five minutes later he was lost to the world and the troubles of the world.



Chapter XXIX. A Weird Tale

On an early June evening Rainbow Valley was an entirely delightful place and the children felt it to be so, as they sat in the open glade where the bells rang elfishly on the Tree Lovers, and the White Lady shook her green tresses. The wind was laughing and whistling about them like a leal, glad-hearted comrade. The young ferns were spicy in the hollow. The wild cherry trees scattered over the valley, among the dark firs, were mistily white. The robins were whistling over in the maples behind Ingleside. Beyond, on the slopes of the Glen, were blossoming orchards, sweet and mystic and wonderful, veiled in dusk. It was spring, and young things MUST be glad in spring. Everybody was glad in Rainbow Valley that evening -- until Mary Vance froze their blood with the story of Henry Warren's ghost.

Jem was not there. Jem spent his evenings now studying for his entrance examination in the Ingleside garret. Jerry was down near the pond, trouting. Walter had been reading Longfellow's sea poems to the others and they were steeped in the beauty and mystery of the ships. Then they talked of what they would do when they were grown up -- where they would travel -- the far, fair shores they would see. Nan and Di meant to go to Europe. Walter longed for the Nile moaning past its Egyptian sands, and a glimpse of the sphinx. Faith opined rather dismally that she supposed she would have to be a missionary -- old Mrs. Taylor told her she ought to be -- and then she would at least see India or China, those mysterious lands of the Orient. Carl's heart was set on African jungles. Una said nothing. She thought she would just like to stay at home. It was prettier here than anywhere else. It would be dreadful when they were all grown up and had to scatter over the world. The very idea made Una feel lonesome and homesick. But the others dreamed on delightedly until Mary Vance arrived and vanished poesy and dreams at one fell swoop.

"Laws, but I'm out of puff," she exclaimed. "I've run down that hill like sixty. I got an awful scare up there at the old Bailey place."

"What frightened you?" asked Di.

"I dunno. I was poking about under them lilacs in the old garden, trying to see if there was any lilies-of-the-valley out yet. It was dark as a pocket there -- and all at once I seen something stirring and rustling round at the other side of the garden, in those cherry bushes. It was WHITE. I tell you I didn't stop for a second look. I flew over the dyke quicker than quick. I was sure it was Henry Warren's ghost."

"Who was Henry Warren?" asked Di.

"And why should he have a ghost?" asked Nan.

"Laws, did you never hear the story? And you brought up in the Glen. Well, wait a minute till I get by breath all back and I'll tell you."

Walter shivered delightsomely. He loved ghost stories. Their mystery, their dramatic climaxes, their eeriness gave him a fearful, exquisite pleasure. Longfellow instantly grew tame and commonplace. He threw the book aside and stretched himself out, propped upon his elbows to listen whole-heartedly, fixing his great luminous eyes on Mary's face. Mary wished he wouldn't look at her so. She felt she could make a better job of the ghost story if Walter were not looking at her. She could put on several frills and invent a few artistic details to enhance the horror. As it was, she had to stick to the bare truth -- or what had been told her for the truth.

"Well," she began, "you know old Tom Bailey and his wife used to live in that house up there thirty years ago. He was an awful old rip, they say, and his wife wasn't much better. They'd no children of their own, but a sister of old Tom's died and left a little boy -- this Henry Warren -- and they took him. He was about twelve when he came to them, and kind of undersized and delicate. They say Tom and his wife used him awful from the start -- whipped him and starved him. Folks said they wanted him to die so's they could get the little bit of money his mother had left for him. Henry didn't die right off, but he begun having fits -- epileps, they called 'em -- and he grew up kind of simple, till he was about eighteen. His uncle used to thrash him in that garden up there 'cause it was back of the house where no one could see him. But folks could hear, and they say it was awful sometimes hearing poor Henry plead with his uncle not to kill him. But nobody dared interfere 'cause old Tom was such a reprobate he'd have been sure to get square with 'em some way. He burned the barns of a man at Harbour Head who offended him. At last Henry died and his uncle and aunt give out he died in one of his fits and that was all anybody ever knowed, but everybody said Tom had just up and killed him for keeps at last. And it wasn't long till it got around that Henry WALKED. That old garden was HA'NTED. He was heard there at nights, moaning and crying. Old Tom and his wife got out -- went out West and never came back. The place got such a bad name nobody'd buy or rent it. That's why it's all gone to ruin. That was thirty years ago, but Henry Warren's ghost ha'nts it yet."

"Do you believe that?" asked Nan scornfully. "I don't."

"Well, GOOD people have seen him -- and heard him." retorted Mary. "They say he appears and grovels on the ground and holds you by the legs and gibbers and moans like he did when he was alive. I thought of that as soon as I seen that white thing in the bushes and thought if it caught me like that and moaned I'd drop down dead on the spot. So I cut and run. It MIGHTN'T have been his ghost, but I wasn't going to take any chances with a ha'nt."

"It was likely old Mrs. Stimson's white calf," laughed Di. "It pastures in that garden -- I've seen it."

"Maybe so. But I'M not going home through the Bailey garden any more. Here's Jerry with a big string of trout and it's my turn to cook them. Jem and Jerry both say I'm the best cook in the Glen. And Cornelia told me I could bring up this batch of cookies. I all but dropped them when I saw Henry's ghost."

Jerry hooted when he heard the ghost story -- which Mary repeated as she fried the fish, touching it up a trifle or so, since Walter had gone to help Faith to set the table. It made no impression on Jerry, but Faith and Una and Carl had been secretly much frightened, though they would never have given in to it. It was all right as long as the others were with them in the valley: but when the feast was over and the shadows fell they quaked with remembrance. Jerry went up to Ingleside with the Blythes to see Jem about something, and Mary Vance went around that way home. So Faith and Una and Carl had to go back to the manse alone. They walked very close together and gave the old Bailey garden a wide berth. They did not believe that it was haunted, of course, but they would not go near it for all that.



Chapter XXX. The Ghost On The Dyke

Somehow, Faith and Carl and Una could not shake off the hold which the story of Henry Warren's ghost had taken upon their imaginations. They had never believed in ghosts. Ghost tales they had heard a-plenty -- Mary Vance had told some far more blood-curdling than this; but those tales were all of places and people and spooks far away and unknown. After the first half-awful, half-pleasant thrill of awe and terror they thought of them no more. But this story came home to them. The old Bailey garden was almost at their very door -- almost in their beloved Rainbow Valley. They had passed and repassed it constantly; they had hunted for flowers in it; they had made short cuts through it when they wished to go straight from the village to the valley. But never again! After the night when Mary Vance told them its gruesome tale they would not have gone through or near it on pain of death. Death! What was death compared to the unearthly possibility of falling into the clutches of Henry Warren's grovelling ghost?

One warm July evening the three of them were sitting under the Tree Lovers, feeling a little lonely. Nobody else had come near the valley that evening. Jem Blythe was away in Charlottetown, writing on his entrance examinations. Jerry and Walter Blythe were off for a sail on the harbour with old Captain Crawford. Nan and Di and Rilla and Shirley had gone down the harbour road to visit Kenneth and Persis Ford, who had come with their parents for a flying visit to the little old House of Dreams. Nan had asked Faith to go with them, but Faith had declined. She would never have admitted it, but she felt a little secret jealousy of Persis Ford, concerning whose wonderful beauty and city glamour she had heard a great deal. No, she wasn't going to go down there and play second fiddle to anybody. She and Una took their story books to Rainbow Valley and read, while Carl investigated bugs along the banks of the brook, and all three were happy until they suddenly realized that it was twilight and that the old Bailey garden was uncomfortably near by. Carl came and sat down close to the girls. They all wished they had gone home a little sooner, but nobody said anything.

Great, velvety, purple clouds heaped up in the west and spread over the valley. There was no wind and everything was suddenly, strangely, dreadfully still. The marsh was full of thousands of fire-flies. Surely some fairy parliament was being convened that night. Altogether, Rainbow Valley was not a canny place just then.

Faith looked fearfully up the valley to the old Bailey garden. Then, if anybody's blood ever did freeze, Faith Meredith's certainly froze at that moment. The eyes of Carl and Una followed her entranced gaze and chills began gallopading up and down their spines also. For there, under the big tamarack tree on the tumble-down, grass-grown dyke of the Bailey garden, was something white -- shapelessly white in the gathering gloom. The three Merediths sat and gazed as if turned to stone.

"It's -- it's the -- calf," whispered Una at last.

"It's -- too -- big -- for the calf," whispered Faith. Her mouth and lips were so dry she could hardly articulate the words.

Suddenly Carl gasped,

"It's coming here."

The girls gave one last agonized glance. Yes, it was creeping down over the dyke, as no calf ever did or could creep. Reason fled before sudden, over-mastering panic. For the moment every one of the trio was firmly convinced that what they saw was Henry Warren's ghost. Carl sprang to his feet and bolted blindly. With a simultaneous shriek the girls followed him. Like mad creatures they tore up the hill, across the road and into the manse. They had left Aunt Martha sewing in the kitchen. She was not there. They rushed to the study. It was dark and tenantless. As with one impulse, they swung around and made for Ingleside -- but not across Rainbow Valley. Down the hill and through the Glen street they flew on the wings of their wild terror, Carl in the lead, Una bringing up the rear. Nobody tried to stop them, though everybody who saw them wondered what fresh devilment those manse youngsters were up to now. But at the gate of Ingleside they ran into Rosemary West, who had just been in for a moment to return some borrowed books.

She saw their ghastly faces and staring eyes. She realized that their poor little souls were wrung with some awful and real fear, whatever its cause. She caught Carl with one arm and Faith with the other. Una stumbled against her and held on desperately.

"Children, dear, what has happened?" she said. "What has frightened you?"

"Henry Warren's ghost," answered Carl, through his chattering teeth.

"Henry -- Warren's -- ghost!" said amazed Rosemary, who had never heard the story.

"Yes," sobbed Faith hysterically. "It's there -- on the Bailey dyke -- we saw it -- and it started to -- chase us."

Rosemary herded the three distracted creatures to the Ingleside veranda. Gilbert and Anne were both away, having also gone to the House of Dreams, but Susan appeared in the doorway, gaunt and practical and unghostlike.

"What is all this rumpus about?" she inquired.

Again the children gasped out their awful tale, while Rosemary held them close to her and soothed them with wordless comfort.

"Likely it was an owl," said Susan, unstirred.

An owl! The Meredith children never had any opinion of Susan's intelligence after that!

"It was bigger than a million owls," said Carl, sobbing -- oh, how ashamed Carl was of that sobbing in after days -- "and it -- it GROVELLED just as Mary said -- and it was crawling down over the dyke to get at us. Do owls CRAWL?"

Rosemary looked at Susan.

"They must have seen something to frighten them so," she said.

"I will go and see," said Susan coolly. "Now, children, calm yourselves. Whatever you have seen, it was not a ghost. As for poor Henry Warren, I feel sure he would be only too glad to rest quietly in his peaceful grave once he got there. No fear of HIM venturing back, and that you may tie to. If you can make them see reason, Miss West, I will find out the truth of the matter."

Susan departed for Rainbow Valley, valiantly grasping a pitchfork which she found leaning against the back fence where the doctor had been working in his little hay-field. A pitchfork might not be of much use against "ha'nts," but it was a comforting sort of weapon. There was nothing to be seen in Rainbow Valley when Susan reached it. No white visitants appeared to be lurking in the shadowy, tangled old Bailey garden. Susan marched boldly through it and beyond it, and rapped with her pitchfork on the door of the little cottage on the other side, where Mrs. Stimson lived with her two daughters.

Back at Ingleside Rosemary had succeeded in calming the children. They still sobbed a little from shock, but they were beginning to feel a lurking and salutary suspicion that they had made dreadful geese of themselves. This suspicion became a certainty when Susan finally returned.

"I have found out what your ghost was," she said, with a grim smile, sitting down on a rocker and fanning herself. "Old Mrs. Stimson has had a pair of factory cotton sheets bleaching in the Bailey garden for a week. She spread them on the dyke under the tamarack tree because the grass was clean and short there. This evening she went out to take them in. She had her knitting in her hands so she hung the sheets over her shoulders by way of carrying them. And then she must have dropped one of her needles and find it she could not and has not yet. But she went down on her knees and crept about to hunt for it, and she was at that when she heard awful yells down in the valley and saw the three children tearing up the hill past her. She thought they had been bit by something and it gave her poor old heart such a turn that she could not move or speak, but just crouched there till they disappeared. Then she staggered back home and they have been applying stimulants to her ever since, and her heart is in a terrible condition and she says she will not get over this fright all summer."

The Merediths sat, crimson with a shame that even Rosemary's understanding sympathy could not remove. They sneaked off home, met Jerry at the manse gate and made remorseful confession. A session of the Good-Conduct Club was arranged for next morning.

"Wasn't Miss West sweet to us to-night?" whispered Faith in bed.

"Yes," admitted Una. "It is such a pity it changes people so much to be made stepmothers."

"I don't believe it does," said Faith loyally.



Chapter XXXI. Carl Does Penance

"I don't see why we should be punished at all," said Faith, rather sulkily. "We didn't do anything wrong. We couldn't help being frightened. And it won't do father any harm. It was just an accident."

"You were cowards," said Jerry with judicial scorn, "and you gave way to your cowardice. That is why you should be punished. Everybody will laugh at you about this, and that is a disgrace to the family."

"If you knew how awful the whole thing was," said Faith with a shiver, "you would think we had been punished enough already. I wouldn't go through it again for anything in the whole world."

"I believe you'd have run yourself if you'd been there," muttered Carl.

"From an old woman in a cotton sheet," mocked Jerry. "Ho, ho, ho!"

"It didn't look a bit like an old woman," cried Faith. "It was just a great, big, white thing crawling about in the grass just as Mary Vance said Henry Warren did. It's all very fine for you to laugh, Jerry Meredith, but you'd have laughed on the other side of your mouth if you'd been there. And how are we to be punished? I don't think it's fair, but let's know what we have to do, Judge Meredith!"

"The way I look at it," said Jerry, frowning, "is that Carl was the most to blame. He bolted first, as I understand it. Besides, he was a boy, so he should have stood his ground to protect you girls, whatever the danger was. You know that, Carl, don't you?"

"I s'pose so," growled Carl shamefacedly.

"Very well. This is to be your punishment. To-night you'll sit on Mr. Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone in the graveyard alone, until twelve o'clock."

Carl gave a little shudder. The graveyard was not so very far from the old Bailey garden. It would be a trying ordeal, but Carl was anxious to wipe out his disgrace and prove that he was not a coward after all.

"All right," he said sturdily. "But how'll I know when it is twelve?"

"The study windows are open and you'll hear the clock striking. And mind you that you are not to budge out of that graveyard until the last stroke. As for you girls, you've got to go without jam at supper for a week."

Faith and Una looked rather blank. They were inclined to think that even Carl's comparatively short though sharp agony was lighter punishment than this long drawn-out ordeal. A whole week of soggy bread without the saving grace of jam! But no shirking was permitted in the club. The girls accepted their lot with such philosophy as they could summon up.

That night they all went to bed at nine, except Carl, who was already keeping vigil on the tombstone. Una slipped in to bid him good night. Her tender heart was wrung with sympathy.

"Oh, Carl, are you much scared?" she whispered.

"Not a bit," said Carl airily.

"I won't sleep a wink till after twelve," said Una. "If you get lonesome just look up at our window and remember that I'm inside, awake, and thinking about you. That will be a little company, won't it?"

"I'll be all right. Don't you worry about me," said Carl.

But in spite of his dauntless words Carl was a pretty lonely boy when the lights went out in the manse. He had hoped his father would be in the study as he so often was. He would not feel alone then. But that night Mr. Meredith had been summoned to the fishing village at the harbour mouth to see a dying man. He would not likely be back until after midnight. Carl must dree his weird alone.

A Glen man went past carrying a lantern. The mysterious shadows caused by the lantern-light went hurtling madly over the graveyard like a dance of demons or witches. Then they passed and darkness fell again. One by one the lights in the Glen went out. It was a very dark night, with a cloudy sky, and a raw east wind that was cold in spite of the calendar. Far away on the horizon was the low dim lustre of the Charlottetown lights. The wind wailed and sighed in the old fir-trees. Mr. Alec Davis' tall monument gleamed whitely through the gloom. The willow beside it tossed long, writhing arms spectrally. At times, the gyrations of its boughs made it seem as if the monument were moving, too.

Carl curled himself up on the tombstone with his legs tucked under him. It wasn't precisely pleasant to hang them over the edge of the stone. Just suppose -- just suppose -- bony hands should reach up out of Mr. Pollock's grave under it and clutch him by the ankles. That had been one of Mary Vance's cheerful speculations one time when they had all been sitting there. It returned to haunt Carl now. He didn't believe those things; he didn't even really believe in Henry Warren's ghost. As for Mr. Pollock, he had been dead sixty years, so it wasn't likely he cared who sat on his tombstone now. But there is something very strange and terrible in being awake when all the rest of the world is asleep. You are alone then with nothing but your own feeble personality to pit against the mighty principalities and powers of darkness. Carl was only ten and the dead were all around him -- and he wished, oh, he wished that the clock would strike twelve. Would it NEVER strike twelve? Surely Aunt Martha must have forgotten to wind it.

And then it struck eleven -- only eleven! He must stay yet another hour in that grim place. If only there were a few friendly stars to be seen! The darkness was so thick it seemed to press against his face. There was a sound as of stealthy passing footsteps all over the graveyard. Carl shivered, partly with prickling terror, partly with real cold.

Then it began to rain -- a chill, penetrating drizzle. Carl's thin little cotton blouse and shirt were soon wet through. He felt chilled to the bone. He forgot mental terrors in his physical discomfort. But he must stay there till twelve -- he was punishing himself and he was on his honour. Nothing had been said about rain -- but it did not make any difference. When the study clock finally struck twelve a drenched little figure crept stiffly down off Mr. Pollock's tombstone, made its way into the manse and upstairs to bed. Carl's teeth were chattering. He thought he would never get warm again.

He was warm enough when morning came. Jerry gave one startled look at his crimson face and then rushed to call his father. Mr. Meredith came hurriedly, his own face ivory white from the pallor of his long night vigil by a death bed. He had not got home until daylight. He bent over his little lad anxiously.

"Carl, are you sick?" he said.

"That -- tombstone -- over here," said Carl, "it's -- moving -- about -- it's coming -- at -- me -- keep it -- away -- please."

Mr. Meredith rushed to the telephone. In ten minutes Dr. Blythe was at the manse. Half an hour later a wire was sent to town for a trained nurse, and all the Glen knew that Carl Meredith was very ill with pneumonia and that Dr. Blythe had been seen to shake his head.

Gilbert shook his head more than once in the fortnight that followed. Carl developed double pneumonia. There was one night when Mr. Meredith paced his study floor, and Faith and Una huddled in their bedroom and cried, and Jerry, wild with remorse, refused to budge from the floor of the hall outside Carl's door. Dr. Blythe and the nurse never left the bedside. They fought death gallantly until the red dawn and they won the victory. Carl rallied and passed the crisis in safety. The news was phoned about the waiting Glen and people found out how much they really loved their minister and his children.

"I haven't had one decent night's sleep since I heard the child was sick," Miss Cornelia told Anne, "and Mary Vance has cried until those queer eyes of hers looked like burnt holes in a blanket. Is it true that Carl got pneumonia from straying out in the graveyard that wet night for a dare?"

"No. He was staying there to punish himself for cowardice in that affair of the Warren ghost. It seems they have a club for bringing themselves up, and they punish themselves when they do wrong. Jerry told Mr. Meredith all about it."

"The poor little souls," said Miss Cornelia.

Carl got better rapidly, for the congregation took enough nourishing things to the manse to furnish forth a hospital. Norman Douglas drove up every evening with a dozen fresh eggs and a jar of Jersey cream. Sometimes he stayed an hour and bellowed arguments on predestination with Mr. Meredith in the study; oftener he drove on up to the hill that overlooked the Glen.

When Carl was able to go again to Rainbow Valley they had a special feast in his honour and the doctor came down and helped them with the fireworks. Mary Vance was there, too, but she did not tell any ghost stories. Miss Cornelia had given her a talking on that subject which Mary would not forget in a hurry.



Chapter XXXII. Two Stubborn People

Rosemary West, on her way home from a music lesson at Ingleside, turned aside to the hidden spring in Rainbow Valley. She had not been there all summer; the beautiful little spot had no longer any allurement for her. The spirit of her young lover never came to the tryst now; and the memories connected with John Meredith were too painful and poignant. But she had happened to glance backward up the valley and had seen Norman Douglas vaulting as airily as a stripling over the old stone dyke of the Bailey garden and thought he was on his way up the hill. If he overtook her she would have to walk home with him and she was not going to do that. So she slipped at once behind the maples of the spring, hoping he had not seen her and would pass on.

But Norman had seen her and, what was more, was in pursuit of her. He had been wanting for some time to have talk with Rosemary, but she had always, so it seemed, avoided him. Rosemary had never, at any time, liked Norman Douglas very well. His bluster, his temper, his noisy hilarity, had always antagonized her. Long ago she had often wondered how Ellen could possibly be attracted to him. Norman Douglas was perfectly aware of her dislike and he chuckled over it. It never worried Norman if people did not like him. It did not even make him dislike them in return, for he took it as a kind of extorted compliment. He thought Rosemary a fine girl, and he meant to be an excellent, generous brother-in-law to her. But before he could be her brother-in-law he had to have a talk with her, so, having seen her leaving Ingleside as he stood in the doorway of a Glen store, he had straightway plunged into the valley to overtake her.

Rosemary was sitting pensively on the maple seat where John Meredith had been sitting on that evening nearly a year ago. The tiny spring shimmered and dimpled under its fringe of ferns. Ruby-red gleams of sunset fell through the arching boughs. A tall clump of perfect asters grew at her side. The little spot was as dreamy and witching and evasive as any retreat of fairies and dryads in ancient forests. Into it Norman Douglas bounced, scattering and annihilating its charm in a moment. His personality seemed to swallow the place up. There was simply nothing there but Norman Douglas, big, red-bearded, complacent.

"Good evening," said Rosemary coldly, standing up.

"'Evening, girl. Sit down again -- sit down again. I want to have a talk with you. Bless the girl, what's she looking at me like that for? I don't want to eat you -- I've had my supper. Sit down and be civil."

"I can hear what you have to say quite as well here," said Rosemary.

"So you can, girl, if you use your ears. I only wanted you to be comfortable. You look so durned uncomfortable, standing there. Well, I'LL sit anyway."

Norman accordingly sat down in the very place John Meredith had once sat. The contrast was so ludicrous that Rosemary was afraid she would go off into a peal of hysterical laughter over it. Norman cast his hat aside, placed his huge, red hands on his knees, and looked up at her with his eyes a-twinkle.

"Come, girl, don't be so stiff," he said, ingratiatingly. When he liked he could be very ingratiating. "Let's have a reasonable, sensible, friendly chat. There's something I want to ask you. Ellen says she won't, so it's up to me to do it."

Rosemary looked down at the spring, which seemed to have shrunk to the size of a dewdrop. Norman gazed at her in despair.

"Durn it all, you might help a fellow out a bit," he burst forth.

"What is it you want me to help you say?" asked Rosemary scornfully.

"You know as well as I do, girl. Don't be putting on your tragedy airs. No wonder Ellen was scared to ask you. Look here, girl, Ellen and I want to marry each other. That's plain English, isn't it? Got that? And Ellen says she can't unless you give her back some tom-fool promise she made. Come now, will you do it? Will you do it?"

"Yes," said Rosemary.

Norman bounced up and seized her reluctant hand.

"Good! I knew you would -- I told Ellen you would. I knew it would only take a minute. Now, girl, you go home and tell Ellen, and we'll have a wedding in a fortnight and you'll come and live with us. We shan't leave you to roost on that hill-top like a lonely crow -- don't you worry. I know you hate me, but, Lord, it'll be great fun living with some one that hates me. Life'll have some spice in it after this. Ellen will roast me and you'll freeze me. I won't have a dull moment."

Rosemary did not condescend to tell him that nothing would ever induce her to live in his house. She let him go striding back to the Glen, oozing delight and complacency, and she walked slowly up the hill home. She had known this was coming ever since she had returned from Kingsport, and found Norman Douglas established as a frequent evening caller. His name was never mentioned between her and Ellen, but the very avoidance of it was significant. It was not in Rosemary's nature to feel bitter, or she would have felt very bitter. She was coldly civil to Norman, and she made no difference in any way with Ellen. But Ellen had not found much comfort in her second courtship.

She was in the garden, attended by St. George, when Rosemary came home. The two sisters met in the dahlia walk. St. George sat down on the gravel walk between them and folded his glossy black tail gracefully around his white paws, with all the indifference of a well-fed, well-bred, well-groomed cat.

"Did you ever see such dahlias?" demanded Ellen proudly. "They are just the finest we've ever had."

Rosemary had never cared for dahlias. Their presence in the garden was her concession to Ellen's taste. She noticed one huge mottled one of crimson and yellow that lorded it over all the others.

"That dahlia," she said, pointing to it, "is exactly like Norman Douglas. It might easily be his twin brother."

Ellen's dark-browed face flushed. She admired the dahlia in question, but she knew Rosemary did not, and that no compliment was intended. But she dared not resent Rosemary's speech -- poor Ellen dared not resent anything just then. And it was the first time Rosemary had ever mentioned Norman's name to her. She felt that this portended something.

"I met Norman Douglas in the valley," said Rosemary, looking straight at her sister, "and he told me you and he wanted to be married -- if I would give you permission."

"Yes? What did you say?" asked Ellen, trying to speak naturally and off-handedly, and failing completely. She could not meet Rosemary's eyes. She looked down at St. George's sleek back and felt horribly afraid. Rosemary had either said she would or she wouldn't. If she would Ellen would feel so ashamed and remorseful that she would be a very uncomfortable bride-elect; and if she wouldn't -- well, Ellen had once learned to live without Norman Douglas, but she had forgotten the lesson and felt that she could never learn it again.

"I said that as far as I was concerned you were at full liberty to marry each other as soon as you liked," said Rosemary.

"Thank you," said Ellen, still looking at St. George.

Rosemary's face softened.

"I hope you'll be happy, Ellen," she said gently.

"Oh, Rosemary," Ellen looked up in distress, "I'm so ashamed -- I don't deserve it -- after all I said to you -- "

"We won't speak about that," said Rosemary hurriedly and decidedly.

"But -- but," persisted Ellen, "you are free now, too -- and it's not too late -- John Meredith -- "

"Ellen West!" Rosemary had a little spark of temper under all her sweetness and it flashed forth now in her blue eyes. "Have you quite lost your senses in EVERY respect? Do you suppose for an instant that I am going to go to John Meredith and say meekly, 'Please, sir, I've changed my mind and please, sir, I hope you haven't changed yours.' Is that what you want me to do?"

"No -- no -- but a little -- encouragement -- he would come back -- "

"Never. He despises me -- and rightly. No more of this, Ellen. I bear you no grudge -- marry whom you like. But no meddling in my affairs."

"Then you must come and live with me," said Ellen. "I shall not leave you here alone."

"Do you really think that I would go and live in Norman Douglas's house?"

"Why not?" cried Ellen, half angrily, despite her humiliation.

Rosemary began to laugh.

"Ellen, I thought you had a sense of humour. Can you see me doing it?"

"I don't see why you wouldn't. His house is big enough -- you'd have your share of it to yourself -- he wouldn't interfere."

"Ellen, the thing is not to be thought of. Don't bring this up again."

"Then," said Ellen coldly, and determinedly, "I shall not marry him. I shall not leave you here alone. That is all there is to be said about it."

"Nonsense, Ellen."

"It is not nonsense. It is my firm decision. It would be absurd for you to think of living here by yourself -- a mile from any other house. If you won't come with me I'll stay with you. Now, we won't argue the matter, so don't try."

"I shall leave Norman to do the arguing," said Rosemary.

"I'LL deal with Norman. I can manage HIM. I would never have asked you to give me back my promise -- never -- but I had to tell Norman why I couldn't marry him and he said HE would ask you. I couldn't prevent him. You need not suppose you are the only person in the world who possesses self-respect. I never dreamed of marrying and leaving you here alone. And you'll find I can be as determined as yourself."

Rosemary turned away and went into the house, with a shrug of her shoulders. Ellen looked down at St. George, who had never blinked an eyelash or stirred a whisker during the whole interview.

"St. George, this world would be a dull place without the men, I'll admit, but I'm almost tempted to wish there wasn't one of 'em in it. Look at the trouble and bother they've made right here, George -- torn our happy old life completely up by the roots, Saint. John Meredith began it and Norman Douglas has finished it. And now both of them have to go into limbo. Norman is the only man I ever met who agrees with me that the Kaiser of Germany is the most dangerous creature alive on this earth -- and I can't marry this sensible person because my sister is stubborn and I'm stubborner. Mark my words, St. George, the minister would come back if she raised her little finger. But she won't George -- she'll never do it -- she won't even crook it -- and I don't dare meddle, Saint. I won't sulk, George; Rosemary didn't sulk, so I'm determined I won't either, Saint; Norman will tear up the turf, but the long and short of it is, St. George, that all of us old fools must just stop thinking of marrying. Well, well, 'despair is a free man, hope is a slave,' Saint. So now come into the house, George, and I'll solace you with a saucerful of cream. Then there will be one happy and contented creature on this hill at least."



Chapter XXXIII. Carl Is -- Not -- Whipped

"There is something I think I ought to tell you," said Mary Vance mysteriously.

She and Faith and Una were walking arm in arm through the village, having foregathered at Mr. Flagg's store. Una and Faith exchanged looks which said, "NOW something disagreeable is coming." When Mary Vance thought she ought to tell them things there was seldom much pleasure in the hearing. They often wondered why they kept on liking Mary Vance -- for like her they did, in spite of everything. To be sure, she was generally a stimulating and agreeable companion. If only she would not have those convictions that it was her duty to tell them things!

"Do you know that Rosemary West won't marry your pa because she thinks you are such a wild lot? She's afraid she couldn't bring you up right and so she turned him down."

Una's heart thrilled with secret exultation. She was very glad to hear that Miss West would not marry her father. But Faith was rather disappointed.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"Oh, everybody's saying it. I heard Mrs. Elliott talking it over with Mrs. Doctor. They thought I was too far away to hear, but I've got ears like a cat's. Mrs. Elliott said she hadn't a doubt that Rosemary was afraid to try stepmothering you because you'd got such a reputation. Your pa never goes up the hill now. Neither does Norman Douglas. Folks say Ellen has jilted him just to get square with him for jilting her ages ago. But Norman is going about declaring he'll get her yet. And I think you ought to know you've spoiled your pa's match and I think it's a pity, for he's bound to marry somebody before long, and Rosemary West would have been the best wife I know of for him."

"You told me all stepmothers were cruel and wicked," said Una.

"Oh -- well," said Mary rather confusedly, "they're mostly awful cranky, I know. But Rosemary West couldn't be very mean to any one. I tell you if your pa turns round and marries Emmeline Drew you'll wish you'd behaved yourselves better and not frightened Rosemary out of it. It's awful that you've got such a reputation that no decent woman'll marry your pa on account of you. Of course, I know that half the yarns that are told about you ain't true. But give a dog a bad name. Why, some folks are saying that it was Jerry and Carl that threw the stones through Mrs. Stimson's window the other night when it was really them two Boyd boys. But I'm afraid it was Carl that put the eel in old Mrs. Carr's buggy, though I said at first I wouldn't believe it until I'd better proof than old Kitty Alec's word. I told Mrs. Elliott so right to her face."

"What did Carl do?" cried Faith.

"Well, they say -- now, mind, I'm only telling you what people say -- so there's no use in your blaming me for it -- that Carl and a lot of other boys were fishing eels over the bridge one evening last week. Mrs. Carr drove past in that old rattletrap buggy of hers with the open back. And Carl he just up and threw a big eel into the back. When poor old Mrs. Carr was driving up the hill by Ingleside that eel came squirming out between her feet. She thought it was a snake and she just give one awful screech and stood up and jumped clean over the wheels. The horse bolted, but it went home and no damage was done. But Mrs. Carr jarred her legs most terrible, and has had nervous spasms ever since whenever she thinks of the eel. Say, it was a rotten trick to play on the poor old soul. She's a decent body, if she is as queer as Dick's hat band."

Faith and Una looked at each other again. This was a matter for the Good-Conduct Club. They would not talk it over with Mary.

"There goes your pa," said Mary as Mr. Meredith passed them, "and never seeing us no more'n if we weren't here. Well, I'm getting so's I don't mind it. But there are folks who do."

Mr. Meredith had not seen them, but he was not walking along in his usual dreamy and abstracted fashion. He strode up the hill in agitation and distress. Mrs. Alec Davis had just told him the story of Carl and the eel. She had been very indignant about it. Old Mrs. Carr was her third cousin. Mr. Meredith was more than indignant. He was hurt and shocked. He had not thought Carl would do anything like this. He was not inclined to be hard on pranks of heedlessness or forgetfulness, but THIS was different. THIS had a nasty tang in it. When he reached home he found Carl on the lawn, patiently studying the habits and customs of a colony of wasps. Calling him into the study Mr. Meredith confronted him, with a sterner face than any of his children had ever seen before, and asked him if the story were true.

"Yes," said Carl, flushing, but meeting his father's eyes bravely.

Mr. Meredith groaned. He had hoped that there had been at least exaggeration.

"Tell me the whole matter," he said.

"The boys were fishing for eels over the bridge," said Carl. "Link Drew had caught a whopper -- I mean an awful big one -- the biggest eel I ever saw. He caught it right at the start and it had been lying in his basket a long time, still as still. I thought it was dead, honest I did. Then old Mrs. Carr drove over the bridge and she called us all young varmints and told us to go home. And we hadn't said a word to her, father, truly. So when she drove back again, after going to the store, the boys dared me to put Link's eel in her buggy. I thought it was so dead it couldn't hurt her and I threw it in. Then the eel came to life on the hill and we heard her scream and saw her jump out. I was awful sorry. That's all, father."

It was not quite as bad as Mr. Meredith had feared, but it was quite bad enough. "I must punish you, Carl," he said sorrowfully.

"Yes, I know, father."

"I -- I must whip you."

Carl winced. He had never been whipped. Then, seeing how badly his father felt, he said cheerfully,

"All right, father."

Mr. Meredith misunderstood his cheerfulness and thought him insensible. He told Carl to come to the study after supper, and when the boy had gone out he flung himself into his chair and groaned again. He dreaded the evening sevenfold more than Carl did. The poor minister did not even know what he should whip his boy with. What was used to whip boys? Rods? Canes? No, that would be too brutal. A timber switch, then? And he, John Meredith, must hie him to the woods and cut one. It was an abominable thought. Then a picture presented itself unbidden to his mind. He saw Mrs. Carr's wizened, nut-cracker little face at the appearance of that reviving eel -- he saw her sailing witch-like over the buggy wheels. Before he could prevent himself the minister laughed. Then he was angry with himself and angrier still with Carl. He would get that switch at once -- and it must not be too limber, after all.

Carl was talking the matter over in the graveyard with Faith and Una, who had just come home. They were horrified at the idea of his being whipped -- and by father, who had never done such a thing! But they agreed soberly that it was just.

"You know it was a dreadful thing to do," sighed Faith. "And you never owned up in the club."

"I forgot," said Carl. "Besides, I didn't think any harm came of it. I didn't know she jarred her legs. But I'm to be whipped and that will make things square."

"Will it hurt -- very much?" said Una, slipping her hand into Carl's.

"Oh, not so much, I guess," said Carl gamely. "Anyhow, I'm not going to cry, no matter how much it hurts. It would make father feel so bad, if I did. He's all cut up now. I wish I could whip myself hard enough and save him doing it."

After supper, at which Carl had eaten little and Mr. Meredith nothing at all, both went silently into the study. The switch lay on the table. Mr. Meredith had had a bad time getting a switch to suit him. He cut one, then felt it was too slender. Carl had done a really indefensible thing. Then he cut another -- it was far too thick. After all, Carl had thought the eel was dead. The third one suited him better; but as he picked it up from the table it seemed very thick and heavy -- more like a stick than a switch.

"Hold out your hand," he said to Carl.

Carl threw back his head and held out his hand unflinchingly. But he was not very old and he could not quite keep a little fear out of his eyes. Mr. Meredith looked down into those eyes -- why, they were Cecilia's eyes -- her very eyes -- and in them was the selfsame expression he had once seen in Cecilia's eyes when she had come to him to tell him something she had been a little afraid to tell him. Here were her eyes in Carl's little, white face -- and six weeks ago he had thought, through one endless, terrible night, that his little lad was dying.

John Meredith threw down the switch.

"Go," he said, "I cannot whip you."

Carl fled to the graveyard, feeling that the look on his father's face was worse than any whipping.

"Is it over so soon?" asked Faith. She and Una had been holding hands and setting teeth on the Pollock tombstone.

"He -- he didn't whip me at all," said Carl with a sob, "and -- I wish he had -- and he's in there, feeling just awful."

Una slipped away. Her heart yearned to comfort her father. As noiselessly as a little gray mouse she opened the study door and crept in. The room was dark with twilight. Her father was sitting at his desk. His back was towards her -- his head was in his hands. He was talking to himself -- broken, anguished words -- but Una heard -- heard and understood, with the sudden illumination that comes to sensitive, unmothered children. As silently as she had come in she slipped out and closed the door. John Meredith went on talking out his pain in what he deemed his undisturbed solitude.



Chapter XXXIV. Una Visits The Hill

Una went upstairs. Carl and Faith were already on their way through the early moonlight to Rainbow Valley, having heard therefrom the elfin lilt of Jerry's jews-harp and having guessed that the Blythes were there and fun afoot. Una had no wish to go. She sought her own room first where she sat down on her bed and had a little cry. She did not want anybody to come in her dear mother's place. She did not want a stepmother who would hate her and make her father hate her. But father was so desperately unhappy -- and if she could do any anything to make him happier she MUST do it. There was only one thing she could do -- and she had known the moment she had left the study that she must do it. But it was a very hard thing to do.

After Una cried her heart out she wiped her eyes and went to the spare room. It was dark and rather musty, for the blind had not been drawn up nor the window opened for a long time. Aunt Martha was no fresh-air fiend. But as nobody ever thought of shutting a door in the manse this did not matter so much, save when some unfortunate minister came to stay all night and was compelled to breathe the spare room atmosphere.

There was a closet in the spare room and far back in the closet a gray silk dress was hanging. Una went into the closet and shut the door, went down on her knees and pressed her face against the soft silken folds. It had been her mother's wedding-dress. It was still full of a sweet, faint, haunting perfume, like lingering love. Una always felt very close to her mother there -- as if she were kneeling at her feet with head in her lap. She went there once in a long while when life was TOO hard.

"Mother," she whispered to the gray silk gown, "I will never forget you, mother, and I'll ALWAYS love you best. But I have to do it, mother, because father is so very unhappy. I know you wouldn't want him to be unhappy. And I will be very good to her, mother, and try to love her, even if she is like Mary Vance said stepmothers always were."

Una carried some fine, spiritual strength away from her secret shrine. She slept peacefully that night with the tear stains still glistening on her sweet, serious, little face.

The next afternoon she put on her best dress and hat. They were shabby enough. Every other little girl in the Glen had new clothes that summer except Faith and Una. Mary Vance had a lovely dress of white embroidered lawn, with scarlet silk sash and shoulder bows. But to-day Una did not mind her shabbiness. She only wanted to be very neat. She washed her face carefully. She brushed her black hair until it was as smooth as satin. She tied her shoelaces carefully, having first sewed up two runs in her one pair of good stockings. She would have liked to black her shoes, but she could not find any blacking. Finally, she slipped away from the manse, down through Rainbow Valley, up through the whispering woods, and out to the road that ran past the house on the hill. It was quite a long walk and Una was tired and warm when she got there.

She saw Rosemary West sitting under a tree in the garden and stole past the dahlia beds to her. Rosemary had a book in her lap, but she was gazing afar across the harbour and her thoughts were sorrowful enough. Life had not been pleasant lately in the house on the hill. Ellen had not sulked -- Ellen had been a brick. But things can be felt that are never said and at times the silence between the two women was intolerably eloquent. All the many familiar things that had once made life sweet had a flavour of bitterness now. Norman Douglas made periodical irruptions also, bullying and coaxing Ellen by turns. It would end, Rosemary believed, by his dragging Ellen off with him some day, and Rosemary felt that she would be almost glad when it happened. Existence would be horribly lonely then, but it would be no longer charged with dynamite.

She was roused from her unpleasant reverie by a timid little touch on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Una Meredith.

"Why, Una, dear, did you walk up here in all this heat?"

"Yes," said Una, "I came to -- I came to -- "

But she found it very hard to say what she had come to do. Her voice failed -- her eyes filled with tears.

"Why, Una, little girl, what is the trouble? Don't be afraid to tell me."

Rosemary put her arm around the thin little form and drew the child close to her. Her eyes were very beautiful -- her touch so tender that Una found courage.

"I came -- to ask you -- to marry father," she gasped.

Rosemary was silent for a moment from sheer dumbfounderment. She stared at Una blankly.

"Oh, don't be angry, please, dear Miss West," said Una, pleadingly. "You see, everybody is saying that you wouldn't marry father because we are so bad. He is VERY unhappy about it. So I thought I would come and tell you that we are never bad ON PURPOSE. And if you will only marry father we will all try to be good and do just what you tell us. I'm SURE you won't have any trouble with us. PLEASE, Miss West."

Rosemary had been thinking rapidly. Gossiping surmise, she saw, had put this mistaken idea into Una's mind. She must be perfectly frank and sincere with the child.

"Una, dear," she said softly. "It isn't because of you poor little souls that I cannot be your father's wife. I never thought of such a thing. You are not bad -- I never supposed you were. There -- there was another reason altogether, Una."

"Don't you like father?" asked Una, lifting reproachful eyes. "Oh, Miss West, you don't know how nice he is. I'm sure he'd make you a GOOD husband."

Even in the midst of her perplexity and distress Rosemary couldn't help a twisted, little smile.

"Oh, don't laugh, Miss West," Una cried passionately. "Father feels DREADFUL about it."

"I think you're mistaken, dear," said Rosemary.

"I'm not. I'm SURE I'm not. Oh, Miss West, father was going to whip Carl yesterday -- Carl had been naughty -- and father couldn't do it because you see he had no PRACTICE in whipping. So when Carl came out and told us father felt so bad, I slipped into the study to see if I could help him -- he LIKES me to comfort him, Miss West -- and he didn't hear me come in and I heard what he was saying. I'll tell you, Miss West, if you'll let me whisper it in your ear."

Una whispered earnestly. Rosemary's face turned crimson. So John Meredith still cared. HE hadn't changed his mind. And he must care intensely if he had said that -- care more than she had ever supposed he did. She sat still for a moment, stroking Una's hair. Then she said,

"Will you take a little letter from me to your father, Una?"

"Oh, are you going to marry him, Miss West?" asked Una eagerly.

"Perhaps -- if he really wants me to," said Rosemary, blushing again.

"I'm glad -- I'm glad," said Una bravely. Then she looked up, with quivering lips. "Oh, Miss West, you won't turn father against us -- you won't make him hate us, will you?" she said beseechingly.

Rosemary stared again.

"Una Meredith! Do you think I would do such a thing? Whatever put such an idea into your head?"

"Mary Vance said stepmothers were all like that -- and that they all hated their stepchildren and made their father hate them -- she said they just couldn't help it -- just being stepmothers made them like that" -- 

"You poor child! And yet you came up here and asked me to marry your father because you wanted to make him happy? You're a darling -- a heroine -- as Ellen would say, you're a brick. Now listen to me, very closely, dearest. Mary Vance is a silly little girl who doesn't know very much and she is dreadfully mistaken about some things. I would never dream of trying to turn your father against you. I would love you all dearly. I don't want to take your own mother's place -- she must always have that in your hearts. But neither have I any intention of being a stepmother. I want to be your friend and helper and CHUM. Don't you think that would be nice, Una -- if you and Faith and Carl and Jerry could just think of me as a good jolly chum -- a big older sister?"

"Oh, it would be lovely," cried Una, with a transfigured face. She flung her arms impulsively round Rosemary's neck. She was so happy that she felt as if she could fly on wings.

"Do the others -- do Faith and the boys have the same idea you had about stepmothers?"

"No. Faith never believed Mary Vance. I was dreadfully foolish to believe her, either. Faith loves you already -- she has loved you ever since poor Adam was eaten. And Jerry and Carl will think it is jolly. Oh, Miss West, when you come to live with us, will you -- could you -- teach me to cook -- a little -- and sew -- and -- and -- and do things? I don't know anything. I won't be much trouble -- I'll try to learn fast."

"Darling, I'll teach you and help you all I can. Now, you won't say a word to anybody about this, will you -- not even to Faith, until your father himself tells you you may? And you'll stay and have tea with me?"

"Oh, thank you -- but -- but -- I think I'd rather go right back and take the letter to father," faltered Una. "You see, he'll be glad that much SOONER, Miss West."

"I see," said Rosemary. She went to the house, wrote a note and gave it to Una. When that small damsel had run off, a palpitating bundle of happiness, Rosemary went to Ellen, who was shelling peas on the back porch.

"Ellen," she said, "Una Meredith has just been here to ask me to marry her father."

Ellen looked up and read her sister's face.

"And you're going to?" she said.

"It's quite likely."

Ellen went on shelling peas for a few minutes. Then she suddenly put her hands up to her own face. There were tears in her black-browed eyes.

"I -- I hope we'll all be happy," she said between a sob and a laugh.

Down at the manse Una Meredith, warm, rosy, triumphant, marched boldly into her father's study and laid a letter on the desk before him. His pale face flushed as he saw the clear, fine handwriting he knew so well. He opened the letter. It was very short -- but he shed twenty years as he read it. Rosemary asked him if he could meet her that evening at sunset by the spring in Rainbow Valley.



Chapter XXXV. "Let The Piper Come"

"And so," said Miss Cornelia, "the double wedding is to be sometime about the middle of this month."

There was a faint chill in the air of the early September evening, so Anne had lighted her ever ready fire of driftwood in the big living room, and she and Miss Cornelia basked in its fairy flicker.

"It is so delightful -- especially in regard to Mr. Meredith and Rosemary," said Anne. "I'm as happy in the thought of it, as I was when I was getting married myself. I felt exactly like a bride again last evening when I was up on the hill seeing Rosemary's trousseau."

"They tell me her things are fine enough for a princess," said Susan from a shadowy corner where she was cuddling her brown boy. "I have been invited up to see them also and I intend to go some evening. I understand that Rosemary is to wear white silk and a veil, but Ellen is to be married in navy blue. I have no doubt, Mrs. Dr. dear, that that is very sensible of her, but for my own part I have always felt that if I were ever married I would prefer the white and the veil, as being more bride-like."

A vision of Susan in "white and a veil" presented itself before Anne's inner vision and was almost too much for her.

"As for Mr. Meredith," said Miss Cornelia, "even his engagement has made a different man of him. He isn't half so dreamy and absent-minded, believe me. I was so relieved when I heard that he had decided to close the manse and let the children visit round while he was away on his honeymoon. If he had left them and old Aunt Martha there alone for a month I should have expected to wake every morning and see the place burned down."

"Aunt Martha and Jerry are coming here," said Anne. "Carl is going to Elder Clow's. I haven't heard where the girls are going."

"Oh, I'm going to take them," said Miss Cornelia. "Of course, I was glad to, but Mary would have given me no peace till I asked them any way. The Ladies' Aid is going to clean the manse from top to bottom before the bride and groom come back, and Norman Douglas has arranged to fill the cellar with vegetables. Nobody ever saw or heard anything quite like Norman Douglas these days, believe ME. He's so tickled that he's going to marry Ellen West after wanting her all his life. If I was Ellen -- but then, I'm not, and if she is satisfied I can very well be. I heard her say years ago when she was a schoolgirl that she didn't want a tame puppy for a husband. There's nothing tame about Norman, believe ME."

The sun was setting over Rainbow Valley. The pond was wearing a wonderful tissue of purple and gold and green and crimson. A faint blue haze rested on the eastern hill, over which a great, pale, round moon was just floating up like a silver bubble.

They were all there, squatted in the little open glade -- Faith and Una, Jerry and Carl, Jem and Walter, Nan and Di, and Mary Vance. They had been having a special celebration, for it would be Jem's last evening in Rainbow Valley. On the morrow he would leave for Charlottetown to attend Queen's Academy. Their charmed circle would be broken; and, in spite of the jollity of their little festival, there was a hint of sorrow in every gay young heart.

"See -- there is a great golden palace over there in the sunset," said Walter, pointing. "Look at the shining tower -- and the crimson banners streaming from them. Perhaps a conqueror is riding home from battle -- and they are hanging them out to do honour to him."

"Oh, I wish we had the old days back again," exclaimed Jem. "I'd love to be a soldier -- a great, triumphant general. I'd give EVERYTHING to see a big battle."

Well, Jem was to be a soldier and see a greater battle than had ever been fought in the world; but that was as yet far in the future; and the mother, whose first-born son he was, was wont to look on her boys and thank God that the "brave days of old," which Jem longed for, were gone for ever, and that never would it be necessary for the sons of Canada to ride forth to battle "for the ashes of their fathers and the temples of their gods."

The shadow of the Great Conflict had not yet made felt any forerunner of its chill. The lads who were to fight, and perhaps fall, on the fields of France and Flanders, Gallipoli and Palestine, were still roguish schoolboys with a fair life in prospect before them: the girls whose hearts were to be wrung were yet fair little maidens a-star with hopes and dreams.

Slowly the banners of the sunset city gave up their crimson and gold; slowly the conqueror's pageant faded out. Twilight crept over the valley and the little group grew silent. Walter had been reading again that day in his beloved book of myths and he remembered how he had once fancied the Pied Piper coming down the valley on an evening just like this.

He began to speak dreamily, partly because he wanted to thrill his companions a little, partly because something apart from him seemed to be speaking through his lips.

"The Piper is coming nearer," he said, "he is nearer than he was that evening I saw him before. His long, shadowy cloak is blowing around him. He pipes -- he pipes -- and we must follow -- Jem and Carl and Jerry and I -- round and round the world. Listen -- listen -- can't you hear his wild music?"

The girls shivered.

"You know you're only pretending," protested Mary Vance, "and I wish you wouldn't. You make it too real. I hate that old Piper of yours."

But Jem sprang up with a gay laugh. He stood up on a little hillock, tall and splendid, with his open brow and his fearless eyes. There were thousands like him all over the land of the maple.

"Let the Piper come and welcome," he cried, waving his hand. "I'LL follow him gladly round and round the world."

<eob>

The Submarine Boys Trial Trip: "Making Good" As Young Experts

By

Victor G. Durham



Chapter I

A Big Cloud On The Submarine Horizon


"At what time did you say that the 'Pollard' was due to be back, Mr. Farnum?"

"At two o'clock," replied the owner of the boat-building yard at the little seaport town of Dunhaven.

"It's within five minutes of that hour, now."

"So it is," nodded the owner of the yard, after briefly consulting his watch.

For half an hour, or a little longer, a middle aged man, with the world of business and large affairs imprinted on him, had been walking to and fro along the shore end of the yard. In this walk he was accompanied by his son, a handsome, dark-eyed and dark-haired young fellow of nineteen. George Melville, the father, was attired very much as any prosperous, busy man might have been, with a touch of fastidiousness added, but the son, Don, was dressed and groomed to look just what he wanted to appear to be, the born young aristocrat.

"Punctuality is one of the cardinal virtues with me, you know," continued Mr. Melville, impatiently, as he again glanced at his watch. "I had hoped to be able to see your submarine boat, the 'Pollard,' this afternoon."

"And I certainly hope you will be able to," replied Jacob Farnum, cordially. This builder, a young man in his thirties, allowed a shade of uneasiness to flit across his face.

"However, when Don is in command of the boat," continued Mr. Melville, "things will doubtless be run on a better system. That is, if we should decide to invest the money and place Don on board as captain."

"Your son?" inquired Jacob Farnum, with a quick note of astonishment in his voice.

"Certainly," continued Mr. Melville, in the easy voice of one who is sure of his ground. "If my friends and myself decide to invest the required several hundred thousand dollars in your business, the first step of the reorganization on a broader basis will be the placing of my son in command of your boat."

"Hm!" murmured Jacob Farnum.

"Don is wholly fitted for learning the work that I have cut out for him," pursued Mr. Melville. "He has frequently taken command of my steam yacht, the 'Greyhound,' and my sailing master, Captain Carson, assures me that Don is not only a splendid sailor, but born to command. So, after a little time spent in mastering details, Don will make the ideal captain for the 'Pollard'."

"I have a very capable young man in charge now," said Mr. Farnum. "Captain Jack Benson has already done a few things with the boat that have astonished Naval officers."

"How old is this fellow Benson?" inquired Mr. Melville.

"Sixteen."

"Only sixteen?" queried Mr. Melville, in a voice of amazement. "Bah! He is entirely too young to be entrusted with the hopes of such a great boat-building company as I hope to help you organize. Don, too, is quite young, but he has a great deal of capacity and has had a valuable lot of experience. As to a boy of sixteen -- however, your youth, Benson, may no doubt be retained aboard as a member of the crew, if Don likes him. And now, sir, it's two minutes of two."

With another impatient frown Mr. Melville held his watch out before Mr. Farnum's eyes. That younger man hardly saw the dial. He was looking past, out beyond the mouth of the little cove or harbor. As he did so, Mr. Farnum beheld what, at first, looked like a big ripple spreading over the placid water. Then the top of a steel conning tower shot up into sight. It was followed by the emergence of the upper hull of a strange looking cigar-shaped craft.

"Two minutes before the hour, did you say?" asked Jacob Farnum, placidly. "Well, there's the 'Pollard,' just up from the depths, and gliding in to anchorage."

Don Melville had strolled away from the pair, but now, at a call from his father, he turned to watch the oncoming craft, which was none other than the new submarine torpedo boat, the "Pollard."

The elder Melville was judge enough of boats and of boat-handling to understand that the submarine was being brought into harbor in a very clever, seamanlike manner.

"She's still running under electric power, you know," explained Mr. Farnum. "The distance is so short that Captain Benson doesn't consider it worth while to start the gasoline engine."

Now, the boat came to a stop, with a slight reversing of her propellers. At this moment the manhole cover of the conning tower was raised. Out onto the platform deck surrounding the tower Captain Jack Benson nimbly stepped. As he took the wheel in the open, the craft glided on with hardly perceptible motion to a mooring buoy a few yards distant. Out hopped another boy, in dark blue naval uniform and visored cap. This youth, Eph Somers, ran nimbly forward over the hull. At just the right instant Eph bent over, securing the forward tackle to the buoy, then straightened up, saluting the young captain, as he called:

"Single tackle all fast, sir."

Now, a third boy, in uniform similar to those worn by the other two, sprang out through the manhole. Hal Hastings, who had remained behind to shut off the electric motor, waved his cap to Mr. Farnum.

"Well done, Captain Benson and crew!" shouted Jacob Farnum, heartily, across the water.

"It won't take you long to be able to beat that performance, I take it, Don," smiled the elder Melville at his Son. Don's upper lip curled just perceptibly. Jacob Farnum frowned slightly, as he turned his face away. It would not do to offend George Melville without cause, for that gentleman was considering the raising of six or seven hundred thousand dollars of additional working capital for the making of submarine boats.

"We're coming aboard, captain," added Mr. Farnum, shouting between his hands, across the water. "Everything ship-shape for inspection?"

"Aye, aye, sir!" Captain Jack responded.

"It was a shame, really, to ask that question," laughed Mr. Farnum, turning to his companions. "Benson was all but born aboard a boat, and he's a genuine old maid for having things aboard in apple-pie order. His two friends are just like him in that respect."

Upon being signaled two workmen of the yard came hastily down to the water's edge. They seated themselves at the oars of a large yawl, while Mr. Farnum and his guests stepped into the boat.

"Give way, and lay us alongside of the 'Pollard,'" directed the boatbuilder.

Captain Jack, Hal Hastings and Eph Somers still remained standing at ease on the platform deck of the submarine craft. They were but a few weeks older than when they appeared before the readers of the first volume in this series, "The Submarine Boys On Duty." Readers of that volume are familiar with the story of how Jack Benson and Hal Hastings appeared in Dunhaven; how they made the acquaintance, first of David Pollard, the submarine's inventor, and then of Jacob Farnum, the boat's builder and financial backer. Readers of the first volume also remember how Eph Somers appeared unexpectedly on the scene, and just how he coolly put himself into the submarine picture, securing his place aboard that wonderful craft. Those who read the first volume are familiar with the way in which the boys met and vanquished the savage hostility of Josh Owen and Dan Jaggers; they remember the desperate battle, in the ocean's depths, with the crazy boatswain's mate. They recall the dashing, laughable prank that Captain Jack played on one of the big battleships of the Naval maneuvers fleet, and remember the pretty romance, in which the submarine boys aided greatly, through which Mr. Farnum secured beautiful Grace Desmond as his bride. Our readers who have pored over the pages of the preceding volume, in fact, will recall all the many adventures through which Jack, Hal and Eph passed with daring and credit.

All the people in the world move forward -- or backward -- a bit every day. And so, while, our young friends were still aboard the "Pollard," and happy, affairs were shaping that might alter the whole current of their lives, their ambitions and their hopes. Convinced that he could, by the use of sufficient energy and capital, equip a larger yard and sell the United States Government a solid, efficient fleet of submarine torpedo boats that would constitute a fearful menace on the waves -- or under them -- to any foreign foe, Jacob Farnum had now begun to look about for the necessary capital with which to expand what he believed to be a highly promising business.

Thus it happened that the two Melvilles now came upon the scene. The elder possessed a good deal of spare money, and could influence several business friends into investing heavily. It was George Melville's habit to acquire control, gradually, of any business in which he invested heavily. He had wonderful skill in that line of conduct, and combined much tact with it. Mr. Melville, going into a new business, and contributing capital heavily, was accustomed to securing whole control of the business before his associates quite realized what was happening.

Now, as this capitalist climbed up the side and stood on the platform deck, looking about him, he began to picture himself as selling a fleet of such boats -- all of them practically his -- to the Government.

"Not much of a place, this deck, to stand on and handle a vessel through rough weather?" he inquired, looking sharply at Mr. Farnum.

"No," admitted the builder, adding with a smile: "Of course, it takes the cream of our seafaring men to travel in such craft, anyway. Such men can stand discomfort and any amount of danger, at need. Ask Captain Benson."

Young Captain Jack smiled quietly. He and his two comrades guessed that George Melville was one of the capitalists whom Farnum was trying to interest in the business.

"Let us go below," suggested Mr. Melville. "Don, use your eyes to good advantage. You may have need of all you can learn about such boats."

Don Melville inclined his head, but said nothing. Farnum led them below. Captain Jack helped the builder in explaining the general working details of the boat. Hal and Eph answered such questions as were put to them by father or son.

"It's all very interesting," said Mr. Melville, slowly, at last. "Farnum, let us go up on deck a few minutes. Don, you might remain below. I have no doubt there is still much that you want to see."

So Don remained below. The boys of the submarine's crew, feeling that Mr. Farnum would want to be alone with his guest, also remained below.

"Do you -- er -- like this sort of thing, Benson?" asked Don Melville.

"The submarine boat work, you mean?" asked Captain Jack, brightly. "Why, it's my life -- my very life!"

The glow that came to the cheeks of the young submarine captain bore out his words fully. Jack did love this fine craft. He gloried in having the command of her, though he never made the weight of his authority felt by his two comrades, who, indeed, virtually shared in the command. Captain Benson was especially proud and grateful at the confidence shown in himself and in his mates in being allowed full charge of the "Pollard." Love the life? It wouldn't be life, for him, without the "Pollard!"

Don began to ask some further questions about the boat. His tone was slightly supercilious. It was plain to be seen that he looked upon these daring, tried and proven youngsters as being decidedly his inferiors. Yet Jack fought against a growing feeling of irritation, giving good-humored and attentive answers.

Then Don went over to the little door of a compartment in the wall. Behind this door was some of the delicate mechanism -- invention of David Pollard -- by means of which the compressed air supply was better regulated than on any other type of submarine craft.

"Why, this place is locked," observed Don.

"Yes," nodded Captain Jack.

"You have the key?"

"I -- I believe so."

"Then be good enough to unlock this little door," ordered Don Melville.

"I hope you'll pardon me," said Captain Jack, quickly, yet politely. "It wouldn't be just the thing for me to do."

"Why not?" Don shot at him, coldly.

"Well -- because I've no orders from Mr. Farnum to that effect. Because -- well, behind that little door are a few mechanisms that amount to about the most important secret about the boat."

"Then you refuse to unlock that little door?" demanded Don, coldly, trying to disconcert the young captain by a steady, cold look into his eyes.

"Oh, no; I don't refuse," answered young Benson, in the same cool, pleasant tone. "But the order should come from Mr. Farnum. He's right overhead. You can call up to him. If he says so, then I'll unlock it with pleasure."

"Benson," retorted Don Melville, again trying to disconcert the young captain with a stare of cold insolence, "I guess you don't understand quite who I am."

"If I don't, I shall be glad to be enlightened," laughed Jack, softly. "Who are you?"

"I'm the son of the man who expects to put a big amount of capital into this enterprise. Farnum wants my father to do it."

"Then I hope your father does," nodded Jack Benson, with a look of polite interest.

"Of course, in that case," pursued Don, "the whole business will be reorganized."

"I should imagine so," nodded Jack.

"And, as a part of that reorganization, I'm to have command of the 'Pollard,' and of any other boats that may be built here!"

Captain Jack Benson's face blanched in an instant. He did not falter, but he felt, for the moment, as though he had been stabbed to the heart. Hal Hastings gave a little, barely perceptible gasp. Eph Somers, with a snort of wrath, turned and stepped through into the motor room.

"I'm to command this boat, and the others that may be built; that's one of my father's conditions in putting up the required capital," continued Don Melville. "Of course, I shall select my own helpers and crews. If you three are really competent, and show sufficient respect for authority over you, I may be able to provide some sort of places for you aboard this boat and the new one that's being built. Now, do you understand who I am?"

"I've heard all you said," replied Captain Jack, dully. He was so dazed, so tormented, that, for the moment, he did not dare trust himself to make more of a reply.

"Don!" called the elder Melville, briskly. "We're going on shore now. You'd better leave your further studies aboard until to-morrow."

"Good-bye, then, lads," said Don Melville, laying a hand on the nickeled railing of the spiral stairway leading up through the conning tower. He spoke with a trace more of cordiality as he started up the steps: "When I come aboard next I trust there will be no misunderstanding of new facts."

Jack Benson still stood by the little cabin table, resting one hand on it. His eyes were turned toward the floor, his chest heaving. The blow had struck him like a bolt from a clear, sunny sky!

"That cold duffer coming aboard to boss us all around like cattle?" burst from Eph Somers, as he stamped out from the engine room.

"Confound it!" growled Hal Hastings, savagely. "I don't believe the yarn. Do you?"

"I'm half afraid," replied Captain Jack, raising his eyes, "that I do."



Chapter II

A Submarine Stunt That Dumfiound The Beholders


"It ain't true! Can't be! I won't believe it!" declared Eph, in a rage.

"We've had such a good time aboard, and have been so proud of what we've been able to do," added Hal, chokingly.

"Mr. Farnum won't put that snob in here!" asserted Eph. "Not in charge, anyway. Why, Mr. Farnum couldn't stand the fellow any more than we could."

"Fellows," rejoined Jack, looking at the hot faces of his mates, "we mustn't be too hasty, even in talking among ourselves."

"That fellow's a snob," asserted Eph. "I'll stand by that anywhere."

"I don't know that I'd say that," replied young Benson, who had recovered his calmness. "In the first place, Don Melville has evidently had a golden spoon in his mouth from the day of his birth. He's used to having things his own way. He may be all right at bottom."

"Then that's where I hope he goes," quivered Eph. "Straight to the bottom! Under a hundred fathoms of good salt water!"

"We may like him better when we know him," ventured Jack.

"I'm betting though," put in Hal, thoughtfully, "that we're much more likely to like him less."

"He's a duffer!" snorted Eph.

"We may have to change our minds about that," smiled Jack, dully.

"Ain't he a rich man's son?" demanded Eph, blazing.

"That doesn't make him out a fool or a dullard," retorted the young captain. "Rich men's sons aren't as often fools as they're suspected of being. Some of them are mighty clever. The number of great American fortunes that are doubled, or trebled, in the second generation, show that."

"Then you're going to side with him?" sneered Eph.

"I don't know what I'm going to do, until the time comes," Captain Jack answered, quietly. "But I do know one thing I'm going to do, at any and all times -- and so are you fellows. You couldn't help it, if you tried."

"What's that?" Hal wanted to know.

"We're going to be as square with Jacob Farnum as he has always been with us. That carries with it the idea of a big lot of loyalty."

"Right!" agreed Hal.

"Of course," nodded Eph, less angrily. "Just as long as Farnum runs the business. But, if other folks get in here and get the control -- "

"Of course, we can drop out of this business at any time we want to, provided it wouldn't carry with it disloyalty to the employer who's been mighty good to us," supplied Jack Benson.

"Mr. Farnum sent the boat out, to see if you young men want to go ashore," announced a voice from above.

Within two minutes the three submarine boys were making for the shore. After reporting at the office of the yard, and finding that Mr. Farnum would not want them again that afternoon, the young cronies sauntered off up into the village. At Jack's suggestion they talked no more about the Melvilles for the present. Yet each felt as though a lump of lead lay against his heart.

Though they tried to enjoy themselves in the village, there was too great a weight of dread upon them. It began to look as though all the pleasure of their recent life must fade. Though Don Melville, if he secured command of the "Pollard," might tolerate them aboard, all three knew that they would feel the burden of his cool contempt for them as inferiors. Listlessly, at last, the three submarine boys turned back toward the yard, went aboard, cooked a supper for which they had no appetite, and then waited for turning-in time.

In the next few days there were many signs that Melville intended to find and supply the desired capital for the promotion of the yard's business. Don and his father were much about the place, though they rarely came out to the "Pollard." Business friends of Mr. Melville's also appeared. Finally there came an important looking lawyer and an expert accountant.

"I reckon it's all settled except the signing of the papers," ventured Hal Hastings.

"The toe of the boot for ours, then, or as bad," murmured Eph Somers sardonically.

During these days David Pollard, the inventor who had made this splendid type of submarine boat possible, did not appear. For one thing, he was away in secret, pondering over the invention of further appliances to be tried out on the boat now building. More than that, David Pollard, shy and with no head for affairs, entrusted all new business arrangements to Jacob Farnum, who, he felt sure, could be trusted with a friend's interests.

"It's tough to be poor," grimaced Hal Hastings. "If I had the money, I'd put it into the business for the sake of keeping my berth aboard, and having things as pleasant as we've had 'em all along."

"So would I," grunted Eph. "But what's the use of talking, when this is all the capitalist that I am?"

He took out four paper dollars, passing them ruefully between his fingers.

"Why don't you say something, Jack?" demanded Hal. "Dry of words, for once?"

"I'm thinking," responded young Benson, absently.

"Well, it's a sure thing that thinking does less harm than talking," nodded Hal.

"But when a fellow's silent he can't spit out all that's boiling inside of him," snorted Eph Somers.

"I'm getting ready to talk presently," smiled Captain Jack.

"If it's anything strong, say it now," begged Eph.

The three boys were sitting about the cabin table. Eph sat with his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, his eyes glaring defiantly at the wall opposite. Hal, rather listless, sat low in his chair, his feet well under the table, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Jack sat leaning slightly forward, his left hand tapping lightly against the polished surface of the table.

"Tell you what I'm going to do," suddenly exploded Eph. "I'm going to Jake Farnum and ask him, straight, whether that snob of a duffer is going to be put in here over us, with leave to kick us out when he chooses."

"Don't you do it," advised Hal, with a shake of his head.

"Why not?"

"Our employer is absorbed, and, troubled as much as he wants to be, now," rejoined Hastings. "When there's anything he wants us to know, and he can find time, he'll tell us."

"Huh!" half assented Eph.

"Don't be forward about it," continued Hal. "Just play the waiting game and rely upon Mr. Farnum being as fair and square as he has any chance to be."

"Hum" again nodded Eph. "Well, anyway, with farm labor at a premium, I'm not going to stay aboard to black the duffer's shoes."

"Fellows, listen!" commanded Jack Benson, suddenly looking up.

Then he told them both the thought and the scheme that had been in his mind all that day. While the young captain was talking his two mates were still -- Hal, because it was his nature, and Eph Somers because he was actually staggered into silence.

"That's what I've been thinking of," Jack wound up.

"Don't you do it, old fellow -- don't you dare!" ordered Hal, sitting up straighter and resting an appealing hand on his chum's shoulder.

"But think of the lives that have been lost on submarine boats during the last few years," pleaded Jack Benson, seriously.

"And you want to add your life to the others," retorted Hal, with mocking irony.

"I want to save, perhaps, hundreds of lives in the future," returned Jack, spiritedly.

"Then, at least, old chum," begged Hal, "tell your scheme to Mr. Farnum, and let him hire a trained diver to make the experiment."

"You think there's a lot of danger in it, do you?" queried Captain Jack, mildly.

"I certainly do," said Hastings, with emphasis.

"Then I'll do the trick myself," contended Jack. "I'm not going to think up a trick too dangerous for myself, and then hire another man to take all the risk for me."

Hal said no more. He knew the folly of trying to persuade his chum out of a decision like the present one.

"I don't believe Farnum will let you try it," hinted Eph. "It sounds too dangerous."

"Mr. Farnum won't know what it is until it's been done," responded young Captain Benson, with a light laugh, as he rose from the table. "Fellows, I'm going on shore for a little while. Look the electric motor over, and test the compressed air apparatus. We want to be sure that everything is working right."

"Let me go ashore with you," suggested Hal, also rising.

"Not this time," laughed Jack. "You might try to say something to Mr. Farnum to queer my plan. Stay here. You and Eph make mighty sure that everything is in running order."

Going on deck, Captain Jack signaled for a shore boat, which was quickly alongside. Landing, the young captain walked slowly up to the yard office, thinking deeply all the time.

Just as the young submarine commander entered the outer office Jacob Farnum stepped out from his private, inner office. He was smoking a cigar, and looked as though he had come out to stretch his legs.

"Hullo, Jack," he greeted the young man, pleasantly. "Say, I hope you haven't come to talk business. Say something foolish, won't you, lad? I'm just in the mood for nonsense. All forenoon I've had my head crammed to bursting with figures and business, and now I'm in the mood for something reckless. You see, Melville is in a position to command a lot of capital, and we need it to expand this business. He's in there, now, with another capitalist, a lawyer and an accountant. But I had to break away. What do you know that's reckless?"

Jacob Farnum was not playing any part of treachery, or deception, in not telling his submarine boys about the proposed shifting of command to Don Melville's shoulders. The fact was that George Melville, after that first hint, had said nothing more about the subject, but was now craftily laying the wires for securing gradual control of the shipyard's enterprises.

"Why, I am glad to find you at leisure, and willing to be amused," smiled Captain Jack, quietly. "Will it be too much like business if I ask you down to the water to watch a little demonstration that we want to make with the 'Pollard'?"

"Is it something brand-new?" laughed Mr. Farnum, resting an arm on the young captain's shoulder.

"So far as I know, it's shiningly new," laughed Jack Benson.

"What is it?"

"If you don't mind, Mr. Farnum, I'd rather show it to you first."

"How long will the demonstration take?"

"It ought not to require more than fifteen or twenty minutes, sir."

"I'll take you up, then," agreed Mr. Farnum, pleasantly.

Just at that moment the inner door opened. Mr. Melville came out, followed by his lawyer, Don bringing up the rear of the file.

"I guess you'd better come along with me, gentlemen," called Mr. Farnum. "Captain Benson has just invited me to witness something new in the submarine line."

"What is it?" questioned Mr. Melville.

"I don't know," admitted Jacob Farnum.

"What is it, boy?" demanded Mr. Melville, turning upon Jack. The very tone in which the word "boy" was uttered was meant to reduce the youthful captain to confusion, but it had the opposite effect. Though it brought a quick flush to Jack's cheeks, he answered, courteously:

"It is intended, principally, as a surprise to Mr. Farnum. If I were to tell, now, it would rob him of much of the pleasure of being astonished."

To this George Melville did not deign to reply, though he compressed his lips grimly enough. Don flashed a sneering look at Jack, then observed:

"You're pretty independent for a boy."

"Let Captain Jack alone," drawled Farnum, expelling some cigar smoke between his lips. "He generally knows what he's doing."

Though there was nothing in the builder's tone at which offense could be taken, this reply quieted both Melvilles for the time being.

"Come on. We'll all go down to the shore and see what it is," added the yard's owner.

Captain Jack hurried ahead, entered the shore boat and was rowed out alongside the "Pollard."

"It's all right, fellows," he called, as soon as he boarded. "Everything ready?"

Receiving assurance that all was ready, Captain Jack turned to wave his hand to the little group watching from the shore. Two or three minutes later the "Pollard" slipped slowly away from her moorings, going out where the little harbor was deeper. Then, the manhole being closed, the submarine began to sink. Her conning tower was soon out of sight beneath the surface.

"There's about seventy feet of water, where the boat is going down," observed Farnum, to his guests.

"What's the aim of all this mysterious work?" demanded Mr. Melville, with some irritation.

"You know as much as I do," drawled Farnum, smilingly.

"It seems to me that you allow this young boat tender a good deal of latitude, and tolerate a good deal of mystery in him," cried the capitalist, impatiently.

"I have a good deal of confidence in my young captain," returned Farnum, good-humoredly, though with considerable emphasis on the title. "So far I have never had any need to regret giving Captain Benson rather a free hand."

"Yet you -- "

Mr. Melville stopped right there, for Jacob Farnum, his eyes turned in a steady look out over the water, suddenly emitted an incredulous whoop. Then, without explanation, the boatbuilder broke into a dead run that carried him along the shore to the northern edge of the little harbor.

Nor was Mr. Farnum's astonishment to be wondered at, for he had just caught sight of Jack Benson's head, above the water at the point where the submarine had gone down. And now, Captain Jack, after blowing out a mouthful of water, had started to swim ashore with long, easy strokes.

Not quite catching the great significance of it all, the Melvilles and the lawyer hurried after the builder.

Captain Jack Benson, clad only in a bathing suit, stepped out of the water and stood laughing before his employer.

"Jack, how on earth did you -- " began Farnum, then stopped, overpowered by another wave of amazement.

"What's the meaning of all this?" demanded the elder Melville, pantingly, as he reached the scene.

"Mr. Melville, and gentlemen," cried the boatbuilder, wheeling upon his guests, "do you even begin to grasp the importance of the marvel you have just witnessed? One of the great indictments found against the submarine torpedo boat is that, when one sinks and cannot be brought to the surface again, the crew must miserably perish. Very humane people shudder at the very idea of ordering men into a craft that may go to the bottom and become the hopeless grave of the crew. Yet the 'Pollard' lies at the bottom of this harbor, and Captain Benson has just come to the surface, laughing and uninjured."

"I suppose he opened the manhole cover, and rose to the surface," hazarded Mr. Melville.

"In that case, sir," smiled Captain Jack, "wouldn't you expect the 'Pollard' to be filled with water, and my companions drowned? Besides, sir, at a depth of seventy feet, the pressure of the water is such that it would be sheer impossibility to raise the manhole cover."

"Then how did you get here?" demanded the capitalist.

"Pardon me, sir," replied Jack, courteously, though firmly.

"Do you refuse to answer my question, boy?"

Again the irritating, half-contemptuous use of "boy" made Jack's cheeks flush, though he answered merely:

"I think, sir, Mr. Farnum has a right to the first information."

"Do you understand, boy, that I am about to take a large interest in this business?"

"I have heard so, sir. But I hope you won't mind my saying that this little surprise was thought out by my comrades and myself. It seems to me, therefore, that we have some rights in the disclosing of the secret."

"Humph!" broke in Don Melville. "It's all some deception -- some cheap trick, anyway."

Captain Jack held up one hand to signal the shore boat, which, with two workmen in it, was hovering near. As the boat came in, the submarine boy announced:

"Now, I will show you the rest of the principle that my mates and I are demonstrating. Mr. Farnum, by the way, has just spoken of the humane side of this discovery, the making possible the rescue of a crew of a boat that can't be made to rise. Gentlemen, there's still another side to it. Under actual war conditions, with a submarine boat guarding a coast or harbor entrance, if the commander of the boat brought the conning tower above the surface, the presence of the boat would be detected on a clear day. But the head of a swimmer rising from the boat could not be observed at any very great distance. Yet the swimmer could make out the hull or masts of a hostile vessel some miles away. This new trick is likely to make submarine boats much more valuable to the countries owning them. Now, I want to try something else, and see whether I can do it."

The shore boat put in when called. In the bow was a hundred-pound anchor, with plenty of cable to pay out after it. Captain Jack entered the boat, looked over the anchor tackle, then returned to shore.

"Come to me where I stop," he directed the men in the boat. With that, after getting his bearings fully, he swam out, counting his strokes as he went.

"It's about here that I came up," he called, pausing and treading water easily. "Bring the boat here."

Clambering aboard, he directed the casting of the anchor overboard. Then, poising himself at the bow, he made a strong dive, vanishing under the water.

"What's he going to do now?" asked Mr. Melville, curiously.

"I'd rather wait than guess," smiled Mr. Farnum.

For just an instant Don Melville looked, as he felt, green with envy.

Some moments passed. Then, not far from the spot where the "Pollard" had gone down, her conning tower appeared once more. That was followed by the emergence of the platform deck and upper hull above the water. In another moment the tower manhole was opened, and Jack Benson, with a wave of the hand, stepped out, his bathing suit changed for his uniform. He lifted his cap in a joyous salute to those on shore.

"By Jove, Jack, but you're a wonder!" shouted Mr. Farnum across the water. "I'll have Dave Pollard excited when I write him about this thing. But you have me guessing how the trick was done."

Once more Benson signaled the small boat in close, after the anchor had been lifted. Now, the young submarine captain came in to shore.

"You come on board with me, Mr. Farnum?" invited Jack.

"Are you going to show him how you worked the trick?" demanded Mr. Melville, quickly.

"Yes, sir."

"Then I believe we'll all come on board."

"I -- I am sorry, sir." Jack hesitated. "If anyone but Mr. Farnum comes aboard I shall show nothing. Later on, when Mr. Farnum and I have talked this matter over -- "

"Are you going to stand for this boy's nonsense, Farnum?" broke in the capitalist, angrily.

"I guess I shall have to," responded the builder, with the pronounced drawl which, with him, was a sign that he was close to inward anger. "Mr. Melville, I must beg you to remember that the secret, whatever it is, belongs, so far, to Captain Benson. You may not approve, but I think he is wholly right in this instance."

The capitalist bowed stiffly. He and his son remained on the shore as Farnum embarked with his young employe. They were soon on board the "Pollard," which was not long in sinking. Then, after a few minutes, Jack's head once more shot above the water. The shore boat was waiting, and again dropped the anchor close to where the boy had come up. Jack stood in the boat for a few minutes, taking in deep breaths and sunning his wet skin. Then, for the second time, he dived below the surface.

Five minutes afterward the "Pollard" was at the surface and moving back to her moorings. Mr. Farnum and Captain Jack returned to the shore. The boatbuilder's face was glowing with delight.

"You saw our young captain come up while I was with the 'Pollard' down on the bottom, didn't you?" inquired the yard's owner.

"Yes," admitted Mr. Melville, grudgingly, while Don half scowled, then turned his head away. "But how is the thing done?"

"That," replied Jacob Farnum, courteously, "at the request of Captain John Benson, must remain a secret for the present."

"Oh!" said the capitalist, but his tone was ominous.



Chapter III

Mr. Melville Hurls The Crash


It was really a wonderful, even if a very simple, revolution in the handling of submarine boats that Jack Benson had thought out.

Up to that time many scores of lives had been lost, in different parts of the world, when the crews of submarine boats had found, for one reason or another, that they could not raise their craft from the bottom of the depths. Formerly, when crews found themselves placed in that predicament, death followed.

Jack's solution was wonderfully simple. In brief, when the "Pollard" lay on the bottom of the little harbor at Dunhaven, the young captain had crawled into the long tube through which torpedoes were to be discharged in war time.

One end of this torpedo tube projects slightly into the water, at the bow of the submarine boat. The other end of the tube is well inside the craft. Two doors, or "ports," as they are called, close the tube at the ends. Ordinarily the forward port is closed, to keep water from entering the boat. When a torpedo is placed in the tube for firing, the outer or forward port is opened automatically just at the instant of discharging the torpedo. Enough compressed air is turned into the tube to force the torpedo out, after which the torpedo goes on its deadly journey propelled by its own motor. The presence of the air thus turned into the tube at the instant of firing keeps out the water until the tube's forward port is once more closed. Then the rear port of the tube, inside the submarine boat, may be opened whenever it is desired.

Captain Jack Benson, when he reached bottom with the "Pollard," and had donned his bathing suit, crawled into the tube through the rear port. This port was then closed. Hal Hastings simultaneously opened the outer port and discharged compressed air into the tube. Thus Jack forced his way out into the water, and, with the aid of his natural buoyancy, made a quick swim for the surface.

In returning, he had dived down, close to the anchor cable. Nearer the bottom he seized the cable, thus hauling himself down to the outer port of the torpedo tube. He had quickly crawled into the tube, where the presence of air still kept the water out. As he knocked heavily at the rear port with both hands, Hal swiftly turned in a moderate discharge of compressed air, while Eph, controlling mechanism inside, swung the forward port shut. Then the rear port was swung back, Captain Jack crawling back into the forward compartment of the boat.

"The whole trick is rather easy," Jack informed Mr. Farnum, as they walked that night in the village and discussed the matter in undertones.

"But you were in not more than seventy feet of water there," suggested the builder. "You couldn't do it at much greater depth."

"At eighty feet of water I could do it," replied Benson, thoughtfully.

"But at a greater depth than eighty feet -- ?"

"Of course, the deeper one gets, the more tremendous the pressure of the water is," answered the young captain. "At a depth of a hundred feet, say, the pressure of the water would be enough to crowd me back into the tube, crushing my body."

"And killing you," clicked Mr. Farnum.

"Undoubtedly. Yet seventy feet is as deep as one need go. Fifty feet is far enough below the surface, for that matter. And we have the splendid little 'Pollard' under such perfect control that we can drop to fifty feet below the surface, as shown by our submersion gauge, and keep just at that depth."

"It's all wonderful," cried the boatbuilder. "Jack, you are a genius at this work!"

"There are some rather big problems to be worked out, in connection with this new idea," hinted Benson.

"What are the problems?"

"Well, in observing a stretch of water, for the position or approach of a hostile battleship, it might be necessary for the swimmer to go up several times."

"Yes -- ?"

"That would call for a very considerable use of compressed air."

"Naturally."

"So, in the boat now building, Mr. Farnum, I think Mr. Pollard and yourself should provide for the carrying of greater quantities of compressed air. For, when a submarine is below, you must always have reserve tanks of compressed air to be used in bringing the boat to the surface. Of course, once on the surface, with the motor going, more compressed air can be quickly stored."

"You've been doing some busy thinking, Jack," spoke Mr. Farnum, approvingly.

"I haven't been doing it all, sir," was Benson's quick reply. "Hal and Eph have been talking it all over with me."

"The Melvilles are very anxious to find out how you performed the seemingly wonderful feat of leaving the submerged boat and then returning to it."

"Are you going to tell them, sir."

"Not, at any rate, until I've taken more time to think about it. Yet, you understand, Jack, I can't be too offish with them. They are able to control the investment of a good deal of money, and that money I am afraid we are going to need if we are to go as steeply as we'd like into the building of submarines."

Jacob Farnum, it will be remembered, had married Grace Desmond, an heiress. Her affairs were not yet fully settled through the probate court, but she would presently be entitled to about a half million dollars in her own right. To many it would have seemed that, with a wife so rich, the inventor would not have to look far to find abundant capital. Jacob Farnum, however, knew the hazards that surround even the best conducted business concerns, and he had determined that not a penny of his young wife's fortune should be risked in his own ventures. In other words, it was a point of honor with him not to take the slightest risk of involving his wife's private fortune.

The following morning David Pollard was on hand, in response to a telegram from his friend. Things were now about in shape for final discussion between Melville, the builder and the inventor.

In the private inner office of the shipyard the group of those most interested gathered. Jacob Farnum seated himself beside his desk, Pollard taking a chair close by. Lawyer Demarest, with a pile of impressive looking documents before him, sat at a large flat-top desk. Melville, senior, and two business friends, sat a little apart, while Don Melville stood behind his father.

"I will say, in beginning," commenced George Melville, in his smoothest, blandest tones, "that we have talked so far, you and I, Mr. Farnum, only in general terms. We will now come to the definite proposition under which my friends and myself are willing to contribute the share of new capital that you want in your business."

"That is what I most want, before we go any further," assented Mr. Farnum. "I will say, however, that I have in mind a proposition that I would like to submit, before we hear from your side."

"I am listening," nodded Mr. Melville, suavely.

"We have already decided," continued Mr. Farnum, "that my boat yard, with all its equipment, and including the ownership of the 'Pollard,' may be fairly rated at three hundred thousand dollars."

"That is quite true," nodded Mr. Melville. "That figure is in accordance with the estimates made by our expert accountant."

"In the boat itself," continued Jacob Farnum, "my friend Pollard has a stated amount of interest. To come quickly to the point, then, I propose that Pollard and myself, with the aid of a necessary third party -- my superintendent, Partridge, for instance -- form a stock company with a capital stock of three hundred thousand dollars. Then the six hundred and fifty thousand dollars that you and your associates are to advance, Mr. Melville, may be secured by an issue of bonds, which the company will secure authority to issue. These bonds will bear the unusually high interest of seven per cent., and this interest, of course, will have to be paid before any dividend can be declared on the capital stock of the company. That will retain the control of the company in my hands, and in Pollard's, and that is what we want."

"Yet do you expect that it will be easy to secure such an understanding with capital?" inquired Mr. Melville, easily. "The proposition amounts to this: That you put in the smaller amount of capital, and yet expect to reap the greater profits."

"By no means," replied Jacob Farnum, seriously. "We have demonstrated the value of our type of boat, and we have some valuable knowledge and ideas that cannot be appraised in dollars. So, though our amount of material capital is less than you and your associates would contribute, we feel that we are bringing to the enterprise the larger share."

"I see your point," nodded Mr. Melville, pleasantly. "Yet there is much to be discussed from our side."

So the contest was on -- the quiet, polite battle that is as old as capital itself. The men who contribute the money expect the control of the business; the men who contribute the ideas and knowledge expect, capital to be satisfied with a good return on its money.

Both sides were silent for awhile. The lawyer, tapping a pencil against his lips, knew that George Melville did not intend to go into the enterprise on any arrangement that did not allow him to gain business control swiftly and surely.

"We have much to discuss, along these lines," pursued Mr. Melville, in his smoothest tones and with his friendliest air. "But I have no doubt at all, Mr. Farnum, that we shall presently reach a basis that will be wholly agreeable to both sides."

Which, on the contrary, was what the capitalist knew to be impossible. Melville found himself wishing that something else would come into the conversation, in order to get the boatbuilder's mind briefly away from the main proposition.

Steps were heard, at this moment, in the outer office, and then the faces of Jack and Hal appeared close to the glass in the door. Eph was not far behind them.

"Oh, my crew," nodded Mr. Farnum, looking up. "You remember our experiment, the other day, of having a man leave the boat while under water? Some other problems have come up in that connection. So I sent word to the young men, asking them to step over to the office as soon as convenient. I guess they did not quite understand, and were busy at the time, so that they have come over a little too late. I will step to the door, and so inform them."

Here was the diversion for which Mr. Melville had just been wishing.

"Don't dismiss them, please," urged the capitalist. "On the contrary, will you be good enough to ask them to step in here? There is something that it might be as well to make clear before them."

Bowing slightly, as he rose, Jacob Farnum stepped to the door, opening it.

"Come right in, boys," he requested. "Mr. Melville wishes to say something before you."

Each of the three submarine boys felt a quick throb at the heart. All had a suspicion that a blow might be about to fall. So they stepped inside, halting not far from Mr. Farnum's desk, and turning to face the Melville group.

Mr. Melville cleared his throat before he began:

"In the reorganization of affairs here, my investing friends and myself will be obliged to expect that the command of the 'Pollard' submarine boat will pass to my son, who will actively represent our group. My son, Don, will have charge and knowledge of the boat, its successors, and of all new ideas tried aboard, and he will safeguard, so far as may be necessary our interests. It is possible, however, that he may find it advisable to employ some or all of the present crew. That will, of course, be for him to decide in the near future."



Chapter IV

A Squall In An Office


Jack Benson paled, clenching his hands tightly. Hal Hastings raised his eyebrows slightly; he, too, changed color swiftly. Eph's face reddened; he had all he could do to keep from shouting outright.

Jacob Farnum flushed, half rose from his chair, then seated himself again and turned to look at the boys.

But George Melville appeared to have eyes, at that moment, for no one but young Captain John Benson.

Don stood just beyond his father's chair, regarding the leader of the submarine boys with a supercilious stare.

There was such silence, for a few seconds, that the ticking of the big clock in the corner sounded almost like hammer-blows.

"You understand fully, do you not, Benson?" demanded George Melville, breaking the silence.

"I heard you, sir," Jack replied, not without an effort.

"And what have you to say, Captain Benson?" inquired Mr. Farnum, speaking with some effort.

Captain Jack turned around to face his employer; the other two submarine boys wheeled with him.

"Mr. Farnum, we have been in your employ, and we have always taken your orders. If you say we are to be dropped from the boat's crew, we bow to what we can't prevent."

"No one has spoken -- definitely, that is -- of dropping you boys from the 'Pollard's' crew," interposed Mr. Melville, slowly. "I have only announced that in the reorganization of this enterprise the group that I represent will require that my son, Don, be placed in command of the 'Pollard,' and of any other submarine boats that may be built. If you do not like to work aboard the submarines, very likely we can find work for you at something in this yard."

Jacob Farnum exchanged a few words in an undertone with David Pollard. Now, the boat builder faced about.

"Mr. Melville," he began, "Mr. Pollard and I feel under a debt of deep obligation to Captain Benson and his mates. Boys though they are, they have done much to make the 'Pollard' as famous as it already is. Between an intelligent employer and a capable, honest employe there can be no question about gratitude. I speak for both Mr. Pollard and myself, therefore, when I say that it is our feeling that Captain Benson and his mates must continue in their present positions."

The color came back to Jack's face. Joy beamed out in his eyes. Hal looked as though he had been given a new lease of life.

"Hooray!" roared Eph. He gave two vigorous jig steps, then stopped, abashed.

"Excuse me, Mr. Farnum," he begged, shamefacedly.

"I do not think you quite understand," went on Mr. Melville, regarding the boatbuilder coldly. "The placing of my son as I have indicated is an absolute condition on the part of our group."

"And I have declined it," returned Mr. Farnum rising, and standing easily.

"Then you do not want our capital, Mr. Farnum?" sternly demanded Mr. Melville.

"Not on your conditions, sir!" came, sharply, from the boatbuilder.

"Oh, you will come to your senses, soon," rejoined the capitalist, coolly. "You need a good deal of money for the extension of your business, and we stand ready to supply it. All that is needed is the conceding of certain conditions, and we are ready to pass our checks for all the money you need. My associates and myself ask for nothing that is unfair. Now, will you take our money into your business, or will you go on in the old, slow way?"

David Pollard had risen, in some agitation, and had walked to the further end of the private office.

"Pardon me a moment," begged Farnum, then followed his friend. The two conversed in low tones.

"You may leave the room, boys," announced Mr. Melville, turning to eye Jack Benson.

Not one of the three stirred.

"Did you hear me?" insisted the capitalist, sharply.

"Yes, sir," answered Jack, quietly.

"Then why don't you go?"

"Mr. Farnum sent for us, and we are waiting to learn whether he is through with us for the present."

"You may take my word for it," snapped Mr. Melville. "Go!"

The submarine boys paid no heed to him.

"The impudent young beggars," sneered Don Melville. "Low-born, and no manners!"

Jack Benson turned, fixing his gaze upon Don's face Jack's look was full of contempt, though he spoke no word.

"Don't try any impudent airs on me," warned Don, flushing, then paling, as his fists doubled.

"Mr. Melville," broke in Jacob Farnum, returning, while David Pollard remained where he was, looking out of the window, "I think we can cut this scene very short. In the first place, in joining us, you demand that we treat with utter injustice bright young employees who have been extraordinarily faithful and devoted."

"You will soon come to see the need of that," replied the capitalist, with a light wave of his hand.

"We do not see it," replied Farnum. "Nor do we intend to. Further, we are disturbed by what you have made only too plain, that you intend to get complete control of this business, and make Pollard and myself merely subordinates in the affairs here."

"Not as bad as that," protested the capitalist, with a smile. "Of course, in view of the very large amount of money we are offering, we must have some voice in the management of -- "

"Not this business!" interjected the boatbuilder, with emphasis.

"But, man, you must have the money!"

"We'll do without it, or get it somewhere else," went on the boatbuilder, patiently. "We thank you, Mr. Melville, and those associated with you, but Mr. Pollard and I have decided to go no further in the present negotiations."

"What's that?" demanded George Melville, springing to his feet. "You don't want our money?"

"We won't take it -- not at the price you set on it," responded Farnum, bluntly.

For the first time the capitalist appeared decidedly uneasy.

"You don't mean this, Farnum," he answered. "You're excited; perhaps alarmed over something that I have said, or which you thought I intimated."

"I mean just what I have said, take my word for it, sir," retorted the boatbuilder. "We do not intend to look to you for any money that we need. That is final, and, therefore, that is all."

"All this change of front because of these wretched boys?" demanded George Melville, incredulously.

"Partly on account of your attitude toward these boys," admitted Mr. Farnum, "and also because Pollard and I now realize that you had intended to wrest control of this business from us."

"You're losing your senses," Stormed the capitalist, angrily. "Unless you at once come to a realization of it, all we can do is to wish you good morning."

Mr. Farnum bowed, silently, then moved toward the office door, opening it.

"Come on, gentlemen," cried Melville, stiffly, turning toward his own friends.

In silence the members of that group started across the floor. Mr. Farnum, surveying them inscrutably, still held the door open.

"This is dramatic -- and suicidal," said Mr. Melville, haughtily.

"You take it too seriously," replied the boatbuilder, with a slight smile. "It is only good morning."

"You're a fool, Farnum!" came the answer as Mr. Melville, in a rage, halted just inside the door. "And I warn you that, if we leave here, now, we shall not return, no matter how changed your attitude may become later. Have you any answer to that, sir?"

"Good morning," replied Jacob Farnum, with another courteous bow.

Stiffly, snorting but without words, George Melville walked out of the office, across the outer office, and out into the yard.

In the private office the three submarine boys stood as though riveted to the floor. They were astounded, and knew not what to say. They were overjoyed, but incapable of expressing any word of the gratitude that filled their young hearts.

David Pollard walked to a chair, dropping into it and studying the ceiling.

As for the boatbuilder, he stepped briskly across the room, pulling open the door of a cupboard. Taking out a broom, he began to sweep very carefully where the Melville group had sat or stood, and continued his sweeping across the threshold of the doorway. Then, returning, he tossed the broom into the cupboard. Stepping springily over, he dropped into his desk chair, letting out a hearty laugh.

"Well, that's over with, and a narrow escape," he announced.

"But you couldn't quite sweep all their dirt out after them," declared David Pollard, looking up with a smile.

"What do you think of that crowd, boys?" asked Jacob Farnum, cheerily.

"I'm not giving much thought to them, sir," Jack replied, adding warmly: "But we fellows, Mr. Farnum, simply can't think of words that will express how we appreciate the splendid way Mr. Pollard and yourself have stood up for us."

Jacob Farnum eyed the boys quizzically, then turned to the young captain of the submarine to inquire:

"Wouldn't you stand by me in anything? Wouldn't you yell for this yard and its product with your last gasp? Answer me."

"Why, of course we would," Jack Benson admitted.

"Then I take just offense, if you expect me to be any less of a man than yourself," declared Farnum, with a pretense of anger.

"The same sentiment puts me on record," chuckled David Pollard:

"Then let us forget the low comedy, the melodrama, or whatever it was," proposed the boatbuilder. "Let us get down to the regular business of the day. We want more money here, if we can get it on a fair and square basis. If we can't, we'll do our best to go along as we've been going. And now, Jack, and the rest of you, Pollard and I have a few little things to whisper over."



Chapter V

Don Melville Takes A Hand


"Are we at liberty to go up into the village, sir?" asked Jack Benson, pausing at the door.

"Fun?" demanded the boatbuilder, regard them with a dry smile.

"Yes, sir," Jack nodded. "That is, the kind of fun we find in our work. We want to get some metal, a few tools and other things, to rig up something that we think may serve well aboard the 'Pollard.'"

"Run right along then," rejoined Mr. Farnum. "Get a bill for whatever you spend at the toolshop and turn the bill in as expense account."

"Thank you. Good morning, sir."

"Say, did you ever see that beat?" demanded Eph, all aglow with enthusiasm, as the boys stepped across the yard. "My, but didn't Mr. Farnum call the trick with those fellows?"

"We've been doing a heap of useless worrying over what Don Melville let drop the other day, haven't we?" asked Hal, quietly.

"Fellows," stated Captain Jack, earnestly, "as long as we work for this pair of men I'm never going to be uneasy again over anything but displeasing them. They're bricks! They can count on us, every time!"

Up the street, a little way past the gate of the boatyard, the Melville party had halted to light cigars.

"I'm afraid, Melville," said one of the capitalist's associates, "you didn't go at the matter with quite your usual tact. You showed your hand too soon. You came out a little to hard, just a little, too early in the proceedings.

"Pooh!" retorted the capitalist. "We'll go to the hotel. Farnum will cool down soon enough, and realize what we represent to him. Inside of two hours he'll have people out to find out whether we've left town. Gentlemen, I don't know but it might be a good idea for us actually to leave Dunhaven."

"An excellent idea," replied Lawyer Demarest, dryly, "for we shall only waste our time by remaining here."

"What do you mean?" questioned the capitalist, quickly.

"Farnum won't send for us."

"He surely will, when he cools down."

"I'm positive that he won't," asserted the lawyer. "If I know anything about men Farnum will get along without us from now on."

"But he needs the money."

"He can get it, Melville, I am inclined to think," returned the man of the law.

"And we need the investment," continued George Melville. "Why, with my influential connections at Washington, and some other connections that I have, I can see a return of millions on our investment."

"You will never make the investment, as long as Jacob Farnum has the deciding word," insisted Mr. Demarest.

"I'm sure of that, too," added Mr. Faulkner.

"And all on account of those rascally boys!" uttered Don Melville, in a tone of disgust. "Isn't it funny how some folks will cling to muckers? Why, anyone would think that the fellow Benson and his chums are so necessary that the business couldn't go on without them. They're the -- "

"Hush!" murmured the lawyer. "Here come the boys."

Jack and his mates were at this moment coming out of the yard. They had turned on the sidewalk, and started along ere they caught sight of the group ahead.

"There's that infernal gang!" uttered Eph, wrathfully.

"Keep your eyes away from them, and don't say anything, then," whispered Jack. "Don't say or do anything that can possibly spoil the morning by putting us in the wrong."

But Don Melville, wrathful over the morning's happenings, and keenly disappointed over the knowledge that he could not hope to command the "Pollard," was not disposed to let the submarine boys go unchallenged.

On came Jack, Hal and Eph, walking abreast, yet ready to break and pass in silence.

"Dewey, Sampson & Schley!" jeered Don Melville, in a low tone, yet loud enough to be heard by Jack's party.

Yet the boys paid no heed, but would have passed in silence, had not Don added, insultingly:

"The three little muckers!"

That was too much for Eph. He couldn't help turning, the flush mounting to his cheeks, to retort:

"Speak for yourself!"

Don took a step forward. Eph, unable to ignore the implied challenge, wheeled about.

"Don't bother with the fellow, Eph," muttered Jack, gripping his bellicose chum by the arm.

"'Fellow'?" cried Don, hotly. "Do you mean that for me?"

"Well," demanded Jack, dryly, "you're not a girl, are you?"

At that Don Melville lost his temper hopelessly. Burning at a white heat, he hissed:

"I'll show you whether I am, or not, you cur!"

That word "cur" went far toward shattering Jack Benson's good resolutions. Letting go of Eph's arm he turned to glare at his tormentor.

"You need a lesson, mucker," added Don, hotly.

"Don't soil your hands on the fellow, Don," cried his father, sharply.

"I must, sir, after he has insulted me," cried Don, in a rage. "I must kick him, anyway."

"Nonsense, Don! No brawling with people of this class," commanded his father, sternly.

The elder Melville reached out to restrain his son, but that seemed only to render the young man more furious. He rushed at Jack, aiming a kick.

"Don't you dare try that!" warned young Benson, his eyes flashing.

But Don, despite both warnings, did swing his foot. Jack dodged the impact, then darted in at the side, landing a blow on young Melville's chest that sent him staggering back.

"Strike me, will you?" flashed Don, throwing himself on guard.

George Melville, aghast at Jack's presumption in attacking his son, now stepped back, satisfied that Don must avenge the insult.

A dozen boys, talking over baseball nearly a block away, saw the start of this encounter.

"Fight! fight!" they yelled, gleefully, and raced down the street.

The cries readied the private office in the boatyard. Suspecting, partly, what might be up, Jacob Farnum snatched his hat, running out. David Pollard followed.

"You young puppy!" almost screamed. "I'll teach you a lesson that you need."

"I'm usually particular about where I get my training," retorted Jack Benson, insulted and stung past his power to endure.

Yet Captain Jack did not attempt to follow up that first blow. Throwing himself into the attitude of defense, he waited.

Don Melville did not keep him long waiting, but rushed at the shorter youth, intent on sending him to earth.

"Hit him like a gentleman, Don!" called his father.

Whatever way that might be, Don Melville struck out, his blood at the white heat of rage. With such force did he aim the blow that, when nimble Captain Jack failed to be in the way to stop it, Don pitched forward, falling to his knees.

"Hooray!" yelled some of the on looking boys, derisively.

Jack halted before his foe, smiling at him quietly.

"Know any more stunning tricks like that one?" Benson inquired.

"I'll show you!" panted Don, leaping up. As he did so, he caught sight of the smiling faces of Messrs. Farnum and Pollard, strolling up from the boatyard gateway.

As he faced the smiling submarine boy, young Melville was quick to realize that he must cool down if he did not want to become a laughing stock for the street crowd that was swiftly forming. Half a dozen workmen employed in the yard had climbed up onto the fence.

"Mind you," said Jack, coolly, "I don't want to hurt you. You started this, Melville."

The sheer coolness of this speech once more carried Don Melville out of the bounds of reason. On the "gym" floor Don had studied the art of boxing well, but he had not learned all he needed to know about coolness.

"You young hound!" he snapped.

"You said something like that before," Jack laughed. "Is that all you can do? I feel as though I were wasting my time."

"Do you?" mocked Don. "Take that, then!"

This time he leaped forward, feinting with his left hand. But Jack was not to be caught like that. Instead, he parried against the real blow delivered with Don's right fist. The force of the parry threw Don to his left. Just at that instant Benson passed behind his opponent, landing a stinging blow on the other's neck. Down flat to the ground went the Melville heir, hitting his nose roughly and starting the blood.

"Hooray!" yelled a gleeful boy in the throng. "Say, ain't he fine at jiu-jitsu, though?"

A yell of great joy went up from some of the boys, who are always delighted at seeing the larger fellow thrashed, especially when he is the one who has started the trouble.

"Don't you think you'd better wait and cool down?" inquired Jack, dryly. "You're only making a show of yourself."

That taunt stung Don into rising and squaring off, while his father looked unutterably disgusted and angry over the ridiculous turn affairs had taken.

"Benson's advice is good -- sound," approved Lawyer Demarest, stepping in. "Don, you're no match for your opponent, at least not in your present temper. Don't try to carry this any further."

"Do you think I'm going to let this young mucker make a fool of me?" demanded the Melville youth, huskily. "I've just got to settle with him."

"Yes, yes, Don; stop this. It's unseemly," insisted his father, red-faced through his humiliation. "Come on!"

Mr. Melville's other friends also interposed. Don, surrounded, yet not very anxious to carry the fight on any further, chafed hopelessly. Jack Benson, seeing the new turn of affairs, and realizing how ridiculous his foe must feel, turned to Hal to say:

"I guess we're not needed here any longer. Come on."

"As for you, Benson," choked the elder Melville, "we shall see what can be done about this. You ought to be arrested."

Jack's only answer was a tantalizing grin, after which he turned, his back, as he and his mates started off up the street, followed by a little cheer from some of the boys gathered there.

"What can the law do about this?" demanded the elder Melville of the lawyer, in a low tone.

"A warrant could be issued against your son for disturbing the peace," came the disgusted reply of Lawyer Demarest. "As for Benson, all he did was to protect himself when insulted and assaulted unjustly. It was a disgraceful affair, my dear sir. Now, let us get away from here before we're exposed to more ridicule."

Neither Mr. Farnum nor Mr. Pollard had said a word. Now, smiling quietly, they returned to the yard. The crowd broke up. The Melville party kept on to the hotel of Jabez Holt not far away.



Chapter VI

The "Pollard" Has A Rival


Capital, backed by energy, can often accomplish wonders.

On the next day after the Melville squall in the boatyard office, Jacob Farnum, looking out of a window, and through the open gateway, saw three heavily-laden lumber trucks go by.

"That looks like a good deal for little Dunhaven," he thought to himself. "I wonder what's happening?"

His horse and buggy were in the yard. The young owner presently went out and got into his vehicle, driving slowly along the street to the northward.

About a third of a mile from his yard Mr. Farnum came to the spot where the lumber was being unloaded. That was a hitherto vacant piece of land located at the edge of a small deepwater cove. Mr. Melville and Don were there, and also a gang of workmen. Carpenters were opening tool chests, as though preparing to go to work.

"Hm!" mused Jacob Farnum. Turning up a side street, he drove, by a roundabout way, back to his yard. Thereafter he took pains to keep himself informed of the Melville doings.

By night the foundations of a shipbuilder's shed had been laid by a large force of carpenters. Another gang of carpenters had gone to work building a fence as rapidly as laborers could set up the poles. By the night of the following day the fence was completed, and the shed, so far as outward appearances went, was completed.

And now, though George Melville and his son, preserved an air of great secrecy, the news leaked out that a new boatyard was added to the industries of Dunhaven, coupled with the further information that Mr. Melville was engaged in the manufacture of submarine torpedo boats.

Both Farnum and Pollard looked somewhat grave when this knowledge was first brought to them by Eph Somers, who had a great knack for picking up local news. However, the young builder was quick to cheer up.

"So we're to have a rival yard, and the 'Pollard' is to have a rival?" said Mr. Farnum. "Competition ought to stir us forward to the very best that is in us. Somers, ask Captain Benson and Hastings to come here. We'll talk this matter over."

Twenty minutes later the few devoted friends of the "Pollard" boat were gathered around Mr. Farnum's desk.

"Unless I'm in great error," said the young boatbuilder, "we're in for a lively rumpus, now. Melville is aroused over our refusal to let him in to this enterprise, and he's starting an opposition. He can command a great deal of money, and I understand that he has a good many influential friends in Washington. If he can carry on the most successful rivalry, he may do us a great deal of harm. For instance, if he can build so fine a boat that he can put ours in the shadow. In fact, while I don't mean to be a quitter or a skulker, I'll admit that Melville may possibly be able to dig a hole and drop us into it. If he produces a type of boat that goes far ahead of ours, then the Government is likely to buy his, overlook ours and leave me stranded financially. About all I'm worth is tied up in the present 'Pollard' and in the new torpedo submarine that I'm now building."

"He can't invent or build a finer submarine than the 'Pollard,'" declared Captain Jack, with conviction.

"Nor get as fine a crew to handle his craft," added David Pollard.

"Don't be too sure of that," warned Jack, Soberly. "I think we fellows have done fairly well with your boat, up to date. But suppose Mr. Melville should be able to get a lot of experienced submarine men, and even, perhaps, an officer, from the United States Navy. We boys could hardly beat such a combination as that."

"I'm not so sure that you're right on this point, Jack," clicked Mr. Farnum. "I'll say this much: It would make me more uneasy to lose the services of you boys than it would to hear that Melville has a Navy crew for the boat he's building."

"Of course," went on Jack, thoughtfully, after a pause, "if you, Mr. Farnum, could interest all the capital you want, on your own fair conditions, you wouldn't have to be afraid of this man Melville."

"No," admitted the boatbuilder, making a wry face. "But getting all that capital together is the problem. You see, Jack, we know just how good a boat we have, but others don't."

"Others don't?" repeated Captain Benson. "That gives me an idea."

"Another trouble," pursued the builder, "is that this submarine business is just something of a speculation. Suppose investors come forward with a lot of ready money to put into this enterprise? Our boat is good, but how do the investors know that, within the next few months, some other inventor won't come forward with a new type of submarine boat that will leave ours hopelessly behind? Then the investors would stand to lose every dollar that they put in with us. That's the thought that makes investors shy."

"Yet Mr. Melville did not seem to be afraid of the chance of losing," remarked Jack Benson.

"He's a gambler all the way through, and he has some moneyed friends of his sort," replied Mr. Farnum. "But it's hard to find such investors."

"Now, for that idea I mentioned," proposed Captain Jack. "You can see what you think of it. Why not get people to talking about our boat? Why not make them talk about it as the most wonderful thing possible in a submarine boat? You know how I managed to leave the boat under water, and to return to it. The thing has never been done before. You know how simple the trick was, and that it was blundered upon by accident. But the people of the country at large don't know. Show the trick is done. When they hear about it, broadcast, won't they think that the 'Pollard' is the only real thing in submarines? Use the 'Pollard' type of boat, and no more men need be killed when a boat won't rise. That's the way the people will talk. So, Mr. Farnum, why not write to the editor of each of the biggest daily papers, inviting him to send a representative here on a near date, to see the thing done? Don't let the editors know just what feat is to be displayed. Simply let them know, in a mysterious, general way, that the thing we will demonstrate revolutionizes the whole art of submarine warfare -- as it really does."

"That will make people talk, surely," acknowledged the young boatbuilder.

"And there'll be pressure put upon Congress to buy your boat, and more like it," urged Captain Jack. "All the newspaper talk will be free advertising, and I imagine that the kind of advertising that newspapers are forced to give is all the best paying."

"I haven't had much experience in that line, but I imagine it is the best kind," nodded Mr. Farnum.

All hands set to, to devise a list of newspapers to which invitations should be sent. The stenographer was soon intensely busy with this work.

Down at the new Melville yard affairs went on with a rush. Two tumble-down houses were rented in a little habited part of the town, and in these a gang of close-mouthed Italian laborers was quartered. Jabez Holt felt the new increase in prosperity, for Mr. Melville engaged his entire hotel. Before long there was a constant succession of arrivals at the hotel. Steel salesmen, motor drummers, salesmen in electrical supplies, and a whole host of miscellaneous representatives came to town, putting up at the hotel, where Mr. Melville had reserved a suite of rooms for temporary offices. The strangers in town spent money freely, and all the villagers enjoyed their presence.

In fact, so much business did these new happenings bring that Jacob Farnum speedily became sensible of the fact that the villagers looked upon the Melvilles with decided favor.

"The Melville crowd are at their new enterprise in real and bustling earnest," remarked Farnum, with an air of uneasiness, to his associate, the inventor.

"I imagine those people can control millions of dollars, if they need that much money," hazarded David Pollard.

"Undoubtedly," nodded the boatbuilder "And, though I am seeking for capital that will come in on terms fair to us, it's mighty uphill work."

This conversation was carried on in young Benson's hearing. Captain Jack turned to them with a laugh, to say: "Wait and see, though, if the exhibition before the newspaper correspondents won't take a lot of wind out of the Melville sails."

"It ought to," nodded the builder, "unless the Melvilles, or some of the experts they're dealing with, are shrewd enough to figure out how you left the boat and returned to it."

"Would you have figured that out, Mr. Farnum, if I hadn't told you?"

"Probably not, Jack. It's one of the things that are too simple to guess at easily."

Passers by the Melville yard were now able to hear the hammering of the riveters daily. It looked as though the new yard must be pushing a submarine boat to rapid completion.

"There hasn't been a launching, anyway, so I don't believe the Melville people will be able to do anything to beat our show to-morrow," remarked Captain Jack, on the night before the day that had been set for the show before the newspaper men.

Early the next forenoon newspaper correspondents began to arrive in numbers from half a dozen large cities. As the hotel was monopolized, by the Melville crowd, Mr. Farnum had engaged other quarters at which to entertain the men of the press. Some of the newspapers sent women writers.

None of these visitors were taken direct to the yards. Mr. Farnum and Mr. Pollard took the journalistic visitors in charge and finally conveyed them in carriages to the boatyard, arriving at about a quarter before eleven.

Here Jack, Hal and Eph, looking at their best in their natty uniforms, were on hand to be presented. Of course, the mere fact of a competent, well-trained boy crew was a novelty to the newspaper writers, who made much of the submarine boys and asked them many questions about their work.

"How soon are you going to take us out aboard the 'Pollard'?" inquired one of the women reporters.

"Just as soon as Captain Benson and his young men have had a chance to show you the remarkable feat that you have come here to see," promised Mr. Farnum.

"And what is that remarkable feat?" asked another journalist.

"The wonder of it will strike you all the more if we do not announce it in advance," rejoined David Pollard.

"Captain Benson, what have you to say about it?" pleaded one of the newspaper women. "Won't you give us at least a hint?"

"I'd like to, immensely," smiled Captain Jack, "but I've always had a great respect for Mr. Farnum's judgment."

"Good enough, captain," laughed the boat builder. "And now, signal for the boat that is to put you aboard."

As the boat was coming in Captain Jack turned to the newspaper writers to say:

"Ladies and gentlemen, the thing that is to be done to-day is something that has never been done on any other boat than the 'Pollard.' If it looks a bit dramatic, you will understand, of course, that that is a means toward making it all the more impressive."

"Oh, dear, but you are making me dreadfully inquisitive," complained one of the newspaper women, plaintively.

Embarking in the shore boat, the "Pollard's" crew were soon aboard the submarine. From the platform decks they waved their caps, then, one by one, disappeared through the tower, the manhole cover being pulled down after them.

"Are they going to take the boat out and submerge it?" asked one of the correspondents.

"Yes," nodded Mr. Farnum.

"And what else -- please?" asked the particularly impatient newspaper woman.

Mr. Farnum smiled, then added:

"There they go, under electric power. Watch!"

By the time that the boat had gone a little more than a hundred feet one of the correspondents called out:

"They're sinking!"

"All a part of the performance," stated Mr. Pollard.

Before some of the visiting journalists could quite realize it, the tip of the conning tower had disappeared below the surface.

"That's all very interesting to look at," half shuddered one of the women. "But what if they couldn't bring the boat up again?"

"The boat is built to go up or down, at need," Mr. Farnum assured her. "Captain Benson has never had an accident yet."

So the group of some thirty newspaper people watched intently, keeping their gaze on the place where they had seen the last ripples close in over the vanishing conning tower.

The minutes passed by. The shore boat, with the hundred-pound anchor and cable in the bow, hovered just where Captain Jack had directed, but what could be going on in the submarine at the bottom of the little harbor?

"Mr. Farnum, don't you sometimes get nervous over such things?" demanded one of the women.

"Never," the boatbuilder assured her.

Yet is was not long before the yard's owner pulled out his watch to look at the dial. Eleven minutes had passed since the disappearance of the submarine. The next time Farnum glanced at his watch the time had lengthened to fifteen minutes. Then the time dragged by to half an hour.

David Pollard was fighting hard to conceal the nervous dread that had seized him.

"Farnum," he found chance to whisper, at last, "something tragic has happened to the boys, at last. What on earth can it be? Whatever it is, we're utterly powerless to help them!"



Chapter VII

Missing -- A Submarine And Crew


Fifteen minutes more dragged by.

"Where's your show, Mr. Farnum?"

"Something has gone wrong, eh?"

The correspondents were pressing about the worried builder and the uneasy inventor.

"There's a tragedy going on over there, isn't there?" demanded another journalist, pointing out across the water.

"I -- I'm afraid there is a chance of it," nodded Mr. Farnum, dejectedly, again looking at the watch in his hand. "It's getting on toward an hour since the 'Pollard' went down."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Is there no way to rescue the crew?"

"Don't let those boys die, without lifting a finger to save them."

"Get busy, man -- in heaven's name, get busy!"

Such were the comments, questions and advice that poured in on the builder. David Pollard, his sensitive nature suffering extremely, shrank back out of the crowd.

"Gentlemen -- and ladies, too -- don't you understand that nothing really can be done -- at least not in a rush?" cried Jacob Farnum, the cold sweat standing out on his face. "There isn't a diver in or near Dunhaven, and that unfortunate boat is down in seventy feet of water. I'm going to rush a wire to the nearest place where I know a diver to be, but I -- I am certain that it will be hours before we can hope to have one here. That is all -- all that can possibly be done."

"Oh, this is dreadful!" sobbed one of the women writers. "Those brave, splendid boys -- such a fearful fate!"

"Must they be asphyxiated down there, below?" cried another woman.

"Don't," choked Jacob Farnum. "I must rush for the telegraph station and get off a message for a diver -- also for a wrecking company to send tugs and floats here for raising the 'Pollard.' Yet it will take a wretchedly long time."

"And the boys? Rescue will come too late to save them?" asked a newspaper man, with a decided choke in his voice.

Jacob Farnum made a wild dash for his office, telephoning for a messenger boy. While waiting he wrote two telegrams in feverish haste.

Several of the newspaper people wrote hasty, excited dispatches to their papers for the evening editions. The messenger boy, when he arrived on a run, was all but loaded down with paper. Then the yard's owner and the newspaper folks dashed back to the shore.

Out on the harbor the water lay unruffled. There was not a sign of the suspected tragedy that lay beneath the waves.

"It's an hour and a half since the boat sank," called one of the correspondents.

"What were the boys supposed to do, anyway?" insisted another.

Jacob Farnum opened his mouth, as though to speak, then closed it again.

"Tell us," insisted one woman.

"Yes, tell us," insisted a man.

Just then, there came a shout over the waters. "Say, you lubbers, what did you move that boat for?"

There was an instant gasp from all who turned so swiftly to look out over the water.

Only Jack Benson's brown-haired head showed above the surface of the harbor, but his look was laughing, utterly care-free.

The boatmen who had allowed their craft to drift while waiting, now thrust out their oars, making quick time to where the submarine boy stood treading water.

In his sudden revulsion of feeling the inventor all but fainted. Jacob Farnum, his gnawing suspense over, felt as though his knees must give way under him. Then, by a mighty effort, just as the deafening cheering started, he led the race around the harbor.

"Here, you -- Jack Benson!" gasped the yard's owner. "You come in here mighty quick! Give an account of yourself. What was wrong below?"

"Wrong?" hailed back Benson, standing in the bow of the shore boat as it made for shore.

"What were you doing down below, all this time?" demanded Mr. Farnum.

"Doing? Oh, Eph was taking a nap -- "

"Taking a nap?"

"Hal was tinkering with the gasoline motor, and I was reading."

"Reading?" fumed Mr. Farnum. "What were you trying to do? Torment the life out of us?"

"Were any of you folks worried?" asked Jack, smiling innocently at the excited crowd.

"Worried?" ejaculated the boatbuilder. "I've telegraphed for a diver and a wrecking company's outfit."

"Better countermand the order, air," advised Jack, dryly.

"But what on earth caused all the delay? What did it mean?" persisted the boatbuilder. "Answer me, Benson."

"Why," laughed Jack, "when we started, I dropped a word or two about trying to make the exhibition dramatic, didn't I?"

"If that's what you tried to do, young man," grunted one of the correspondents, "you've certainly succeeded. Why, in five or ten minutes more the evening papers in half a dozen cities will have extras out announcing that one more big submarine boat disaster has occurred!"

"Did you really send that to your papers?" asked Jack Benson, some of his glee showing.

"Of course we did."

"And that reminds me," shouted another. "We've got to send the follow-up news, at once. I have, anyway."

That roused the newspaper people to a sense of what they were there for, though one man broke in:

"Just a second, folks! Let's find out what the show was intended for."

"Why, it's intended to show," replied Jack, "that a boat built and equipped like the 'Pollard' isn't a death-trap for the crew, if it should happen, through some accident, that the boat refuses to rise to the surface."

"That's the trick," confirmed Mr. Farnum. "But, Jack, why did you wait so long before coming up."

"So that you could all realize something of the anxiety of people over such accidents to submarines, and the great dread over the fate of the crew," laughed the boy. "I think our delay made you all realize something of that."

"You have something of the dramatic instinct, truly," murmured the newspaper woman who had sobbed. "You had us all scared nearly to the fainting point."

"Now," continued Captain Jack, "just to show you that the boat didn't get disabled in any way, I'm going down again and then come up with the boat."

"It won't take you as long as it did this last time, will it?" demanded one of the reporters.

"Wait right where you are," promised Jack Benson, "and you'll see me once more before you've really had time to realize it."

"No more dramatic business, eh, and needless tears on our part?" insisted another.

"This time," laughed Jack, "the dramatic will be confined to speed of operation."

He motioned to the men to row out. Jack calculated, finely, just where he had come up, and there the heavy anchor was dropped, the end of the cable being made fast in the boat.

Then overboard dived the submarine captain, going straight down. A tug at the line showed when he seized hold of it, down in the depths.

A little time passed, but now the newspaper folks, accustomed to all manner of sensations, were not apprehensive.

"Here she comes!" shouted David Pollard, gleefully.

More and mote of the conning tower showed above the water, the platform deck and hull coming next into view. Then, as the manhole cover was raised, Eph Somers stepped into view at the steering wheel. The "Pollard" moved over to her moorings, and Hal came up to aid in making fast. Soon afterward, Jack Benson, in complete uniform, appeared on deck.

"Now, give us just an idea of how the thing is done, Mr. Farnum," begged one of the correspondents, turning to the boatbuilder.

"Ladies and gentlemen," replied the yard's owner, gravely, though he was tempted to laugh over the mystery he was making, "I am certain that you all want to know."

"We do," came the chorused answer.

"But if I were to tell you," responded Farnum, speaking as gravely as ever, "it would be to reveal to the whole world one of the strongest points in our plan of submarine operation. You will understand that, of course, and will realize that we do not care to explain anything so valuable, when that idea is not yet patented."

"I suppose you're right about that," admitted one of the journalists, thoughtfully. "We'd like awfully to know just how the feat is accomplished, and you have equally good reasons for not telling us."

"Have you much genius for machinery?" whispered one of the women writers to a man beside her. "For, you know, we've been promised a chance to visit the boat. If you keep your eyes open, very likely you can detect how it is possible to leave the 'Pollard' when she's on the bottom -- a performance that isn't possible with any other type of submarine torpedo boat."

Jacob Farnum now slipped away to countermand his orders for a diver and wrecking apparatus, the newspaper people also seizing the chance to send another wire to their home newspapers.

After that Captain Jack received one-third of the party aboard the "Pollard." He gave them a short trip on the surface. Then, pressed to do so, he submerged the boat for two minutes. After that the rest of the correspondents were taken out and below the water. Most people are not particularly eager, at first, for a trip under the water in submarine boats, but with the newspaper fraternity it is different. They are always on the lookout for any new experience, no matter how dangerous it may seem to be. It is a part of their calling.

Yet not one in all this party of thirty trained, keen-minded people managed to penetrate the secret of how Captain Jack had been able to leave and return to the "Pollard" while that craft lay on the bottom of the harbor.

When all had visited the boat, and had sunk with her, Jacob Farnum took the party in carriages to his home, where luncheon was served. The boatbuilder, by the use of all his tact, kept the party together until it was time, to drive them to the railway station and see them aboard the train.

In this way, he prevented any of his visitors from falling into the hands of the Melville people. Consequently, when the next day's papers appeared there was much in them about the wonderful work done by Captain Jack Benson in a "Pollard" submarine, but there was not even as much as a mention of the fact that any rival submarine boatyard existed in Dunhaven.

"That is one long march stolen on the Melville foes," laughed Jacob Farnum to Benson. "It has been a splendid bit of business, Jack, and you boys have helped it all through in great fashion. To-day, we have the satisfaction of knowing that people all through the country are talking about the 'Pollard.'"

"That fellow Benson is being a lot talked about to-day," declared Mr. Melville, after scanning two or three of the morning papers.

"Humph! Let him be talked about," returned Don, with a lowering scowl. "I suppose he's pretty conceited to-day, but it won't be long before I'll have it fixed so that his pride shall go down lower than ever the 'Pollard' could sink."

"Will you use our submarine boat to do it?" inquired the elder Melville, with a meaning smile.



Chapter VIII

Farnum Stock Goes Up


"Got time to look at something, Mr. Pollard?" asked Captain Jack, two days later.

The captain and crew of the submarine had entered the outer office. In his hands Jack carried a small wooden box. Hal and Eph looked delightfully mysterious.

"Time to look at something?" repeated the inventor, with a laugh. "I seem to have plenty of time for almost anything these days."

There being none of the office employees about at the moment, Benson led the way to one of the desks, opened the box and took out a complicated-looking little model.

"You know, Mr. Pollard," murmured Jack, while the other two boys drew close, "although we have hit upon the way for some of a submarine's crew to escape when the boat is at the bottom, or in deep water, it always needs at least one of the crew to remain behind to close the rear port of the torpedo tube and to operate the compressed air a little. So, valuable though our trick may be, it really means that, in case of serious accident, one member of the crew would have to remain behind in order to help the next to last to get away. So, in case of accident, there would always be one member of the crew who would have to be left behind to die. That's the thing we fellows have been working on, and here's the result. At least, it's the best we can do with it."

"What's the idea?" inquired the inventor, examining the small model curiously.

"Why," laughed Jack Benson, good-humoredly, "it's an automatic device, set to a time principle, for closing the after port of the torpedo tube and letting off some compressed air. By means of this automatic device the last fellow could let himself out safely. That's the theory, you see; but we're new inventors, and so there's some flaw in the device. It will take a skilled mind like yours to see where the fault lies."

Jack explained volubly, while David Pollard looked over the model that the trio of young geniuses had put together. Then Benson drew from an inner pocket, and spread out, some carefully made mechanical drawings that made his idea plainer. Jack was not a trained draughtsman, but he had a great natural talent in that direction.

"Why, you have a splendid idea here," cried the inventor, presently.

"It doesn't quite work, though," said Hal, ruefully.

"Lot's of inventions don't, unfortunately," winced David Pollard. "I know something about that, for a big percentage of my inventions have turned out to have more flaws than good points. But this is really ingenious, boys. Who has had the big share in this get-up?"

"The other fellows," replied the young captain.

"Jack's idea, mostly," broke in Eph, "although Hal Hastings and I have been allowed to butt in some."

"It's splendidly done, as far as you've gone," glowed the inventor, full of unselfish admiration. "And you've made it plain just how you expect to attach this device and make it work automatically. What are you going to do with it, now?"

"We thought, perhaps, Mr. Pollard," explained Captain Jack, "that you might think it worth while to take the device up at this point, and work over it until you find out where the hitch is in the idea. If you succeed, it will make the 'Pollard' absolutely perfect in her class."

"But it would seem mean of me to take your idea, so nearly finished, and go ahead with it," protested the inventor.

"Well, you see, sir," Jack replied, earnestly, "we don't care who brings the idea through provided it makes the 'Pollard' a world-beater. Do you care to take this in hand, Mr. Pollard, and try to perfect it? For we'll admit we're stuck fast and can't get any further with it."

"Do I care to?" repeated the inventor. "Why, boys, I'll be delighted to work over it. It'll be better than sleep to me for many a night to come. But I hate to take it out of your hands, since you originated it."

"Take it and welcome," begged Hal Hastings. "The only thing we want is to see it work."

"And the sooner the better," grunted Eph Somers.

"Then thank you, I will," cried the inventor, earnestly. "But you boys, if the device can be made to work, shall have your full share of the credit."

"Hullo, boys," greeted Jacob Farnum, coming out from the inner office, a letter in his hands. "By the way, here's something that may interest you. I've a letter from a man who writes about the new trick of leaving a submerged boat. He refers to you boys as our young experts."

"He doesn't know, does he," chuckled Jack, "that we're only three apprentices, and rather raw, at that?"

"No, you're not," retorted Mr. Farnum. "My correspondent is pretty near right in referring to you as young experts."

"If we're going to get that reputation," muttered Benson, more than half seriously, "we'll have a heap to do in 'making good.'"

"Just look here, Farnum, at what these boys have been at work on," begged the inventor, calling attention to the partly-finished model.

In an instant the boatbuilder became absorbed in the idea as shown by model and drawings.

"Can this be made perfect, Dave?" he asked, eagerly, turning to the inventor.

"I think it can," answered Mr. Pollard. "The boys have been good enough to ask me to try."

"Then I hope you'll start, this minute," exclaimed the yard's owner. "It means more to us, Dave -- more to us, boys -- than any of you suppose at this moment! Let me tell you something. This letter holds the key to the secret. Trying to interest people in our work, I've been writing right and left trying to raise more capital on terms that would be fair to us. Now, here's a letter from Broughton Emerson, a man worth millions. He admits that my letter has interested him. He'll come here, soon, and he states that, if we can show him a good enough chance to make money he will put in the needed capital, taking satisfactory security, and yet leave the business under its present control. In other words, he's likely to do just what we wanted George Melville to do. Isn't that good enough news for one morning?"

"Yes, provided we can make as good a showing as he expects," replied the inventor, cautiously.

"Oh, if we could only get a chance to make a trial trip for a United States Naval board!" sighed Jack Benson, wistfully. "The Navy Department has money now at its disposal for the purchase of submarines. If we could get the Government to buy the 'Pollard,' that would show investors what's what in money-making." Benson's face was all aglow with mingled enthusiasm and wistfulness. He, and his mates, took as keen an interest in the future of the "Pollard" as though they themselves owned that doughty little craft.

"A trial trip for the Navy Department?" smiled Mr. Farnum, gravely. "Well, I don't mind telling you that we may have that, too, before long."

"Is any date set?" breathed Captain Jack, quickly.

"Not yet, nor is the matter even fully decided. But the newspapers have produced a big effect on the Navy Department. The makers of other types of submarine boats are green with jealousy of us, just now. Your escaping trick, Jack, has made so much public clamor that Farnum stock is going up all over the country. We'll have some big chances, mighty soon, I'm thinking. If we get the chances, I'm certain enough that you boys will help push us on to victory!"

Happy dreams were these that builder, inventor and crew dreamed! The fever of conquest was in their veins.

Shutting himself up in a room at Farnum's home, depriving himself of much of his needed sleep, often refusing food, David Pollard attacked the problem of perfecting the device that Captain Jack and his mates had originally planned.

Two days later Broughton Emerson arrived. He was a pleasant, portly man of more than fifty years. His manners were quiet and easy. He was affable with everyone, but he had a keen way of looking into things. No one could guess quite what he thought of the chances of success in the enterprise of building submarine boats. Before the day was over George Melville, who was slightly acquainted with Mr. Emerson, learned that he was in town. That evening Mr. Melville succeeded in meeting Mr. Emerson and getting him over to his hotel.

"If you want to save a lot of money, Mr. Emerson," hinted George Melville, "you want to be very careful to keep it out of the Farnum investment."

"What's wrong with the Farnum business?" questioned the other capitalist.

"About everything, I believe," replied Mr. Melville. "And, even if the 'Pollard' were a capable a boat as its backers claim, it would still be beaten by the type of boat that I am now working on."

"Are you looking for capital for your submarine business?" asked Broughton Emerson, a shrewd little twinkle in his eyes.

"No; I have all we want. Not a dollar is needed, but I don't like the idea of your losing a lot of money with that other crowd. They haven't any real show to do anything with their boat."

"They are a great lot of enthusiasts over at the Farnum yard," said Mr. Emerson, musingly. "I like people as enthusiastic as they are. Why, just think of those boys; what a bright lot they are!"

"Humph! In the end Farnum will wish he never seen those boys," sneered Mr. Melville.

"Why?"

"Well, the boys are wholly ready to sell out all they know about the Farnum boat."

"Are you sure of that, Melville?" demanded Mr. Emerson, opening his eyes more widely.

"Wholly positive. Benson has already offered to sell us all he knows about the 'Pollard.' He'll steal plans, shift to our employ, or serve us in any way that he can by betraying his present employers."

"You astound me," cried the other capitalist. "And you are really quite sure of this?"

"As sure as I can be made by Benson's own offer."

In declaring this George Melville believed he was telling the truth. His son, Don, hoping to work out a scheme whereby Jack could be hopelessly disgraced, had gone as far as to tell his father that Jack was willing to overlook the past fight, and to "sell out" all he knew about the design and inner workings of the "Pollard."

"The Farnum business looks very inviting, despite what Melville says against it," thought Broughton Emerson, later that night. "Yet, if I put any money into the venture, on any terms, I must insist on the one condition that the boys be banished from Farnum's employ."

Of this far-reaching mischief, following Don's deliberate lie to his father, Captain Jack Benson and his mates had not even a suspicion.

Two days later the three submarine boys were delighted at knowing that Broughton Emerson, despite the advice he had received from Mr. Melville, was thinking most seriously of advancing a few hundred thousand dollars to help boom the "Pollard" type of submarine boat.

"That will put a crimp in the Melvilles, when they hear, won't it?" laughed Jack, in talking it over with Hal Hastings and Eph Somers.

Not one of the boys would have slept that night, had they known of the plans forming to disgrace Jack Benson even in the eyes of Messrs. Farnum and Pollard.



Chapter IX

A Rascally Piece Of Work


"Now, we shall soon know!" cried David Pollard, hoarsely.

He was trembling with the fever of the intense inventor.

Out in the little harbor the "Pollard" lay on the bottom. In the cabin, besides the three submarine boys, were only Jacob Farnum and David Pollard.

The eyes of all five were fixed on a small but ingenious bit of mechanism that had been carefully adjusted near the rear port of the boat's torpedo tube. This was the automatic device, first planned by Jack Benson, with the aid of his mates, and carried forward to working order by Mr. Pollard. By the aid of this automatic mechanism it was believed that the last man aboard a torpedo boat could let himself into the tube, relying upon the automatic device first to close the rear port, then opening the forward port and at the same time letting just the right amount of compressed air into the tube. By this means the last man aboard a submarine below the surface could provide for his own escape, without the aid of a comrade.

Eph Somers had been chosen to make the effort. He now stood, in his bathing suit, awaiting the word.

"Go ahead, Eph," ordered Mr. Farnum. "Be very careful to set the device just right. Not one of us is going to touch it."

Eph carefully set the time hand on the dial, next crawled into the torpedo tube, the rear port of which stood open. Sixty seconds later the automatic device closed the rear port with a sharp click.

David Pollard counted up to fifteen.

"He must have had time to get clear of the boat," quivered the inventor. "Now, captain, take us to the surface."

In a twinkling, almost, the "Pollard" was riding the waves.

"There's Eph, dancing up and down on the beach," reported Captain Jack, from the conning tower.

"It worked like a charm," chuckled Eph Somers, gleefully, as soon as the others had joined him on shore. "That little charge of compressed air shot me out of the tube, and up I bounded to the surface, like a piece of cork."

"Now, we really lead the whole world in submarine boating," cried Mr. Farnum, hoarsely. "I don't care what any other inventor may have discovered, I'm satisfied that no one else can a boat as safe for the crew as the good little old 'Pollard' is!"

So happy did all of the five feel, in fact, that they shook hands gleefully, all around. Then, while Eph rowed out to the craft to dry himself and get into uniform, Jacob Farnum ran to the machine shops, there sounding several sharp, triumphant blasts on the steam whistle.

The whole affair -- Eph's escape to the surface, the joy of the submarine, party and the blowing of the whistle, were all noted by a spy whom Don Melville had set to the task of watching the Farnum crowd.

Don was equally well aware that David Pollard had been working day and night in his room at Mr. Farnum's house.

"They've discovered something that pleases them mightily," thought Don, sick with rage. "What can it be? I'm going to know, if money has still any power to buy other men's services."

"Jack Benson may be very happy now," muttered Don, vindictively, "but his joy shall soon be turned to ashes -- or worse."

Nor was Don Melville speaking by mere guesswork. His ignoble nature had evolved the whole plan by which Jack was to be ruined. Don even stooped to use his father as an innocent tool in a series of rascally deceptions.

"I got word that you wanted to see me at once," said Broughton Emerson, dropping in upon Mr. Melville that afternoon at the hotel.

"I certainly do," returned Mr. Melville, leading the way to an inner room. "Emerson, you remember my telling you that Farnum's crew are wholly willing to sell out their people if the price is big enough?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Would you like to see that proved?"

"By all means, if it can be," replied Mr. Emerson, a look of keen anxiety in his eyes, for he had finally determined to use his own judgment and invest heavily in the Farnum submarine enterprise.

"Will you consent to doing a little watching with me?" asked Mr. Melville.

"What's in the wind?"

"To-night, at eleven o'clock, on a lonely bit of road well out of town," replied George Melville, "young Captain John Benson has agreed to meet my son, Don."

"For what purpose?"

"Pollard has recently perfected a submarine boat device of the greatest practical value. Young Benson has promised Don to steal the drawings and descriptions pertaining to that device, and to turn them over to Don, for a price, of course!"

"It's horrible -- unspeakable!" gasped Mr. Emerson, indignantly.

"Of course. But I want you to understand the kind of crowd that surrounds Farnum. It will be a guide to you in investing with those people. If you go with me, to the appointed place, ahead of time, and we hide close enough to witness the whole transaction, then you'll believe all that I've been telling you, won't you?"

"Of course," nodded Mr. Emerson, speaking thickly. His whole soul revolted at the treachery of such a transaction, which made him add:

"But won't you and your son, Melville, be in as bad a light through profiting by such infernal treachery?"

"We would, if we did profit," replied George Melville, flushing. "However, as soon as Don has dismissed the young blackguard, Benson, my son will touch a lighted match to the papers and burn them all, with yourself looking on. What do you say, Emerson?"

"It's a mean kind of business to take any part in," protested Broughton Emerson, hoarsely. "But -- yes, I'll go, for if such things can be done it is my duty to myself to know."

Plans were thereupon made for the meeting in the evening. Broughton Emerson, honorable and broad-minded went away from that meeting heavy of heart. He hated the whole business, and yet he admitted to himself that he must know the truth ere he invested a fortune in other folks' business game. Yet, weighed down by the sickening feeling that, at best, he was about to play the spy, Mr. Emerson presently called up Jacob Farnum on the telephone.

"Farnum," he said, "I understand that something is to happen, to-night, that you and I ought to know."

"What is it?" asked the boatbuilder, alive with curiosity.

"I'll give you a chance to find out, to-night, but you must pledge me your word that you won't breathe a word of this, until afterwards, to anyone, not even to Pollard. Just come along and learn what you learn, then act as you please. Will you agree to that?"

"Yes," promised Mr. Farnum.

"Good enough. Then be at -- " Broughton Emerson followed with directions for late the coming evening. He did not explain who was to be spied upon, or anything of the nature of the business, though he did add:

"Don't be surprised, Farnum, no matter whom you see me with. It's all a part of the night's walk. Just follow us both, without letting your presence be known at any stage. I know this all sounds mysterious, but believe me, it's going to be vastly worth your while."

The remainder of the afternoon the boatbuilder's heart was, somehow, heavy with undefined dread as to what he was to learn that night.

In the middle of the afternoon, Don Melville, with the aid of one of his father's Italian workmen, laid the last stone in the edifice of trickery that he was building for the crushing of Jack Benson.

"Jack was coming down the street from the village, when his steps were arrested by the sound of a sharp:

"Hist!"

Turning, he saw an Italian workman, beckoning mysteriously. Jack went curiously up to him.

"I have message for you -- you alone," whispered the Italian, speaking fairly good English. "You are in danger of great meanness. One of your enemies plots it."

"You're one of the Melville workmen, aren't you?" asked Captain Jack, looking curiously at the fellow.

"Yes, and you have bad, wicked enemies over at our place."

"I guess that may be true enough," smiled Jack, grimly.

"Some of us are bad over there, and some honest," went on the Italian. "Some of us hate much to see dirty work done, and I have friend who works also for Melville. My friend knows all about what Don would do against you. It is wicked -- very. Meet my friend, to-night, at nine o'clock, and he will tell you all -- everything. I cannot tell you now. But you will meet my friend?"

"Yes, I guess I will," nodded Jack Benson.

"But you must go alone; not tell your odder friends. Until you have seen my friend you must keep all this gr-reat secret."

After some further talk Jack Benson agreed to all this. The Italian seemed wholly honest and earnest. Moreover, he appeared as though greatly troubled and anxious to save the submarine boy from some unusually mean trick.

So Jack Benson walked on, thinking deeply and wondering much. He had no suspicion of any trap against him in the person of this seemingly very honest Italian, and so Don Melville had succeeded in laying the last wire of his despicable plan.

At half-past eight that fateful night Captain Jack found a pretext for leaving his companions. Swinging out onto the road, and down past the new Melville yard, he went on briskly to the point, well out of town, that had been named for the meeting.

"I wonder if I'm foolish?" he thought, suddenly. "Is there any trick in all this? But, pshaw! The Melvilles surely aren't that kind of people, and no one else has anything against me. It's all likely enough that Don is putting up some mean game against me down at the yard, or that he's saying something mighty mean against me. Whatever it is, these Italians are honest enough to feel disgusted, and they want to warn me. Yet they don't want to have any Melville eavesdropper seeing them with me. That's all natural enough, for these Italians have their jobs to look out for, even if they do hate the rascals who pay 'em wages."

So Captain Jack kept on his way, feeling that any suspicions of the Italians were unfounded and therefore unnecessary.

David Pollard, after wandering through the grounds around the Farnum home, that evening, and missing his friend, the owner, at last decided to go to his own room and read.

Always soft-footed, Mr. Pollard made no noise until he turned the knob of the door to his room. There was a sudden, scurrying sound inside. Though he was a man of very nervous temperament the inventor was no coward. He darted in, in time to see a figure making through the dark for an open window.

"Who's there Here! Stop!" thundered the inventor, rushing forward.

But the intruder did not obey.

Hidden behind a book in a bookcase was the inventor's revolver. Mr. Pollard hauled the book out, dropping it, and, in a trice, had the weapon in his hand, racing again toward the window.

The intruder had gained the ground by the time that Mr. Pollard reached the window.

"Stop, you thief! Hold up, or I'll shoot!" warned the inventor.

However, the skulker took to his heels. Pollard fired once, the flame spitting from the muzzle of his revolver. But the figure still continued in flight, and the inventor realized that there was no further use in firing.

"That was odd," thought Pollard. "The fellow had on a uniform just such as our boys wear. If it weren't so absurd, I might be tempted to believe, despite the darkness, that it was Jack Benson. But he would have no need to break in here."

Then Mrs. Farnum appeared, with the servants, for the shot had alarmed the household.

"Have you found that anything is missing from here?" inquired Mrs. Farnum, while Mr. pollard searched and explained at the same time.

The inventor now halted before his desk, rummaging.

"Yes," he answered, dryly, though with a slight quaver in his voice. "The thief found and departed with the drawings of a most important new device, originated by Benson and his friends and finished by myself. I'd rather lose a large sum of money than those drawings."

At about this time Jacob Farnum was prowling carefully about the spot that Mr. Emerson had named. He waited there, in hiding, for a long time, ere Messrs. Melville and Emerson came along. He let them pass, then followed slyly, in accordance with Broughton Emerson's directions of that afternoon.

"Now, what on earth does this all mean?" wondered Jacob Farnum, unable, despite his curiosity, to regard this expedition without a feeling of considerable disgust with himself. "Confound it, it's unmanly, this spying on someone else! It makes me feel like a rubber-soled detective, a thug or a labor picket trying to 'warn' a workman with a lead-stuffed club! Yet Emerson is a gentleman, or I've been fooled. It must be all right, I suppose."

The night was dark, and the moon not yet quite due to rise. When it did come up above the horizon it was certain to be more or less obscured by the clouds hanging there.

While Messrs. Melville and Emerson stepped off along the road, Jacob Farnum was forced to keep behind bushes and other natural objects of cover, which increased the boatbuilder's uneasy feeling that he was, doing something well nigh dishonorable.

At last, however, the two capitalists stepped off the road, concealing themselves in a clump of bushes as though by previous understanding.

"It looks like a prearranged meeting of some sort," reflected the boatbuilder, after having crept close enough to be able to see and to overhear.

Five minutes went by. Then Don Melville, narrowly escaping running into Mr. Farnum, appeared suddenly before his father and Mr. Emerson.

"It's almost the time, now," laughed Don, speaking in a low voice, as he held his watch close to his eyes. "I'll slip right down into the road, in plain sight, where you can see what happens."

Back of all the rest, in the bushes, Jacob Farnum muttered, disgustedly, to himself:

"I like it little enough to find George Melville this. I like it still less, now that I find Don having a finger in the pie of mystery."

Smoke wafted back from a cigarette that Don was smoking. A few minutes thus passed, when there came the sound of a low whistle. Tossing away the stub of his cigarette, Don answered with another whistle.

Broughton Emerson straightened up instantly, being well enough hidden for that, and so did Jacob Farnum, whose presence, of course, was unsuspected by either of the Melvilles.

Then out from the cover of the woods stepped a boy of sixteen, in a uniform like that worn by the submarine boys.

"Have you got the plans?" asked Don, in a low voice that was yet distinct to all the listeners.

"Yes," came in a hoarse whisper, from the one in uniform.

"Pass them over, then," commanded Don. "That's right. Here's your money, in this envelope."

Just then ray from the rising moon struggled through the filter of clouds, the light touching lightly upon the uniformed one.

Jacob Farnum started as though he had been shot. There was a great bound at his heart.

"Jack Benson!" he throbbed. "By the Great Shark, are my eyes playing me a hideous prank?"



Chapter X

A Race For Mixed Prizes


As the moon's ray vanished behind a cloud Jacob Farnum was breathing hard.

Nor was it any wonder that the boatbuilder felt staggered with astonishment. He had grown to trust Captain Jack Benson to the utmost. Now, to find him faithless came like a heavy blow on the head.

To this man's ears came Don's low but clear cut tones:

"You'll keep your eyes open, won't you, Benson, and bring us all the points you can? Anything that you think will be useful to us?"

The boy in uniform nodded. Though the boatbuilder could not see the uniformed one's face very well, he observed that nod, as did also Messrs. Emerson and Melville.

"You don't want to have anyone see us here together, then," went on Don. "So scoot! You know how to communicate with me when you want to. That's all."

Don waved his hand as a sign of dismissal.

The other boy, with a nod, turned to make his way off. "No, by the Great Porpoise, that isn't all!"

The words, shouted, with a tremendous energy behind them, caused some other hearts to bound.

Jacob Farnum, his blood now boiling, found himself unable to contain himself any longer.

As he shouted out, he burst through the bushes, making a bee-line for the departing boy in uniform.

Don Melville gasped, in sheer dismay, yet he had the presence of mind to yell:

"Scoot, Benson! Travel as fast as ever you can!"

Then Don ran a few steps in the opposite direction. Young Melville was a very fair sprinter, but he wanted to have a bit of a start in case of need.

"Melville, you young scoundrel, I'll settle with you later!" roared Jacob Farnum, keeping on down the road.

Straight in the middle of the road the fugitive was now dashing along, until Don yelled after him:

"Take to the woods, Benson! You can lose him there!"

"I'll get him, anywhere on earth!" shouted Jacob Farnum, full of purpose and vim.

The boatbuilder was long-legged and slim. He had been a runner at college, and now his old knack was coming back to him.

Undoubtedly the most humiliated man present was George Melville. Though that capitalist had not been averse to stooping to the purchase of secrets from another man's trusted employe, he felt badly indeed to have Farnum detect his son.

So George Melville now came out quickly from cover.

"Don," he demanded, "how could Farnum ever have gotten wind of this?"

"Talk it over with Mr. Emerson," panted Don Melville. "I'm off after Benson and Farnum."

With that Don put his own sprinting abilities to the test, dashing into the woods at the point where he had seen the others vanish.

Though it flashed through George Melville's head that Broughton Emerson must have given information to the rival boatbuilder, the elder Melville did not now stop to question Mr. Emerson.

Instead, the father, who was rather heavy, started off puffily in the wake of his son.

"This looks like ticklish business," George Melville told himself, "and Don, though usually self-contained, is hot enough of temper, at a time like this, to make matters pretty bad for all concerned."

Wanting to see the matter through Broughton Emerson kept a little to the rear of the other capitalist. It was a curious Indian file that stretched out through the woods with the uniformed boy in the lead.

"You may as well stop!" yelled Jacob Farnum, after the fugitive. "I'm going to catch you, anyway!"

It looked that way, indeed. Dark as it was, with the moon behind a cloud, the running boy, looking back over his shoulder, could see the enraged boatbuilder coming after him at great strides.

Mr. Farnum was soon so close upon the heels of his quarry that he could all but reach out his hand and grasp the boy's collar. But just then the boy went down to earth, instantly rolling himself as nearly into a ball as he could.

Jacob Farnum, unable to stop in time, tripped and fell over the fugitive, plunging, head-first, into a clump of bushes and scratching himself.

With a jubilant laugh the boy in uniform was up again, and off. He got a good start, but the boatbuilder, after listening a few seconds, and getting the sounds of flight, bounded off, once more, in the right direction.

Don had halted precipitately, when he saw the tumble, but now he too darted forward once more.

"If Farnum can catch him," shivered Do; "I've got to be at hand to help out in a lightning rescue."

Mr. Farnum did some tall running before he again came in sight of the runner ahead.

Yet the pursuit had not reached its finish. The fugitive suddenly dived through a fringe of bushes, going out of sight.

Mr. Farnum reached the spot, then halted, looking undecided, almost bewildered.

There was now no sound to guide the pursuer.

"Confound him, if he has gotten away," muttered the boatbuilder, impatiently, to himself. Yet he did not dare risk running forward in any direction, for fear of getting further from his quarry.

Don Melville halted, too, chuckling softly to himself.

"Oh, you!" snorted Farnum, glancing backward over his shoulder in high disgust.

Don chuckled again.

Just then the sound of stealthily moving feet came to the boatbuilder's ears. Don, in his glee, had lost the chance to make so much noise with his own feet that the other boy could steal softly away undetected.

Without a word, now, the boatbuilder sprang forward. As he advanced, he heard the running of the uniformed boy plainly enough, and, a moment later, came in sight.

Now, Jacob Farnum, though not much given to making empty threats, decided to try the effect of a ruse.

"You! You ahead!" he shouted. "Stop, or I'll send some lead after you. Do you want me to fire?"

Swift as thought Don Melville, again in pursuit at the rear, yelled:

"Don't mind him, Benson! Scoot! He hasn't any gun."

"If some fairy only would take care of that snake-in-the-grass behind me!" quivered Mr. Farnum, silently.

Having the uniformed boy plainly in sight, though some hundred or more feet ahead, Farnum by no means felt like giving up the race. All the same, the boatbuilder, long out of practice in athletics, was beginning to feel severely the effects of this chase over rough ground and through bushes.

"I've got to die or get him!" muttered Farnum, doggedly, between his teeth. "Oh, for a little light on this cloudy night! If I could be sure the fellow is, or isn't, Benson, I might be more willing to drop this pace!"

Putting on a better spurt, as a last, desperate resort, Farnum did all in his power to overtake the uniformed boy.

He seemed likely enough to do it -- would have done it, no doubt, but for a new trick on the part of the enemy.

Don Melville, seeing how matters were going, and being in much better training, increased his own burst of speed, running as softly as possible.

Then, with an exultant cry, Don leaped upon the back of Jacob Farnum, catching him around the neck and bearing him to the ground.

"Run, Benson!" cheered young Melville, "He'll never catch you now!"



Chapter XI

What Befell The Real Benson


Whistling softly, the real Jack Benson went along cheerily to the appointed place.

Being wholly courageous, there was no thought of dread in his mind over any possible treachery.

As he came in sight of the two trees, between which he had been asked to meet the Italian, he made out a man waiting there.

"Good evening," came the low, soft hail.

Then the speaker stepped forward, proving to be the same who had accosted the young submarine captain in the afternoon.

"Good evening," was Jack's pleasant reply. "You're on time, I see."

"Oh, sure!" laughed the Italian. "I been here twenty minute, already."

"Where's your friend?"

"Up in the woods. We take this path here, and we find him."

The Italian took Jack Benson lightly by one arm, piloting the boy until he had turned him into the path. Then the foreigner stepped in advance, saying:

"We reach my friend, in minute."

Thus they proceeded for perhaps five hundred feet into the woods. Presently a small light, looking as though it might be the glowing end of a cigar, appeared ahead.

"Ah, here is my friend," announced the guide. "Giacomo, here is the young captain."

"Hush! Not too loud," came the soft warning from the man behind the cigar.

As Benson came up this second man held out a hand, which the submarine boy unsuspiciously took, at the same time looking over this second man. He appeared, like the first, to be a laborer at the Melville yard.

"I hear you have some interesting word for me," began Benson. "I -- oh, great Scott! How dare you?"

For, dropping his cigar from between his teeth, this second Italian, while still holding the boy's hand, gave his wrist a wrenching twist that forced Captain Jack over to the ground.

In a twinkling the guide fell upon him, too.

"What on earth does this mean!" demand Benson, freeing his right hand and doing all in his power to fight.

The spot was fearfully lonely. Captain Jack remembered, in a jiffy, all the gruesome tales he had heard about the dread doings of the Black Hand. Brave though he was, the young submarine expert felt suddenly cold and creepy, though he did not once think of giving up the fight.

"Now, be still you!" ordered the late guide, plaintively. "We not want to hurt you. But, if you make us -- "

"Be still, behave, and you be all right," promised the other Italian, in a gruff appeal for reasonableness.

Though he tried to fight like a savage, Jack Benson soon found himself being yanked to his feet, while a stalwart laborer held him by either arm.

"You see, you can do nothing," advised the Italian who had thrown the boy. "You not want to get hurt? We no want hurt you, but if you be one big fool, then -- !"

"What's the meaning of this rough game?" Jack demanded, hoarsely.

"You be verra good, no make noise, come with us and wait little while, then you go loose bimeby. Make fight, and well -- then we no can help!"

That statement, coupled with the sinister, menacing tone, was sufficiently clear. It didn't take the submarine boy more than a few seconds to realize that he was helpless, and that the most sensible thing to do would be to go along, provided no worse violence than had already been used were attempted.

"Where do you want me to go?" he asked.

"Oh, we show you," replied the late guide, in a tone half implying that he stood ready to do his young captive a great favor.

There appeared to be no help for it. Grim faced, and with teeth tightly clenched, Captain Jack allowed himself to be led on through the woods, both his arms being still tightly held by his conductors. Had they intended any more dastardly violence, he reasoned, they could easily have carried out their purpose without having hauled him to his feet.

No more was said as the three tramped through the woods. Though the Italians did not by any means relax their hold, they used no more force than seemed necessary for their purpose. Indeed, they acted with that smooth consideration typical of the Latin races, even in bad moments.

A tramp of a quarter of a mile brought them to a little clearing in the woods. In the middle of the open space stood a building. As he got closer young Benson saw that it was a dilapidated-looking structure that for many years, probably, had not been a home.

The front door stood open, however, and to this the captors marched their victim.

"Look out you do not trip over broken sill," admonished the late guide, politely. Then, as all three moved into the dark interior:

"You be good, and lay down on floor for minute. That's all."

Jack felt his feet kicked out from under him. Down he went, one of the Italians sitting firmly on him. The other went across the room, fumbled, and presently lighted a lantern in an open cupboard.

"Now, you come along, no fuss and no hurt," advised the late guide, as they raised the boy. They conducted him through into a rear room, where one of the pair raised a trap-door in the floor.

"Now, this is easy," smiled one of the pair, pointing to the darkness under the open trap.

"We have take ladder away, but you can drop. Not far."

Then, seeing a look of alarm flit across the boy's face, the fellow laughed, adding:

"No hurt. All right. See?"

He dropped a stone through the trapway. It fell on ground underneath, nor did the distance down appear to be more than a few feet.

"Cellar, that's all," grinned the Italian, reassuringly. "Now, drop, and we not hurt you. No danger. In two, three, four hour we put down ladder and let you up. Keep you here little while; that's all."

Of course Jack Benson could have tried to put up a fight, but he knew he would easily be beaten. Besides, these men, smiling and polite as they now appeared, might have tempers bad enough to lead them to resort to Italian steel, if they had to do it. Therefore Jack nodded, then knelt at the trapway, and next, with an inward prayer, let himself drop down into the darkness. He landed on damp, soft earth.

"Good boy!" called one of the Italians, the lantern lighting his smiling face as it appeared framed by the trapway for an instant. "Not so very long to wait. Let you out so you go home, bimeby."

Then the trapdoor was gently put tack in place, after which Jack heard the click of a padlock above to secure the barrier in place.

Young Benson got upon his feet, stretched to make sure he was unhurt, then broke forth, under his breath:

"Of all the prize fools in the world, commend me to Jack Benson! Here, at the request of a perfect stranger, I've taken a long walk this night, just in order to place myself wholly in the hands of men who, however mild they may be in their piracy, certainly wish me no good. Oh, you, Jack! Oh, you blooming, prize idiot!"

Then he smiled grimly, wondering. From what had happened so far he felt inclined to believe the smiling rascals above. Had they intended worse violence, they had had abundant opportunity to show it.

"Of course, they're probably stretching a point when they say I'm to be here only three or four hours," reflected the boy. "Yet, now I'm here, I imagine I'll have to remain here until they're pleased to let me out. But -- will I, though?"

Overhead, at that moment, sounded the tinkle of a mandolin. It came, apparently, from the room nearer the front door. The two foreigners began to hum softly to the accompaniment of their instrument.

"May-be it was a lucky thing it never occurred to the pair to search me," murmured the submarine boy. "Probably they wouldn't have left this box of matches in my possession."

Lighting one of the matches, Jack began to explore. The cellar was much like any other, and wholly empty. On each side was a little, low window, probably not large enough for the submarine boy to crawl through. Even at that the openings had been bricked up and looked as though they would resist a long assault.

At the rear of the cellar were steps, leading up to a stout-looking bulkhead. It was padlocked, on the under side, with stout hasp and staples.

"Nothing doing here, either," muttered Jack. "Yet -- hold on -- blazes!"

Almost feverishly he felt in an inner pocket. It was there -- a case containing seven or eight small, fine saws and other tools often employed by machinists in constructing small devices or models. He had been using some of the instruments on the boat that afternoon.

"Wow!" sputtered the submarine boy, joyously. "And again -- some more wow!"

Lighting another match, carefully selecting his saw, and then lighting still another match, he took a look at the padlock, trying to find some portion of the ring where the metal was more slender. The saw was intended for use on metals. After he had made a sufficient notch in the ring, young Benson was able to work, much of the time, in darkness.

"Blessings on that mandolin," chuckled this industrious young human beaver. "If it wasn't for their jolly old twang-twang those Italians might hear my fairy buzz-saw at work."

Yet, though he progressed, what a fearful length of time this task appeared to take!

"And, if it turns out that there's another padlock in place on the outside, this will be just another case of love's labor lose," sighed the boy.

Occasionally, when the mandolin sounds ceased for a few moments, Benson rested, too. It would never do to take the risk of having his slight noise overheard.

At last! The saw went through the ring, proclaiming the task all but finished. First, with trembling fingers, the submarine boy replaced the saw in its case. Then, with another tough little tool, he started patiently to bend the severed ends of the ring metal sufficiently far apart. In this he succeeded finally.

Removing the padlock, he let the hasp fall away from the staple. On the floor above the mandolin was twanging merrily, the voices of the Italians rising somewhat in their song.

With his pulses throbbing, Jack Benson essayed to raise the bulkhead. Glory! It rose! A moment later Captain Jack Benson was out in the open, under the cloudy skies.

No time did he lose there, however. Stealing softly for the woods, he sped on into them. Nor did he cease his hurried gait until he had covered at least a quarter of a mile.

"Not much risk of their finding me, now, even if they're wise at last," reflected the submarine boy, slowing down to an easier walk.

In all, Captain Jack must have gone nearly three-quarters of a mile from the scene of his late confinement when something occurred that made him fairly jump.

Ahead there came the sound of rapid steps. Then the sounds of a slight scuffle, followed by Don Melville's undoubted tones, shouting:

"Run, Benson! He'll never catch you now!"

"How on earth does Don Melville know I'm here?" quivered Jack, stopping short.



Chapter XII

The Capitalist Doesn't Like The Situation


Someone was dashing through the woods straight at Jack Benson.

Almost immediately there came the yell, in baffled rage:

"Confound you, Don Melville! I'll settle with you for this!"

"That's Mr. Farnum's voice!" throbbed the real Jack, all agog with wonder.

Immediately there dashed between the trees a panting boy in a uniform identically like Benson's.

"That you, Hal?" shouted the real Jack.

"Yes," came a hoarse answer.

"What's wrong?"

"Run to Farnum -- quick!"

"You're a liar, whoever you are!" retorted Jack, putting himself in motion after the fugitive. "You're not Hal Hastings -- nor yet Eph Somers!"

The race was a spirited one. The fugitive ran splendidly, gamely, but Jack Benson's wind had had a long rest, and now he was in the pink of condition for sprinting.

So, ere three hundred feet had been covered, the young submarine boy made a flying leap that carried him onto the shoulders of the fugitive down went both to earth.

"Now, hold quiet, will you, or shall I have to pummel your face out of any human likeness?" demanded Jack.

"Oh, Jack! Jack Benson! That you?" shouted the wondering voice of Jacob Farnum.

"Yes, and I've got some fellow who's masquerading in our uniform!" yelled Captain Jack.

Jacob Farnum had succeeded in hurling Don Melville away from him, and now the all but exhausted boatbuilder came through the forest with lumbering steps.

All of a sudden the downed fugitive began to fight, and Jack was forced to be strenuous.

"Here, let me take him. I'll quiet him," promised Jacob Farnum, grimly. That gentleman was in a state of mental maze over the sight of what at first appeared to be two Jack Bensons fighting each other; Yet the incident gave him evidence that there was something unusual in this night's appearances. Without any difficulty, now, he separated the real from the false Jack, and promptly laid hands on the latter.

Don Melville's face was now a sickly white, but he felt that he had to act on the instant.

"Here, let that fellow go," he ordered, darting up, his eyes blazing.

"Get back there! Stand away! Hands off!" roared the submarine boy, facing young Melville and sending him back by a blow in the chest.

"Let that fellow go!" insisted Don, angrily. "If you try to hold him, I won't be responsible for what I do!"

"I can tell you what you'll do, if you try to mix in at all where Mr. Farnum is busy," retorted Jack, facing his foe with a savage grin.

Nevertheless, Don, espying a stick of wood lying on the ground, snatched it up, then tried to dart around Captain Jack in order to get at Mr. Farnum, who was having a rather one-sided struggle with the recent fugitive.

But Jack stopped Don -- stopped him all of a sudden, by rushing at him and forcing him back up against a tree trunk. Whack! thump! It was no time for delicacy. Young Benson struck Don two hard blows in the face, next wrenching the stick away from him.

"The ground's good enough for you -- full length!" snapped Jack; wrathfully. Leaping at the Melville heir once more, he bore that angered youth to the ground. Had not Don been winded by so much running he would not have been so easy to handle.

"Now, you stay there," commanded Jack, testily. "I believe you know a good deal about things that have happened to me to-night, and we've got to get it all straightened out."

"I've got this one, Jack," called Mr. Farnum, gleefully.

The arrival of the real Jack Benson on the scene, in contrast with the sham one, had opened the boatbuilder's eyes. He could not fathom, yet, what it all meant, but he was certain that his hitherto trusted young captain would be able to explain it all satisfactorily.

The young stranger in blue now lay on his back, while Jacob Farnum sat astride of him. The boatbuilder felt carefully over the outside of the clothing of his captive, until his hands encountered the feel of paper.

"I guess this is what I'm looking for," muttered the "Pollard's" builder, thrusting his hand into a pocket and pulling out an envelope. "This looks like the envelope Don Melville handed you, back there up the road. Let us see how much you got for your rascality to-night."

Striking a match, Mr. Farnum drew some banknotes from the envelope, counting them.

"Twenty dollars, for all that dirty work," sneered the boatbuilder. "Young man, you sell yourself too cheaply. It ought to be worth more than twenty dollars, just to have to be found with the Melvilles."

Hearing that, Don gnashed his teeth. Like many another rascal, Don wanted people to think well of him.

"Jack," called out the boatbuilder, "see if young Melville has a long, white envelope anywhere about him. In the inside coat pocket, if I remember rightly."

"Don't you dare!" challenged young Melville. But Jack glanced down at him with contempt, retorting:

"I follow only Mr. Farnum's orders. People who follow your orders take too big a risk of having to go to jail."

In Don's inner coat pocket rested a long, white envelope. Jack fished it out with a cry of triumph.

"Got it, Jack?" hailed the boatbuilder.

"Yes, sir."

"Then hold on to that envelope until we have a good chance to look it over. It's supposed to contain plans, or some sort of information, that you were supposed to be selling the Melvilles to-night."

"What?" gasped Captain Jack.

"Oh, there's a lot to the affair, and some of it needs unraveling, but we'll get to the bottom of it yet."

"I should say we'd have to!"

"This young hoodlum that I'm holding down is dressed in a uniform just like yours."

"I noticed that, sir."

"He's your figure, and complexion, and doesn't look a whole lot unlike you, Jack. I was fooled to-night, from the distance, when he impersonated you. But, now I have a closer look, this young fellow looks more like a thug, and he's slightly cross-eyed, too."

"I hear voices, so they must be over this way," sounded the tones of Broughton Emerson, between the trees. Then he and George Melville came upon the scene.

The elder Melville stared incredulously, with a startled gasp, when he got close enough to make out what had happened.

"Benson," blurted the capitalist, "how dare you? This is an outrage, you young puppy! Don, get up out of that undignified position. Get up this instant!"

"He will," said Jack, dryly, "as soon as he can get away. At present he's held down by force of circumstances."

"Get off my son, you impudent young upstart!" insisted George Melville, aghast at the ignoring of his first order. "Don, get up this instant."

"Mr. Farnum gives all the orders here, so far as I'm concerned, Mr. Melville," announced the submarine boy.

"Oh, let him up," said Farnum, dryly. "We know just where to find Don Melville any time that we need him."

Jack got up willingly enough, then. But Don, as soon as he had recovered some of his crumpled dignity, held out one hand imperiously.

"Give me that envelope you just took from my pocket," he commanded.

"Oh, will I?" rejoined Benson. "Ask Mr. Farnum for it."

"Hold onto that envelope, Jack," commanded the boatbuilder.

Jack Benson thrust it into his inner coat pocket, next firmly buttoning the front of his coat. Don made a move forward, as though to prevent, but drew back sullenly when he caught the flash of the submarine captain's steady eyes.

"Did young Benson take anything from your pockets?" demanded George Melville, stiffly.

"Yes, that envelope that he has just buttoned up in his own coat," said Don, sulkily.

"Return that to my son, at once," insisted the capitalist.

Jack, this time, did not even honor the command so far as to admit having heard it.

Broughton Emerson, deeply puzzled, had left group to go over to Mr. Farnum and the strange boy in blue.

"Jack!" called the boatbuilder, and Benson ran to him.

"Do you think you can fasten onto this youth, and prevent his getting away from us?" asked Jacob Farnum.

"I'm rather sure of it," nodded Benson.

"Then keep your eye on the fellow, Jack. He's got to go to jail. He's been engaged in some conspiracy against us, and I'm going to fathom it all, and have the fellow sent up for years and years at hard labor."

The fellow whom Jack was now holding heard this with a start and a shiver.

"You hear that, Don Melville?" he gasped. "Remember, you promised to see me through safely, if any trouble happened. You've got to keep your word."

"Hold your tongue if you think I'm going to do anything for you," growled Don.

"If you don't stand by me," threatened the prisoner, "I'll make things warm for you -- and you know I can do it!"

Don paled, visibly, under that threat.

"Ho, ho!" laughed Jacob Farnum. "When thieves fall out -- "

"Mr. Farnum, sir," thundered the elder Melville, stalking over to where the boatbuilder stood, "do you realize you're talking about my son?"

"Well, why not?" asked Mr. Farnum, coolly. "It's becoming pretty evident that he isn't a bit too good to be talked about."

"What does all this hubbub and outrage mean, anyway?" cried George Melville.

"It looks to me," rejoined Farnum, coolly, "as though your son would have the extensive task of informing us."

"Come on, father; let's be getting away from these people," proposed Don. "But what are you going to do with that young man?"

"In the name of the Commonwealth," replied the boatbuilder, "I've placed this young man under arrest, and I'm going to deliver him up to the authorities. He has been engaged in a conspiracy, and must suffer for his full share in the affair. If he confesses, and implicates others, they'll have to stand the consequences."

Again Don lost color, though now he was careful not to betray himself any further. But he hesitated, afraid to go away, lest Jack's prisoner be led into betraying him.

"Start your young man towards the road, Jack," directed Mr. Farnum, who now had the envelopes taken from Don and the stranger.

Jack started, holding to the arm of his late impersonator.

"Mr. Farnum, may I have a word with you?" asked George Melville, as the others walked along.

"Mr. Emerson," urged the boatbuilder, "will you walk on the other side of Captain Benson's prisoner? I want to make sure that no attempt at rescue is made."

Broughton Emerson readily nodded his agreement, and stepped up ahead. As for Don, he fell in behind this group, while Messrs. Melville and Farnum walked still more to the rear.

"Now, what does this whole affair mean?" demanded George Melville.

"As far as I understand it," answered Jack's employer, stiffly, "it looks as though your son and yourself had framed up a scene, to be witnessed in poor light, at night, in which my young captain would appear to be hound enough to sell out Pollard's business secrets, and mine."

"I can assure you," said the capitalist, coldly, "that I had nothing to do with any deception."

"Then your son, without your knowledge, fixed up to-night's affair."

"You seem bound to fasten something upon my son."

"Well, Mr. Melville, can't you yourself understand that everything appears to point to Don as the prime mover in all this business?"

"I do not agree with you, sir."

"Well, perhaps that's hardly to be expected." laughed Jacob Farnum. "However, since the real Jack Benson wasn't in that little picture so neatly framed for inspection, let us get up closer to him, and ask him to tell us just what did happen."

So Jack, as the party turned into the road, related the story of the trap that had been sprung on him, and how he had escaped from it.

At the conclusion of the narrative, Mr. Farnum turned around to say to Don:

"Young man, if you have engineered the whole of to-night's plan, I must compliment you on your originality and ingenuity. Nothing but accident prevented you from having a complete triumph."

"Be careful, sir, what you say about my son!" warned George Melville, pompous in his anger.

"As it disturbs you," smiled Farnum, "I won't say any more about it. The whole business will keep."

The elder Melville, however, pulled Mr. Farnum by the arm until he had him well to the rear of the others.

"Now, Farnum," murmured the capitalist, in a conciliatory voice, "I am ready to admit that it begins to look a bit as though my son may possibly have been a bit reckless. I shall want the truth of it all proved. But, if I am satisfied that Don has been wholly in the wrong in anything that he has done, believe me, I shall be most ready to make the matter right with you."

"Right with me?" repeated the boatbuilder, in amazement "What do you mean by that?"

"Why, I mean, of course, that, if I am convinced that Don has been headstrong and over-zealous -- "

"Mr. Melville, listen to me, and understand me fully. It looks as though to-night's business had been engineered on purpose to dissuade Mr. Emerson from investing money in my enterprises. If that is true, it is a matter of conspiracy, and I cannot hold out any hope to you that I shall allow anyone to escape just punishment."

"Do you threaten my son?" demanded the elder Melville, a menacing frown clouding his face.

"Of course not unless he can be shown to be undoubtedly guilty. For your sake and his I hope that won't be the case. And now, sir, good night."

They were nearing the streets of the village, and, Soon after the two Melvilles fell behind, Mr. Farnum found a constable who took the stranger in the blue uniform in charge.

Mr. Emerson excused himself, going to his own stopping place, but Mr. Farnum and Jack continued with the officer until they had seen the young stranger locked up.

Then Mr. Farnum hurriedly telephoned to the house of a lawyer, rousing that gentleman, and sending him to the lock-up to interview the prisoner. Jacob Farnum had already returned to the young stranger the twenty dollars found in the envelope in his pocket. The boatbuilder had also handed to Don Melville the envelope taken from him, after having ascertained that it contained only blank paper.

As Mr. Farnum and Captain Jack again turned into the street they encountered David Pollard, rushing along and looking much excited.

"Oh, here you are," burst from the inventor. "I've been looking for you everywhere, since you were not at home. Two things of the utmost importance have happened."

"Some other things, also, of which I do not believe you yet know," smiled the boatbuilder. "But let's have your news, first, Dave."

"A thief, dressed in a uniform very much like Jack's, and of the same size and similar build to our captain, broke into my room and stole the drawings for the automatic closer for the torpedo tube," hastened on the inventor, almost breathlessly. "I fired a shot at him, from my window, but he escaped."

"We know the fellow, I guess," nodded Jacob Farnum, "and we know he disposed of some blank paper to-night. But I did not know your drawings had been stolen."

"Say," broke in Jack Benson, thoughtfully, "do you remember the two holes in the right side of the fellow's coat?"

"Yes, I do," rejoined the boatbuilder.

"Probably he's the same fellow. A bullet, passing through his coat, might have made those two holes without touching his body."

"Jove!" muttered Farnum. "Yes; that's so. I believe your guess is wholly right, Jack."

"Tell me about that," begged Mr. Pollard.

"One thing at a time, please," urged the boatbuilder. "Now, if that young rascal had the drawings, did he turn them over to Don Melville before the arranged meeting that I saw? For our prisoner had no such papers aboard him when I searched him."

"That will have to be solved," muttered Jack, seriously. "We can't afford to have those secret drawings in the possession of the rival submarine boat builders."

"But what about your other news, Dave?" interposed Mr. Farnum.

"This telegram!" burst, eagerly, from the inventer, producing a yellow envelope. "It was addressed to you, but in your absence I opened it."

While Jack struck a match, the boatbuilder read with feverish interest showing in his eyes.

"Oh, but this is great news!" he gasped. "We've finally got the Navy Department awake. This dispatch inquires how soon we can be ready to run the 'Pollard' through an exhaustive trial trip with a board of Naval officers aboard. Do you grasp it, Jack? If the trial succeeds we'll sell our first boat to the Government and be on the high road to success and fortune! Oh, this is the grandest news! It overshadows everything else!"

It truly did.



Chapter XIII

On Trail As Young Experts


Very early the next morning Jacob Farnum sent the following telegram to the Navy Department at Washington:

"Send board of officers as soon as you desire. Everything in readiness. Advise me promptly, and how many will be in party."

Then, knowing that he could not expect to hear from the national capital for at least several hours, and feeling that he simply must have something absorbing on his, hands, the boatbuilder turned his attention to following up the business of the night before.

He soon learned, through means of his own, that Don Melville had engaged a driver and had left Dunhaven during the night.

"Pooh!" snapped the boatbuilder. "If we want that young man, detectives will find him sooner or later. Or else, he'll be compelled to hide at the ends of the earth, so that he'll give us no further trouble."

The young stranger at the lock-up steadfastly refused to admit that he was David Pollard's burglar of the night before. Naturally, therefore, he failed to disclose what had become of the envelope of drawings stolen from the inventor's room.

Yet the lawyer engaged by Mr. Farnum had strong hopes that, eventually, the prisoner would be forced to reveal all that he knew. Another attorney, engaged, presumably, by Mr. Melville, had also seen the prisoner, and probably had succeeded in making the young man feel that he would be well paid for silence.

During the forenoon the prisoner's case was called in the local justice's court, but Farnum's lawyer had no difficulty in having the hearing postponed. The prisoner gave the name of James Potter, which undoubtedly was fictitious. No bail was offered for "Potter." If Mr. Melville felt inclined to do that, he undoubtedly dreaded that such an act would be construed as a tacit admission of Don's connection with the strange business.

Captain Jack was sent, with an officer, to see whether he could identify the two Italians who had trapped him the night before. Though all the workmen of the yard were rounded up, Jack could not find his recent assailants among them.

"And now," cried Mr. Farnum, when Captain Jack returned to the Farnum yard, "you will have to get busy with any preparation on board the boat that has to be made."

"No preparation is necessary," replied Benson, "except to remove the automatic closer from the after port of the torpedo tube, so the Navy men won't see it. That can be done in ten minutes or less. The 'Pollard' is all ready for inspection or any kind of tests, sir."

So Jack spent his time at leisure aboard the submarine. Eph and Hal listened enviously to the recital of his night's adventure.

"And all that time," grumbled Hal, "I was taking an extra nap in the starboard stateroom."

"And I was reading a great story about the boy scouts of the War of 1812," sighed Eph, regretfully. "Doing that when something real was happening within a long stone's throw of here. Oh, Jack, Jack! Why didn't you tip us off?"

"If I had only suspected that something was up, I would have done it," Jack replied. "I tell you, fellows, there was a time, when those Italians were marching me through the woods, that a little company of my own sort would have been mighty pleasant. I couldn't be very sure, at one time last night, of whether you'd ever see me again. But I had the conviction that, if I tried to put up a useless fight against those two powerful fellows, there'd be sure to be a new captain aboard the 'Pollard.'"

It was well along in the evening when Mr. Farnum received a telegram from Washington, informing him that a board of three Naval officers, provided with proper credentials, would arrive in Dunhaven on the next morning but one.

The boatbuilder came promptly on board the submarine with the news, adding, earnestly:

"Don't you boys leave this boat unguarded for an instant until after the trial trip is over. Mr. Melville will very likely hear about this and I'm not sure he'd hesitate to disable our boat if he could. At the rate at which work is going on at his yard his boat may be finished before our second submarine is ready for demonstration. It would be greatly to his interest to have a boat to show the Government first, especially if he now has the plans of our automatic closing device."

It turned out that the suspicion of Mr. Melville receiving the news of the coming trial trip was wholly correct. The next morning that capitalist called at Jacob Farnum's office.

"Farnum," he announced, "I've decided that, in order to heal all breaches, and also to make what is very likely to be a good investment for myself, I'll be ready to put in all the money desired with you, and on what I think will be your own terms."

"Of course I feel greatly obliged to you," rejoined the boatbuilder, with evident sarcasm. "But to put money into this enterprise, Mr. Melville, would be to encourage, needlessly, competition with your own submarine building."

"Oh, we can merge the two yards, Mr. Farnum," responded the capitalist, with a wave of his hand.

"Some little time ago, Mr. Melville, I would have been very greatly pleased with your offer. Now, Mr. Emerson stands ready with hundreds of thousands of dollars. He knows that a trial trip is being arranged for the Government, and he stands ready to act by the result. If we can sell our first boat to the Government he stands ready to turn over all the money we can possibly use."

"But what if the Government doesn't buy?"

"Then there would be no sense in using more capital for the present."

"The Government may be fairly well satisfied, and yet there may be a hitch about buying one of your boats. What, then?"

"We shall have to wait and see," replied Mr. Farnum.

"But my offer, Mr. Farnum, if not accepted to-day, will not be repeated," warned the capitalist.

"Your offer, Mr. Melville, would not, under any circumstances, be considered, or even tolerated," rejoined the boatbuilder, coolly.

George Melville leaped to his feet, his face flushing.

"Do you mean that?" he demanded, glaring at the man opposite him.

"I never meant anything more in all my life," smiled the boatbuilder. "Mr. Melville, I thank you for suggesting that you are ready to advance money, but I assure you, on my word, that I shall never have any business dealings with any members of your family."

"Man, you are talking like an idiot! Throwing away chances like a fool!" stormed Mr. Melville, his look becoming blacker every instant.

"And I appreciate the fact that you are much too wise a man to talk with a fool," laughed the boatbuilder, walking over and throwing the office door open. "Good morning! This will be my busy week."

"You'll want me when, it's too late," cried the angry capitalist, striding through the doorway. "You will live to see the day, very soon -- "

What that day was Mr. Farnum didn't learn, for he closed the door on his departing caller, going, laughing, back to his desk, where he picked up a cigar and lighted it.

"How poison runs through the blood of some families," mused the boatbuilder, blowing out several rings of smoke.

On the morning appointed the three Naval officers arrived at Dunhaven. Their appearance did not excite much interest among the natives, for all three were in ordinary civilian dress.

Commander Ennerling came as president of the board; the other two members were Lieutenant Commander Briscoe and Lieutenant McCrea, the latter serving as recorder of the board.

"I've had the pleasure of meeting you before, haven't I, Lieutenant?" murmured Mr. Farnum, in an aside.

"Yes, and the commander of your boat is the same who played that wonderfully funny trick by leaving the submarine's card painted on the side hull of the battleship 'Luzon' during the hours when I was watch officer," replied the Naval officer, in an equally low tone. "But please don't refer to it before my comrades, They've stopped hazing me about it, and have almost forgotten the incident."

As Lieutenant McCrea spoke his face was very red. He had been tormented much by his brother officers over the laughable prank that Captain Jack had played upon him, as related in the first volume in this series.

Mr. Farnum took the Naval board first of all to his house, where the inventor was presented to them. Then, after an early lunch, the party went out to board the "Pollard."

Captain Jack Benson and his crew of two were on the platform deck to receive the visitors from Washington. As Jack's hand met Lieutenant McCrea's the submarine boy said only:

"I am very glad to see you again, sir. I hope we shall have something worth showing to you."

"Get away from moorings, Captain Benson," directed Mr. Farnum. "Then, when we get out on the broad ocean, we'll be ready for any tests that these gentlemen want."

Within a very few minutes more the "Pollard" was a mile off shore, heading almost due east and traveling at nearly her full speed.

"We'll see how fast you can log the knots off for an hour," proposed Commander Ennerling, picking up a satchel that he had brought with him. With McCrea's help he adjusted a patent log that he had brought along with him, casting the line over the rail into the water.

"Now, let me know how soon you are ready to have the record of your speed begin," he suggested.

"Take the log from this minute," requested Captain Jack, for, as soon as he saw the Naval officers adjusting the log, he had quietly passed word by Eph to Hal Hastings, who was in the engine room, to crowd on every revolution of the twin shafts that the gasoline motor would stand.

For an hour there was nothing to do but to steer straight ahead. Part of the time some of the officers spent below smoking, though always at least one of them remained on deck, to make sure that the log record was not tampered with.

At exactly the end of the hour the indicator of the log was read off.

"Twenty-one and four tenths knots!" cried commander Ennerling, with an expression of amazement. "Whew! I knew we were traveling fast, but I didn't imagine we were doing quite as well as this."

"You're satisfied with your test, aren't you?" inquired Mr. Farnum.

"Yes, for the log was carefully standardized for us before we came."

Hal Hastings was called on deck to be complimented for this performance.

"The motor can be improved so as to beat that speed," declared Hal, flushed and happy, for he had nursed that motor along during the hour!

"As it stands, the twenty-one-spot-four record beats anything of the kind with any other submarine boat in the United States, doesn't it?" inquired David Pollard.

"I -- I -- it may do. It's a very excellent record for speed, anyway; very remarkable," admitted the president of the board, cautiously.

"Now, gentlemen, what test will you have next?" asked Mr. Farnum.

"Suppose," replied Commander Ennerling, after glancing at his associates, "that you submerge the boat, on even keel, and let us see how many feet under water you dare to go with this craft?"

"It shall be done," nodded Mr. Farnum. Accordingly the ventilators were shipped, all hands went below, and the conning tower manhole was closed. Everything was in readiness for the drop below the surface. The gasoline engine was shut off, the electric motor being started. At Captain Jack's order Eph stepped up to take the conning tower wheel, while the young commander stood by the diving controls.

"Even keel, if you please," again requested Commander Ennerling.

Jack began to flood, slowly, the water tanks, the "Pollard" sinking gradually. With the young captain at one side of the gauge, Messrs. Farnum and Pollard took their posts at the other side, to watch the readings.

"How many feet down do you want to go?" asked young Benson, coolly.

"How far down do you dare to take the boat?" asked Mr. Farnum, almost hesitatingly.

"As far as you dare to let me," replied Jack, with spirit. "Watch the gauge, and tell me when to stop."

"Jove, but you have a cool nerve, lad, if you back that up," laughed lieutenant McCrea.

"Perhaps our young skipper is relying upon the caution of his employer," suggested Commander Ennerling, smiling.

It is always a question of great importance just how far below the surface a submarine torpedo boat may go with safety. The greater the depth the more enormous the pressure of the water. At sufficient depth the water pressure is terrific enough to crush in the hull of the stoutest submarine. At even less depth the pressure may easily start the plates so that the inrush of water will destroy all on board.

Yet Jack Benson's proposition was to send the "Pollard" further and further below the surface, until owner or inventor should order him to stop.

All three of the Navy officers shot a look of admiration at the doughty young skipper. Then, almost immediately, their faces resumed their usual expressions. To the Navy officers this experience carried with it no dread. The "Pollard" might prove, under severe test, wholly unfit to stand the pressure below surface. Their death might be but a minute or two away, but with these Naval officers it was all in the line of duty.

It was not, with the members of the board, so much a matter of actual grit as of constant association with all forms of danger.

"We're going pretty low," muttered Mr. Farnum to himself, as he read the gauge.

"Can we stand much more depth?" wondered David Pollard, inwardly uneasy, though outwardly calm. A moment later he told himself:

"Jack Benson has never been as low as this before!"

"It won't take much more of this to make further trial trips of no interest to us," almost shivered Jacob Farnum.

Yet Jack, true to his word, allowed the "Pollard" to sink lower and lower. He was waiting for the word -- or the bottom!



Chapter XIV

Fooling The Navy, But Only Once


Commander Ennerling bent forward to read the submergence gauge.

"Jove, but you've really your nerve with you, Captain Benson," he declared, simply.

"Confidence in the boat, sir," Jack answered coolly.

Up in the conning tower, where he could observe the duplicate gauge, Eph Somers, though not easily frightened, was beginning to feel more than curious.

"If we go much deeper, I'll sure let out a yell," Eph gritted, between his teeth.

At last Jack's voice broke in, coolly:

"You see, gentlemen, the gauge now gives a constant reading. We can't go any lower, for the water tanks are as full as they'll hold, and there's still the buoyancy caused by all the air the interior of the boat. So we're as far below the surface as we can go."

"Bully for you, Benson!" cried Lieutenant McCrea, slapping the young skipper on the back. "You understand what you're doing, and no one could do it with more coolness. You must have been born aboard a submarine."

"He never saw a craft of this kind, until a few weeks ago," retorted Jacob Farnum admiringly.

Taking out a notebook and pencil, Commander Ennerling recorded the reading of the submergence gauge, which showed how many feet the craft was below the surface of the water.

"Of course," hinted Mr. Farnum, smilingly, "don't know the gauge to be correct."

"We've the means with us of testing and standardizing the gauge in the harbor," replied the president of the board.

"If we ever see the harbor again," muttered Eph Somers, overhead in the conning tower.

"How does this compare with the depths touched by submarine boats now owned by the Navy?" asked David Pollard, a bit feverishly. He was not afraid of their present rather dangerous position, but was frightfully nervous over the thought of any good showing this craft born in his brain might fail to make. "This is thirty feet lower than any submarine record I've ever heard of."

"I -- perhaps it would be wiser for me not to say," replied Commander Ennerling. "It may be as well for me to wait and compare this record with those on file at the Navy Department."

"Have you had all you want of this, gentlemen?" inquired the boatbuilder. "Shall we show you anything else?"

"Yes; you might give us a run at full speed under water, at the lowest depth that you deem it wise to try to run the craft," answered the president of the board.

"Very good," nodded the builder. Hal took this as the signal to leap back into the motor room.

"How far below the surface would you dare run the 'Pollard,' Captain Benson?" inquired Commander Ennerling.

"At the greatest depth we can go, the present depth," quietly answered Jack, without bravado.

The president of the board glanced at the builder of the submarine.

"Does that appeal to you, Mr. Farnum?"

"I'll let Captain Benson have his own way, unless the members of the board have other instructions," replied Jacob Farnum, promptly.

"Well, Captain Benson, if you deem it wise to work your propellers at their best at the present level, go ahead and try it," laughed the president of the board.

"Half speed ahead, Hal," called the young submarine captain. "Full speed as soon as you get well started. Eph, swing around and go due west."

"Aye, aye, sir," came the response, from both members of the crew.

Erelong the splendid little craft was making the best speed of which she was capable. That there was a big chance of risk in it all knew. If the hull of the boat was not of the most perfect construction there would presently come an ear-splitting report through the bursting in of steel plates on account of the tremendous pressure of the water all around the boat. That would be followed by the inrush of the ocean and prompt destruction.

There was another danger, not so great. Wrecks of ships often sink below the surface, there to drift tediously about as long as the timbers hold together. If the "Pollard," traveling under present conditions, should collide with such a hull, there would be no future for anyone aboard.

Yet, though all three of the submarine boys fully comprehended the chances that now confronted them, all three did their work without faltering.

In fact, none of the eight human beings aboard during this extremely hazardous undertaking betrayed any cowardice, nor even alarm.

Lieutenant McCrea watched the gauge, the other two officers going forward to make record of the number of revolutions per moment at which the electric motor could drive the propeller shafts.

After ten minutes the president of the board approached Mr. Farnum to say:

"We are satisfied with this part of the work. Let us return to the surface for a welcome look at the sky."

"Will you hold your watches, gentlemen," inquired Captain Jack, "in order to see how much time passes before we are running on the surface?"

One of the members of the board, watch in hand, climbed up the staircase to stand beside Eph in the conning tower.

"Awash, sir," Eph soon called down.

The time was noted.

"Now, show us anything that you wish," suggested Commander Ennerling.

Captain Jack looked significantly at Messrs. Pollard and Farnum. Both nodded.

"Then, sir," rejoined Captain Benson, "if don't mind, we'll run back to Dunhaven, and show you a specialty of ours in the harbor at Dunhaven."

"Very good," agreed the president of the board.

Not until they were in sight of the little harbor was the manhole opened. Now, some of the party stepped out onto the platform deck and remained there a few minutes.

"I'll have to ask you to come inside, now, gentlemen," requested Jack Benson, courteously, after making an unobserved signal to someone on shore. "We're going down to the bottom of the harbor."

As soon as the "Pollard" had sunk, and rested on bottom, Jacob Farnum invited the members of the board into one of the staterooms aft.

"For just a few minutes, gentlemen," he explained, "we want to keep you from seeing something."

As soon as the visitors were out of the way, Captain Jack sprang forward to the torpedo tube. Hal Hastings, stripping off his outer clothing, stood forth in his bathing suit.

"Into the tube with you, now," whispered Jack. "Crawl well forward -- right up to the forward end of the tube -- so. Get hold of the crossbar of the cap. Hold on hard. Now, when we close the rear port, and open the forward cap, with a little rush of compressed air, the cap will open forward and up, dragging you out into the water. Now, then, got a good hold?"

"A grip like death itself," laughed Hal.

"Be ready, then."

Captain Jack closed the rear port of the tube, and turned on some compressed air, which also drove the forward port open and up. A moment later the submarine boy tapped at the door of the state-room.

"Has anything happened?" smiled Mr. Farnum.

"Hal Hastings is missing, sir," reported Jack.

"Missing?" demanded the boatbuilder, leading his guests out into the cabin.

Young Benson pointed to the pile of clothing, just as Hal had left it on the floor.

"Get to the surface," commanded Mr. Farnum. "We shall have to look into this."

Soon the conning tower of the "Pollard" reappeared above the waves.

"Hal is safe, gentlemen," reported Captain Benson, from the tower.

An instant later he opened the manhole of the tower, allowing all hands to step out on deck.

Grinning delightedly, Hal stood in the bow of the small shore boat.

"How did he get there, from a submarine on the bottom?" asked Commander Ennerling, in astonishment.

"That is one of the secret features of this boat," laughed Mr. Farnum. "Now, gentlemen, if you will kindly come below again, we're going to sink."

Hardly had the submarine touched bottom before Mr. Farnum again conducted his guests back to the state-room. When Captain Jack summoned them forth, they returned to find Hal Hastings, laughing in a way that showed his white teeth, standing there in his dripping garments.

"From what you have seen, gentlemen," said the builder, seriously, "I am sure you will understand that we have mastered a new feature, of great value in submarine boating." The three Navy officers struggled to conceal their wonder.

"Make for the surface, Captain Benson," directed the owner.

When the passengers aboard the submarine stood once more on the platform deck, the yard's owner signaled for the shore boat to lay alongside. Into this small boat he took his guests. The boat was rowed away two or three lengths, immediately after which the "Pollard" again sank.

Two or three minutes passed. Then Captain Jack's head shot above the surface. He made for the boat, hanging onto the gunwale.

"It would be bad judgment to call you young fellows mermaids," said Commander Ennerling, dryly, "but you are surely merboys."

A moment later Hal Hastings's head came above the surface.

"Mr. Pollard and young Somers could as easily leave the boat and join us," explained Mr. Farnum. "However, if the last man aboard leaves the boat then there is no way provided for a return to the 'Pollard,' and we would be placed at great expense in raising her. I think we have, however, shown you enough to make you believe that we have mastered some new wrinkles in submarine work."

"You have shown us more than we can quite digest," admitted Lieutenant Commander Briscoe. "But how is this all done?"

"That," responded Mr. Farnum, gravely, "the Government will know when the boat is purchased for the American Navy."

The anchor being again lowered, both Jack and Hal dived below. In five minutes the "Pollard" was on the surface. Mr. Farnum asked:

"Have we shown you enough at one time?"

"Yes," admitted the officers. "This evening, after dark, we may ask you to take us out and show us your boat's diving powers."

"Jack, my boy," whispered Jacob Farnum, when the young captain joined the party on shore, "your trick of leaving and returning to the boat when it lies on the bottom has gotten our friends of the Navy into a state of hard guessing. Do you think we'd better show them some more of it at another time?"

"If you want my opinion, sir, I think we'd better not. We've puzzled them this time, but if we keep on doing the trick for them, I'm afraid they'll soon guess how it's done. I don't believe, sir, you can fool the American Navy more than once."



Chapter XV

Serving In The Cause Of Peace, Not War


"It seems almost a shame to have to go below," sighed Lieutenant McCrea.

It was evening, the time about nine o'clock. For nearly an hour the "Pollard" had been running out to sea at something below her full speed. She was now something like a dozen miles off the coast.

Commander Ennerling had just decided that it would be a good time to test the diving capabilities of the submarine.

Ventilators were shipped, and all other preparations had been made for going below the surface.

Eph was left in the conning tower, Lieutenant McCrea with him.

"How far do you want the dive to be made, sir?" asked Jack Benson.

"A depth of forty feet ought to serve the purpose," stated the president of the board.

"Then, sir, we will make a sloping dive to that depth, then complete the curve until we strike the surface again," proposed the submarine boy. "How will that suit you, sir?"

"Excellently," agreed the Navy commander.

"Do you want to take the record with your stop watch?"

"Yes?"

"All ready, sir."

As Captain Jack gave the word he threw open the forward water tanks, so that water rushed in, tilting the bow of the craft downward. The "Pollard" moved on a decided slant until Captain Jack read the depth of forty feet on the gauge. Then, with a barely perceptible rest. On an even keel, the young submarine expert threw compressed air into the forward tanks, expelling the water, at the same time admitting water to the tanks aft.

Gracefully, and with, the precision of a trained living being, the submarine craft curved upward until Lieutenant McCrea shouted down:

"We're awash, sir"

Benson drove the water from the tanks aft, and the boat rode the waves.

"Now, let us see you run a little lower than awash, with just enough of the conning tower in the air for the helmsman to see where he is steering," proposed the president of the board.

Jack went above to relieve Eph at the wheel, while Commander Ennerling stationed himself beside the boy.

"You may use your searchlight, of course," proposed the commander, "and proceed just as though you were trying to pick up a battleship of the enemy without much exposing yourself."

As the broad, bright beam of the searchlight shone out over the waters ahead, Captain Benson called down for the best speed.

Commander Ennerling watched the boat's performance, and the work of the young captain for some minutes before he said:

"Benson, I'll admit that the more I see of this craft the more anxious I am to see her under our Navy flag."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, sir," cried Jack, his face glowing.

"Yet I'm a bit puzzled, after all."

"How so, sir?"

"Why, the more I think about it, the more I wonder just how much of my delight and interest are due to the boat itself, and how much to the splendidly expert way in which you young men handle her."

"You call us experts, sir?"

"Don't you believe, yourselves, that you are?"

"We hope that some day we shall be," was Jack's slow response.

"Benson," went on the Navy officer, earnestly, "if you're not now experts, you never will be."

"Does that mean, sir, that we shall never know much more about such craft than we do now?"

"By no means. You'll know more every year that you stick to the work. What I intended to convey is that you three are the best experts in this line I have ever seen, considering, of course, the amount of time you have already given to this work. Give you three lads time enough, and the United States appears destined to possess the three greatest submarine experts in the world."

"That's great praise, sir," said Jack, quietly, his cheeks tingling.

"I mean all I've said," rejoined Commander Ennerling, gravely.

They had run some miles by this time. Captain Jack, reaching up to swing the searchlight about over the course ahead, suddenly uttered:

"Look over there, sir -- two points off starboard. What do you make out?"

Commander Ennerling instantly became absorbed as he caught sight of a steam yacht something more than a mile away.

"Going under full power, but shooting rockets," added Jack. "They've just sent up two from aft."

"Distress sign, without a doubt," mused the Naval officer. "Wonder what it means?"

Jack had reached for a pair of night glasses, which he now handed Commander Ennerling.

Already the "Pollard" had swung to a bow-on course and was making straight for the steam yacht.

"Mutiny, by Jove!" murmured the Naval officer. He did not speak excitedly, but with a certain grim dryness. "Catch up with them as soon as you can, Captain Benson."

"There they go, heading away from us," muttered Captain Jack.

"From her present performance she doesn't look to be over a fourteen-knot boat," declared Ennerling. "You won't be long in running alongside."

"What do you make out, sir?"

"A white-haired old man, in a yachting suit, and another man in white duck. They are aft, and both appear to be holding pistols. There are two women, one middle-aged, I should say, and the other barely more than a girl. Excellent glasses, these, Benson."

"Can you make out any mutineers?"

"There are some men, pressing back astern, yet seemingly not wholly liking to risk revolver fire," went on Commander Ennerling. "I don't believe I can make out all the mutineers, from this point of view."

"What shall we do, sir, when we get alongside?"

"Quell the mutiny," retorted Commander Ennerling, with emphasis. "It's the one choice a Naval officer has in a case of this sort. Briscoe! McCrea!"

The two junior officers came hastily up the spiral stairway. Commander Ennerling told them as rapidly as he could what had happened.

"There's something wholly wrong on that yacht," he wound up, "and we've got to get alongside and look into it."

"Want to get out on the platform deck?" inquired Captain Jack.

"Yes, by all means."

More of the water was expelled from the tanks until the platform deck was two feet above the surface. Then the manhole was opened, and an interested crowd hurried out on deck. Only Eph remained below, he, to his disgust, being sent to the motor.

Jack Benson now stood at the deck wheel, while the others gathered at the rail to watch the progress of the pursuit.

Even as they looked, the older man aft on the yacht fired his revolver twice, aiming forward. The flashes could be distinctly made out, though the reports of the weapon were borne away by the breeze.

"Have either of you gentlemen a revolver?" demanded Commander Ennerling of his subordinate officers.

Neither of them had. Nor had any of the submarine's own people.

"Hm!" muttered the commander, grimacing. "This is a fine Naval outfit to lay alongside of a craft that has a mutiny aboard!"

"Do you want to hail, or try to board the yacht?" inquired Jacob Farnum.

"I think we'd better run alongside and hail that crowd," answered Commander Ennerling. "Yet, if it comes to it, we'll have board!"

Three shots flashed out, amidships, on the yacht, showing that the fire was directed towards the stern. Two shots from the two men aft replied. No one appeared to have been hit.

"We'll have to fight if we're to be of any use," muttered Ennerling. "With our fists, too, confound the luck!"

They were now rapidly overhauling the yacht. It was with throbbing pulses that Captain Jack Benson steered the "Pollard" up alongside.



Chapter XVI

Fighting A Mutiny With Threats


Hal Hastings came springing out of the conning tower with a megaphone.

Jack, with a final swing of the wheel, brought the "Pollard" in on a course parallel with the steam yacht, and not more than two hundred feet away from the other vessel's port rail.

At the same moment Benson rang the signal bell for reduced speed, so that the sterns of the two craft were kept almost on a line with each other.

"Ahoy, yacht!" bellowed the commander, through the megaphone. "Any trouble aboard?"

"Mutiny!" hoarsely shouted the white-haired man, turning his head only enough to send the word.

"It looks like it," agreed Commander Ennerling. "We are United States Naval officers, aboard a torpedo boat. The mutiny must stop. Shut off your speed, and send a boat over here. My order is addressed to the mutinous crew."

Two of the mutineers were hiding behind a mast, three more behind the forward end of the after deck house. Just how many more there were, could not be clearly made out by those on board the "Pollard," for some had undoubtedly crouched below the deck bulwarks.

But one man among the mutineers possessed the rough courage to advance to the rail, shouting in a husky voice:

"You go on your way, and mind your own business, Mr. Navy!"

"Stop that mutiny and submit to your officers," insisted Commander Ennerling, sternly. "Do you want us to come aboard and wipe you out to the last man?"

"You can't board us, from a craft of that kind," jeered the fellow at the yacht's rail.

"You'll find we can, if we have to."

"Come along, then!"

"Do you realize, my man, that we are United States Naval officers?"

"Not when I can't see your uniform," laughed the mutineer, roughly.

"I'm not going to argue with you any more. I've given you my orders. Do you intend to submit, or will you fight?"

"We'll fight!" roared the mutineer. A hoarse cheer went up from his comrades.

"They don't estimate our fighting power very highly," muttered Ennerling, in a low tone. "If they knew the whole truth they'd be still less afraid of us."

From the mutineer at the rail came another hoarse hail:

"Shove off and get away, or we'll rush the crowd aft and wind up the women! You start a fight if you think you can. If you know you can't, then get away. We're not afraid until we're killed."

Now, eight mutineers, in all, lined across the deck, each man showing a revolver.

"Humph! We've got to fight -- and can't!" muttered Commander Ennerling, in great disgust.

"We can save those women," muttered Jack Benson, "if they've the nerve to help themselves be saved."

"How?"

"Hal Hastings and I can swim over, and can hold the women up if they have the nerve to leap overboard."

"Those brutes might fire on you, and the women, but it's worth trying," decided the Naval officer, instantly. "Over with you, then!"

Captain Jack waited only long enough to shed coat and cap, then sprang to the rail. Hal was with him, instantly.

"Sir," bellowed Commander Ennerling, "Have your women folks jump overboard. We'll pick them up in the water. Be quick about it!"

There were a few hurried words in the little group of four aft on the steam yacht. Then, with the "Pollard" running in closer, so that a bare fifty feet separated the two craft -- Mr. Farnum at the submarine's wheel -- Jack Benson plunged overboard, followed by Hal. The girl aboard the yacht leaped at once, the older woman following quickly.

"Get us, too, if you can," shouted the white haired man at the yacht's stern. "We can swim a little."

Both craft were still going ahead at about fourteen knots, but, as the two men jumped Lieutenant Commander Briscoe and Lieutenant McCrea plunged overboard to get them.

Now Jacob Farnum rang for the reversing of the engine, and the submarine, first pausing, began to glide backward, then stopped altogether.

From the steam yacht went up another hoarse cheer, the mutineers dancing like demons, discharging their revolvers into the air. All this while the yacht steamed steadily away from the scene.

The girl was sinking for the second time as Jack Benson, with a forward swoop, shot one arm under her.

"You won't go down now," he called, cheerily. "Keep cool and just do what I ask you."

The older woman, buoyed up by a greater spread of skirts, had not sunk below the surface at all by the time that Hal Hastings reached her.

"All just as it ought to be," hailed Hal, blithely. "Don't be at all afraid, madam. Porpoise is my middle name, and you can't sink while I have you."

The work of the two Naval officers who had plunged overboard was easier. Both of the men who had leaped from the yacht's stern rail were able to swim. Briscoe and McCrea merely reached them and swam alongside.

David Pollard had ropes over the side of the submarine in a jiffy. It was easy work for seafaring men to climb these ropes over the sloping, easy side. It was scarcely more difficult to get the women up in safety.

"Let the ladies go below to the port stateroom," called Mr. Farnum. "They can disrobe, rub down and get in between blankets in the berths. Their men folks can take care of 'em."

"I'm the steward, sir, of the 'Selma,' the yacht that's ahead," explained the man in white duck. "I'll help them below at once, sir."

"We can have hot coffee in seven minutes," Mr. Farnum continued. "Captain Benson, if you'll take the wheel again, I'll go below and get to work in the galley."

The white-haired man, in the meantime, was hurriedly making himself known to Commander Ennerling as Egbert Lawton, owner of the "Selna," a hundred-and-forty-foot schooner rigged steam yacht. The ladies were his wife and his sixteen-year-old daughter, Miss Ethel Johnson was the steward's name.

"Get after the yacht again, Captain Benson," requested Commander Ennerling. "We have the owner and the ladies safe, but we've got to take that crew to land as mutineers."

"They'll fight to the last shot," declared Mr. Lawton, shaking his head.

"Did you and your steward bring your revolvers with you?" asked Ennerling.

"No; we tossed them into the sea as we dived," laughed Mr. Lawton. "Bringing weapons to a Naval craft is like carrying coals to Newcastle."

"Unfortunately," rejoined the commander, plaintively, "this isn't yet a Naval vessel, and the most dangerous weapon aboard is the breadknife in the galley. But how did the mutiny start, Mr. Lawton? And how did you come to have such a rascally crew aboard?"

"Two or three bad men got into the crew, started fights, and some of the old crew quit. Then these bad men passed the word to other tough characters to apply to my captain. In a short time the crew was all of one piece of cloth, including the fellows in the engine room."

"How many mutineers are there aboard?"

"Thirteen, in all. Even the cook joined them."

"But your officers?"

"Captain Peters and Mate Sidney. It was the mate's watch when the trouble started. You see, as most of my cruises have been short, I carried but one mate. So, on a long run, the captain had to stand watch in turn. Captain Peters was below. Mate Sidney went forward, to the forecastle, for something. He must have been felled and ironed. One of the crew roused the captain, saying the mate needed him forward. Then Captain Peters went forward, was seized and ironed. Then, howling like fiends, in order to frighten us the more, the mutineers rushed aft."

"Yet you stood them off?"

"Yes; Steward Johnson and I both happened to be on deck, and were both armed. The rascals didn't want any of their side killed, so they tried to parley when they saw our weapons."

"What started the mutiny?"

"Mrs Lawton usually carries her jewels, when on board. They are worth two hundred thousand dollars -- a rich prize to desperate thieves."

"What folly to tempt men so on the broad ocean!" muttered Commander Ennerling, under his breath.

"The jewels were kept in a safe in the cabin," continued Mr. Lawton.

"And there are the scoundrels just smashing in the cabin door," broke in Jack Benson.

"There they go, piling below."

"They're welcome," jeered Egbert Lawton. "As it happened, my wife had some sort of presentiment, and the jewels are in two canvas pouches securely fastened under her clothing. She leaped overboard with them."

As the "Pollard" now ran much closer, those aboard the submarine could hear the yells of rage that came from the yacht's cabin.

"The safe was unlocked, and the rascals have found out how badly they've been sold," laughed Mr. Lawton. "But why are you going so close to the yacht? In their rage, they'll fight like fiends, and you are unarmed."

"We shall see what we shall see," dryly commented the commander, murmuring a few words in Hal Hastings's ear.

Hal promptly dropped down below.

"Selma ahoy!" hailed Ennerling, when the submarine was once more up with the yacht.

"Get quiet and go to sleep!" shouted back the leader of the mutineers, derisively.

"Under the law you mutineers are pirates," shouted back the commander, firmly. "If you don't surrender we shall be compelled to sink you."

"Sheer off and forget it!" jeered the mutineer.

"Look here, my man," bellowed Commander Ennerling, "we'll have no further nonsense from you. Surrender, without further parley, or you'll find our nose pointing at your side hull -- and then there'll be some fireworks. You can't be insolent with the United States Navy."

Then, leaning over the manhole, Commander Ennerling shouted down:

"Watch below!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" rose Hal's voice, clear and strong.

"Pass the word to load the torpedo tube."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Next, hailing the "Selma," Ennerling called:

"Last hail before trouble! Do you surrender?"

"No, you sea-lawyer!"

Just a word to Jack from the Naval officer, and the "Pollard" shot ahead of the other craft, then came up and around, going after the yacht on the quarter, nose on.

"I hope this line of business works," remarked Ennerling, with a dry smile.

"Toot! toot! too-oo-oot!" sounded the yacht's steam whistle, shrilly.

At the same time her engines reversed. Another of the mutineers rushed to the rail, waving a white towel.

"In heaven's name, don't do it!" he bellowed, hoarsely.

"You surrender, then?" demanded Ennerling, stiffly, though his heart must have bounded with joy. "Wise men! We're not going to put a prize crew aboard. You'll have to take the yacht in. Head about for the coast, taking the course as we signal it.  Don't try any tricks, or any slowing down of speed. The least sign of treachery, and we'll sink you without further warning -- "

" -- if we can do such a trick with compressed air alone," added Commander Ennerling in a tone heard only by those near him on the platform deck. "Captain Benson, what is the nearest place on this coast with a police force capable of taking charge of such a crowd."

"Clyde City is about a thirty-two mile run from here, sir," Jack answered. "There's a harbor police boat there."

"Then make for Clyde City, please. I'll attend to signaling the yacht."

As the two vessels proceeded on their way the ladies below were made as comfortable as possible. Mr. Lawton and his steward were provided with dry clothing, and coffee was served. It was an hour before either Jack or Hal found time to change their clothing in the motor room.



Chapter XVII

Jack Perpetrates A Practical Sea Joke


"Searchlight ahead, sir."

Captain Jack made the report to Commander Ennerling.

It was in the small hours of the morning, and the submarine, having taken its prize in to Clyde City's harbor, was now on its way up the coast to tie up for the night at Dunhaven.

They were running about six miles off the coast. As the president of the Naval board had a great desire to test the craft running all but submerged, only the upper portion of the conning tower was above the water.

At Clyde City the "Selma" had been put in charge of the squad of the harbor police boat, and the yacht's captain and mate, neither of them badly injured, had been freed.

Dry clothing had been secured for the ladies, and they were taken ashore. Eghert Lawton was profuse in his expressions of gratitude, and declared that he hoped to meet all hands of the submarine party again at an early date indeed. Our friends learned, later, that the mutineers had been sent to prison.

Now only her regular party was aboard the "Pollard." For half an hour the little vessel had been running along, nearly submerged, and with the searchlight not showing.

At Jack's report Commander Ennerling looked up from the compass he had been studying by the shaded light that showed at only that point in the tower.

"She's coming head-on toward us," said Ennerling. "Benson, Navy men are handling that searchlight."

"You think so, sir?"

"No; I know it," was the dry rejoinder. "There's a way, in the Navy, of swinging a searchlight; a way that no merchantman or yachtsman has ever yet caught."

As yet the vessel behind the searchlight was not visible. Indeed, if she were painted the dark gray color of the Navy craft, it would be some time yet before her hull could show plainly at night.

Commander Ennerling used his glasses for some moments.

"Shall I answer with our searchlight, sir?" inquired the submarine boy.

"No, no, thank you. I'm more interested in seeing how close we can get to that vessel, since she belongs to the Navy, before she succeeds in picking us up with her light. It's of great practical value to know just how close we can get to that other vessel, undiscovered, in the night time."

"How close would you like to get to her?" inquired young Benson, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

"Humph! I'd like to tie up to the other craft," muttered the Naval officer.

"Well," propounded Jack, "what's to prevent us from doing it?"

"Several things. The watch that's kept aboard a Naval vessel under way, for one thing."

"I'll try the trick, sir, if you'll stand for it."

Ennerling turned to stare at the boy in amazement.

"Benson, you've done several clever things, but now you're talking nonsense."

"I don't say I can do the thing," rejoined Jack, "but would you like to see me try?"

"Yes, if you take no risk of ramming the war ship, or doing any other damage."

Captain Jack instantly shut off the speed, reversing, next allowing the "Pollard" to stop and drift as she lay.

"What's that for?" asked Commander Ennerling.

"I'm going to try," replied Jack, with a laugh. "Oh, Hal!"

Hastings came at once up aloft with them. His mouth opened in a broad grin as he listened to his chum's rapid sentences.

"And now ask Eph to come up here," finished Jack.

As Somers reached his young chief Benson demanded:

"Eph, see that light? Commander Ennerling is sure it belongs to a Naval vessel.  We're going to try to tie up to her while she's going at cruising speed."

"Say, that's like you!" burst from Eph Somers, an admiring grin showing in his face.

"Eph, have you sufficient nerve to get into your bathing suit like lightning, and go overboard with a lantern and a rocket or two, with only a state-room door to float on?"

"Of course," nodded Eph. "The sea's not rough, and a state-room door is big enough to ride on. But you're not going to leave me marooned, are you?"

"Not likely," laughed Jack. "You're right in the path of the approaching vessel, Eph, and they'll see your rockets and lantern. They'll pick you up."

Eph's face went suddenly solemn.

"Say," he muttered, "I'll have a real interesting time trying to make some sort of an explanation, won't I? What shall I tell them if they do pick me up?"

"Tell 'em anything you like, except that the 'Pollard' is trying to tie up," responded Jack.

"That all?" demanded Eph, with a grin. "If it is, I'm off to get into my traveling clothes."

"Hurry," nodded Jack. "Send Hal up to the wheel, while I explain the whole thing to Mr. Farnum. But, commander, what if that shouldn't be a Navy vessel?"

"It is," responded Ennerling, with emphasis. "It's the gunboat 'Massapeqna.' She's in these waters just now. You'll find I'm right."

Jacob Farnum began to laugh heartily when he caught the whole of Captain Jack Benson's new idea of a sea joke.

Eph was quickly in his bathing suit. He and Jack unhinged a stateroom door, carrying it up through the conning tower. Hal, in the meantime, under orders, had attended to bringing the "Pollard's" platform deck briefly above water.

The movements of the searchlight ahead convinced the submarine boat's observers that the gunboat's watch officer had not yet detected the presence of so small and unlighted an object as the "Pollard," miles away.

As the door was floated on the water alongside, Eph stepped out onto it, squatting. He had with him a lantern, three rockets and a box of wind matches.

"Don't forget I'm here, if I'm overlooked by the other people," called Eph, with a wave of his hand, as he floated slowly astern.

"And don't let 'em know where you came from, or what's up," called back Jack Benson.

"Say, do you think I'm as foolish as I look?" blurted Eph, half-indignantly. Those were the last words exchanged, for the "Pollard," now moving slowly forward, had left its detached door astern.

With only a couple of feet of the conning tower above surface, the "Pollard" began to make good submerged time forward. Presently the little craft dropped below the water altogether. Ten minutes later the tower flashed above the water for just a moment.

The Naval commander quickly brought the night glass into play.

"That's the 'Massapequa,'" he declared, laying down the glass.

"There, they've picked us up," cried Jack, as the light passed over the top of the conning tower.

"They won't be sure after just that brief flash at us," rejoined Ennerling. "Drop out of sight."

Jack let the "Pollard" drop at a semi-dive. Just as they had barely gone under there was a steadier flash of light on the water in front of them. Jack chuckled.

"Quick work," nodded Ennerling, approvingly. "The lookout on the gunboat thought they saw something here on the water, and swung the ray back to find out what it was. Now, they've doubtless concluded that they were fooled by a shadow."

"The next time we come up we'll have passed the 'Massapequa' and be astern of her," predicted Jack.

"Good enough, if you can calculate correctly the distance. The gunboat, of course, has no searchlight aft."

For some minutes the "Pollard" ran under water.

"I'm sure we're a little astern, now," said Captain Jack. "I'll take a lift up into the atmosphere."

With that the "Pollard," which had been running not more than five feet below the surface of the water, rose gently.

"Jove!" murmured Commander Ennerling.

"Did you work by calculation, Benson, or guesswork?"

"I calculated the distance as nearly as I could," replied Jack Benson quietly.

"Then you're a marvel, lad," cried Commander Ennerling, admiringly.

It was little wonder that the Naval officer was astounded. For the "Pollard" had emerged barely a hundred feet to the starboard of the gunboat's line of course, and barely two hundred feet astern.

"The rest is going to be easy," laughed Captain Jack, confidently. "The trick is as good as played on the 'Massapequa.'"

He gave the wheel a hard turn to bring the nose of the submarine about.

"There's your gleeful friend, Eph Somers," announced Commander Ennerling, pointing ahead as the "Pollard" came about.

A bare eighth of a mile away, directly in the track of the gunboat, sat Eph on his door. Those in the tower could not quite make him out in the night, but they could see the circles described by the lighted lantern that Eph was swinging.



Chapter XVIII

Eph Enjoys Being Rescued


In going that last eighth of a mile the gunboat's speed was gradually slowed.

It was a pretty piece of ship-handling. The "Massapequa" lost headway gradually a hundred feet from where Eph sat solemnly blinking back at the sailors' faces along the forward starboard rail.

An officer's uniform showed at the edge of the bridge, as he called:

"Ahoy, there!"

"Ahoy, yourself," answered Eph. "And another one for courtesy."

"Don't get funny, boy!" admonished the officer on the bridge. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," Somers replied. "But; say! Can you spare a cushion."

"How did you come to be there, boy?"

"Floated," admitted Eph, truthfully.

"How did you ever get six miles off the coast on that float you're on?"

"Can't remember," replied Eph, dubiously.

"How long have you been out here on the water?"

"Ever since February, 1976," Eph Somers asserted, solemnly.

"Crazy!" muttered the officer to himself. "We'll have to get him aboard and turn him over to the officers at the next port. I'll try him on one more question."

Raising his voice, he called:

"What's your business? Do you follow the sea?"

"Say, you haven't caught me leading it anywhere, have you?" inquired Eph, wonderingly.

"If we throw you a rope, will you try to catch it?"

"Yep, or a beefsteak, either," Somers declared, promptly.

"Send the boy a rope," directed the officer on the bridge. "Be careful not to sweep him off the float. The lad doesn't seem over-bright."

Though this remark was not intended for his ears, Eph caught it nevertheless.

"Not bright, am I?" muttered Eph, to himself. "Gracious, what a lot of company I have in the world, then!"

Through the air the rope, deftly thrown, came swirling. Eph caught his end of the line in a manner to make the officer say to himself:

"That boy has followed the sea. He knows as much about life on salt water as I do."

Very deliberately Eph bent over, fastening his end of the line around the knob on the stateroom door.

"Haul in, my hearties," he hailed.

Eph stood up, balancing himself nicely while the sailors hauled the slack until the door lay bumping against the side hull of the gunboat.

"Look out," sang out Eph. "Little Willie, the Boy Dewey, is coming on board."

With that he began to climb the rope, hand over hand, until he reached the rail and clambered over, standing dripping on the deck.

"Say," remarked a petty officer, "you left the line fast to that raft."

"Certainly," nodded Eph, with cool assurance. "That's so you can haul the door on board, too. Mother'd make a fuss if I got home without the door to her ice chest."

"Shall we haul the door aboard, sir?" called the petty officer to the bridge.

"Yes," nodded the young officer up there.

So that came aboard, too, almost in a jiffy.

Eph, with a very wide grin on his face, stood regarding the sailors who had curiously gathered around him.

"Where are you from?" asked one of the seamen.

"Just in from the salt water," Eph assured him.

"Let the boy alone, men," warned the officer on the bridge. "I'll have the guard take care of him for the night. In the morning I'll report the case to the captain. But bring the boy up here for a moment."

Two sailors thereupon escorted Eph to the bridge. The officer in charge looked him over curiously.

"Now, young man," began the young officer, "have you anything to tell me about yourself!"

"Yes," volunteered Eph.

"Go ahead."

"I'm wet."

"Boy, you're in the wrong place to try to get funny," came the stern rebuke. "I guess I know what you need."

Just at that instant the sounds of a decided though indistinct commotion came from aft.

"Then shake," begged Eph, offering his hand. "I know, too, what you need."

"What is it that you think I need?" demanded the officer, suspiciously, eyeing the boy closely.

"You need to get wise," declared Somers, promptly. Then, noting that the sounds from aft had caught the officer's quick ear, the submarine boy added, with another grin:

"By the time you've found out the meaning of the rumpus aft you'll know a lot more."

Over in one corner of the bridge a cadet midshipman had stood silent during this talk. Turning to him, the watch officer said hurriedly:

"I leave you in charge here. Look after this boy."

Then the watch officer ran quickly down from the bridge, making his way aft.

No wonder there was excitement on the after part of the gunboat.

Captain Jack Benson, after heading the "Pollard" about, had run as close as he, or rather, Hal, dared. Hastings was at the wheel, much of the upper hull of the boat being now out of water. Jack was forward, on the upper hull, with a line, one end of which was made fast to the platform deck. At the other end of the line was an iron bolt for weight.

Close in under the stern of the gunboat, slightly to starboard, stole the "Pollard." Jack, balancing himself, made a cast of the line. The iron bolt shot up, past the stern flagstaff, then down into the water astern again.

With the gunboat lying to, the submarine could move only with the barest headway. The instant he saw that the line had passed around the base of the flagstaff, watchful Hal Hastings set the reverse deck control in order to keep from bumping the "Massapequa." Next, the submarine stole quietly over towards port, Jack, with a boathook, gathering in the line that he had thrown around the flagstaff. This end he made fast in a trice.

"The marine guard, if there is one, didn't see the line flying," whispered Jack, gliding back over the "Pollard's" hull to the platform deck. "I don't think I'll be caught now until I'm on that other boat's deck."

"Good work! Fine!" whispered Commander Ennerling, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Here's the note."

Captain Jack slipped the folded paper in his pocket, then hastened back to the line. Hal ran the submarine far enough back to leave the double line all but taut. Seizing the rope with both hands, Jack made his way swiftly up to the gunboat's stern rail.

In another twinkling he was over. It was not until his feet touched the deck that the slight noise caught the marine sentry's ear, causing him to wheel about.

"Halt!" hailed the marine, throwing his gun to port. "What are you doing there?"

"I've a message for your commanding officer," Jack answered, halting with a click of his heels as he brought them together.

"Where did you come from?" demanded the marine, wonderingly.

"Are you the commanding officer?" questioned Jack. "If not, take me to him."

"Corporal of the guard!" bawled the marine.

Almost in a jiffy the corporal was there.

"Corporal," said Jack, crisply, "I've a message, in writing, and an official message, too, for your commanding officer."

"I'll take it to him, then," said the corporal. "Or shall I conduct you to his quarters?"

"You may take it to him," agreed Jack, holding out the folded paper.

"Sentry, keep your eyes on this stranger," ordered the corporal of the marine guard, as he received the paper.

A moment or two later, the commanding officer of the "Massapequa" was reading this brief but astounding communication:

Commanding Officer, U.S.S. "Massapequa": You are towing the submarine torpedo boat "Pollard" astern. Technically and theoretically, haven't you lost your ship? (signed) Ennerling, Commander, U.S.N.

With an explosive remark the gunboat's commander snatched up his cap, darting aft. The corporal, whose curiosity was aroused, judged that he was expected to follow, and did so.

"What's this nonsense about towing a submarine torpedo boat?" demanded the gunboat's commander, reaching deck aft.

"Wh-what, sir!" stammered the marine sentry, presenting arms.

"Where did this boy come from?" demanded the Naval officer.

"I -- I don't -- " began the sentry, but his superior, leaving him, rushed to the flagstaff.

"Sentry, what were you doing? What was everyone else doing?" cried the gunboat's commander. "Did you think it a part of our cruise to serve as mooring for stray torpedo boats? You -- come here, you blockhead!"

The corporal got there ahead of the private, looking down in utter bewilderment at the sight of the "Pollard" riding the waves so saucily just astern of the gunboat's hull.

"Did you come aboard from the submarine?" questioned the gunboat's commander, wheeling upon Jack Benson.

"Yes, sir."

"Ahoy, 'Massapequa,'" floated up in Ennerling's tones. "Is that you, Braylesford?"

"Aye, Ennerling, and a shabby old trick you've played on us!"

Commander Ennerling's hearty laughter came up from below.

"Captain John Benson, the young man who came over your stern rail, is the genius who planned the joke," called up Ennerling.

"But with your approval, eh?"

"Of course, Braylesford."

"Then, Ennerling, I'm sorry I can't have the pleasure of putting you in irons," nodded Lieutenant Commander Braylesford, dryly.

"Let down a rope ladder, and I'll come aboard for a moment, Braylesford."

The watch lieutenant, who had hurried aft at this juncture, stood waiting respectfully for a word with his superior.

"What have you to report, Lieutenant?" demanded Braylesford.

"We stopped, sir, to rescue a boy afloat on a door. He's in bathing suit, and gives none but the most idiotic replies to my questions."

"He must be part of this outfit," retorted the lieutenant commander, pointing below at the submarine, at which the watch lieutenant was now staring with wide-open eyes.

"Yes; that's Eph Somers, one of our crew," smiled Captain Jack. "He was turned loose on the door to take up your attention, while we did the tie-behind trick."

A rope ladder having been lowered, Commander Ennerling, by nimble use of the tow-line, had succeeded in reaching it, and he now came over the rail, chuckling.

"It's on the 'Massapequa,' I admit," grinned Braylesford.

"On me, I'm afraid," pronounced the watch lieutenant, with a half-groan.

"Don't feel badly about it, gentlemen," laughed Commander Ennerling. "Jack Benson is the same lad who stole up under the battleship 'Luzon,' and painted the name, 'Pollard,' in sixfoot letters on the hull of the battleship as a reminder of his call. The lad is a sea-joker of the first order."

"He ought to be in the Navy," retorted Braylesford, then turned, with a smile, to offer his hand to the submarine boy.

"Oh, he will be, surely enough, if war-times ever come upon us again," replied the commander.

Word was now sent to conduct Eph aft.

"Get aboard your own craft and dress; then come on board and join us in the ward-room," invited Braylesford.

"I'm afraid the lad can't," said Commander Ennerling. "He and one other, Hastings, are the only members of the crew that will be left on the submarine if you keep Benson here to talk with him."

Within two minutes the two craft were on their way south. The members of the Naval board, Messrs. Farnum and Pollard and Captain Jack were entertained in the ward-room of the gun-boat, while Hal and Eph ran the submarine along some two hundred yards to the westward. It was a jolly time, indeed, in the "Massapequa's" ward-room, for Naval officers are keen to enjoy a good joke, and Jack's exploit was voted a prime one.

At the end of an hour, however, the "Pollard" was signaled to lie to, the gunboat doing the same. It was time to break up the ward-room party. The visitors went down the side gangway to a small boat, and were transferred to the submarine.

"The Navy has something to talk about, now, wherever officers meet for dinner, or social talk in the ward-room," declared Commander Ennerling. "At the same time, Benson, your ingenuity and skill have shown us how easy it is for such a boat as this to destroy any warship afloat. And now, for Dunhaven and a long sleep -- if we don't run into further big adventures on this eventful night."



Chapter XIX

Jack Stumbles Upon A Big Surprise


"Busy, Farnum?"

"At this moment, not especially."

"I'm glad of that."

George Melville's attire was particularly fashionable this morning, three days after the first trial trip run, when he dropped in at the boatbuilder's office, finding the latter there alone.

Mr. Melville's eyes were twinkling, his face beaming. He had the whole appearance of a man who is satisfied with himself and anxious to please others.

"I've come to hold out the olive branch, Farnum, if anything of the sort is needed," continued the capitalist.

"It isn't. Nothing is needed here but a good decision from the United States Government," replied Jacob Farnum, briefly.

"Ahem! Now, see here, Farnum, of course I understand that you had abundant reasons for feeling offended the other day. But this state of affairs ought not to last between us. You have a splendid type of boat, but you need more money in order to push your yard properly. You need a lot more of building plant here."

"Yes," assented Mr. Farnum.

"Now, on the terms that I was inclined to refuse before, I am ready to supply a sum even greater than was at first spoken of," and the man beamed on Mr. Farnum.

"I no longer care to talk business with you, Mr. Melville."

"Why not?"

"We need not go into that. I bid you good day, Mr. Melville."

"You don't seem to know what you're doing, Farnum. I control millions. I also have some influence -- in Washington," and the man strode from the room, leaving Jacob Farnum a bit shaken but not repenting his decision not to deal with George Melville.

"One other road is open to Melville if he but knows it," thought the boatbuilder. "One hundred and ten thousand dollars' worth of bills for materials are now a few days overdue. My creditors have faith in me, but Melville, with his money, could buy up these bills by offering a bonus and could then press me for immediate payment. If only Washington did not move, so slowly!" and the man groaned.

That same evening about ten o'clock the submarine boys were on their way from the village to the "Pollard" when they heard the fire alarm. They were in front of the volunteer fire house, and were at once pressed into service to take the place of some of the young firemen who were not at hand.

"Look!" shouted Eph Somers. "The fire is in the Melville boatyard!"

The volunteer firemen beat down the big gate of the yard with lusty blows and rolled the hand engine inside and, coupling the hose, threw a stream of water on a fiercely burning shed. Jack Benson, relieved of his task of pulling the engine, went toward the big shed where the submarine was under construction -- at least, there was no other place on the premises that such work could be carried on.

Just as Jack reached the big shed some firemen battered down the door in order to turn a stream of water on the fire there. The flames lighted up the place with an intensive light, leaving no corner unilluminated. Jack, on the qui vive with interest and curiosity, looked within.

"Empty, oh-ho! What do you know about that!"

Hal Hastings came up just then and Jack said:

"See that, Hal? The Melvilles have been putting up a show of building a submarine to beat ours. This fire betrays the fact that no boat is being built here. Nothing here but iron plates and the hammers with which the workmen have been beating every day!"

"Of all idiotic things!" exclaimed Hal.

The three submarine boys came upon Mr. Farnum standing in the watching crowd and gleefully told him of the empty shed.

"That might have helped a week ago," said the boatbuilder. "I fear we're beyond help now, boys." He had already told them in confidence of the financier's threat.

Just then Melville came along. Mr. Farnum and the boys would have ignored him, but he stepped up to the group and snapped:

"You're a fine bunch! Some of my workmen tell me that you young rascals were sneaking about my yards and set fire to the sheds."

"That will do, Mr. Melville. We'll listen to no such talk," and before the boys could speak or Melville reply Mr. Farnum pushed the boys before him out of the crowd.

"All those fellows heard him say that, and some of them will believe it!" cried Hal.

"That's bluff on his part, and silly bluff, at that," said Jack. "These firemen can say where we were when the alarm came in."

"But not where we were when the fire started," grumbled Eph.

"The fire's practically out; we'd all better go home now," said Mr. Farnum.



Chapter XX

Conclusion


The next afternoon Commander Ennerling of the United States Navy reported to Messrs. Farnum and Pollard that the naval board had witnessed the tests of the submarine and were ready to report to the authorities. They did not conceal the fact that the boat had made a favorable impression, then they continued:

"You have a crew of experts, though they are very young. John Benson especially is a genius."

"We are well aware of that, gentlemen," replied Mr. Farnum beamingly.

Soon after the naval men had taken their train for Washington, David Pollard came into Mr. Farnum's office, carrying a valise and a brief case and announced that he was going away for a time where he could not be reached to rest and study and think.

It was the third day after this that Jack, wishing to see Mr. Farnum in regard to some supplies for the "Pollard," went to his office.

"He's not been here since three o'clock yesterday," said his stenographer.

"Out of town?" asked Jack.

"I wish I knew."

Jack called up Mr. Farnum's house and got his wife on the telephone. To his question she replied:

"I got a note last night not to worry if he was late getting home. But he has not come in yet," and her voice had a catch in it.

Jack and his chums were greatly worried. Had Melville played some trick on the boatbuilder?

"I'm going ashore," said Eph the next morning, as soon as he had eaten his breakfast in the submarine cabin.

"For anything especial?" asked Jack.

"First, I want to know if anything's yet known of Mr. Farnum. Then, you know that Don Melville's in town. Why? His father's left and all the pounding workmen at his fake yard are gone, too. Something needs explaining."

"He's trying to find out whom he can bribe into saying we set fire to the yard," said Hal bitterly.

"Oh, on second thought Melville would conclude that would be too risky to do," observed Jack.

"Maybe -- maybe not. I'm going over to look about and listen."

In less than an hour Eph Somers, agog with excitement, was back on the "Pollard."

"Say, fellows, that Potter fellow that got into Mr. Pollard's room and stole the papers broke jail last night. Now we know what Don Melville was here for! He had a hand in that!"

So far, the young fellow had refused to talk.

"Bribed by the Melvilles," Hal had declared. "But they'll find that expensive, for he'll continue to bleed them, now he knows how."

Jack, who usually reserved judgment until he knew some facts on which to build, was inclined this time to agree with Eph, and Hal was certain that Somers was right.

"It would be to their advantage to have Potter disappear before they begin their dirty work against Mr. Farnum," Hal insisted.

"I telephoned to Mrs. Farnum and she reports 'nothing new,'" continued Eph. "It's queer."

Just then the boys heard a hail and saw David Pollard, bag and brief case in hand, on the shore signaling to them.

"Where's Farnum?" he asked as soon as he was on the submarine.

"We'd, any of us, give six months' salary to know that, Mr. Pollard," said Jack, and went on to tell what had been taking place.

"That spells ruin for us," groaned the inventor, who knew how things stood financially.

"Do you think, Mr. Pollard, that we'd better suggest to Mrs. Farnum to put a detective on her husband's trail?" asked Eph.

"That trail would probably lead straight through the Melvilles," said Hal bitterly.

"No, don't do that -- yet," replied Pollard.

"Mr. Farnum may be away on legitimate business," added Jack slowly.

Hal and Jack rowed Mr. Pollard ashore. After bidding the inventor good-bye, the two youths decided to go to the shipyard. As they were about to enter the office they were accosted by a man who was coming out. He asked them if they were in Mr. Farnum's employ.

"Yes, sir," Jack answered.

"Can you tell me where he is? The office force could give me no information."

"Mr. Farnum is away at present," said Jack.

"I know that! Where is he?"

"Why should I tell a stranger about my employer's business?" asked Jack sharply.

"Here's my card." The man was a Mr. Stevenson, the head of a firm of ship's steel jobbers. "Here's a bill for twenty-five thousand dollars, and Farnum seems to have disappeared. I can sell this at face value, but I don't want to."

"Give Mr. Farnum a chance, Mr. Stevenson," pleaded Jack. "We can guess who is willing to buy that bill from you -- for a bonus. The man will be as eager to buy next week as this."

The man looked shrewdly into the eyes of the two boys for a moment, then, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned away, saying:

"I guess this can wait awhile."

The boys, after a brief call in the office, went on to town. Mr. Melville was fond of horses, and still drove a handsome pair.

"There comes Don Melville in his father's carriage. I don't wonder they hang on to it. Those horses are beauties," remarked Hal.

The carriage stopped and Don jumped out.

"Say, you muckers, things are happening and you won't be needed now on the 'Pollard.'"

"Really?" drawled Jack indifferently.

Hal could not summon indifference, or the appearance of it. He said contemptuously:

"Having helped a deserving young man to escape from jail, you'll probably put him on the 'Pollard.'"

Don flushed angrily and turned to the coachman, a brutal looking fellow.

"Johnson, chastise the young puppy!"

Johnson jumped down and raised his whip.

"Give it to them both!" yelled Don.

Just then Grant Andrews, the foreman in the submarine shed, having come up in time to hear and see what was taking place, sprang between the boys and the coachman. He crashed his fist into the man's face, and thus disposed of him, then grabbed the whip and brought it down on Don Melville's shoulders.

"Oh, you'll pay for this!" yelled Don.

"Then I may as well get the most out of it," retorted Andrews, and again brought down the whip, this time coiling it around Don's legs.

Don, seeing a grinning crowd about them and stinging with physical pain and humiliation, turned and sprang into the carriage. Johnson was already there, and they hurried away.

"Grant Andrews! Who would have thought it of you!" exclaimed Hal.

"Sorry I did it, boys?" and the flush on Andrews' face subsided and a grin came to his lips. He was usually an easy-going man, but when aroused he could act.

"We-ll, no," admitted Jack, while Hal laughed. "But come on; let's get out of this crowd."

It was several days after this affair that Mr. Pollard, who was on the submarine, got a message from Mr. Partridge, the superintendent of the yard. The message read:

"Mr. Partridge begs Mr Pollard to come to the office at once."

"I'll go, Jack. But I'm weary and may need support. Come with me, will you?"

On entering the outer office the two found the bookkeeper and the stenographer.

"Mr. Partridge is in the inner office with two men, Mr. Pollard," said the stenographer. "If you need me, I shall be right here."

Mr. Partridge was sitting at Mr. Farnum's unopened desk when the man and the boy entered. Mr. Melville and a man Jack soon learned was a lawyer were sitting facing him. Mr. Partridge rose and gave his chair to Mr. Pollard.

"Mr. Melville insisted on seeing me, Mr. Pollard, and I thought best to send for you," said the superintendent.

Without greeting the financier snapped out:

"Where is Farnum, Pollard?"

"Why do you wish to know?"

"I have a claim against him on an overdue bill."

"I didn't know that Mr. Farnum had any dealings with you," was the quiet reply.

"I bought this bill of Riley and Grannan for electrical supplies only recently. It is for a trifle over ten thousand dollars."

"Surely you believe Mr. Farnum is good for that amount?" queried the inventor softly.

"I'm sorry to say that I do not."

"Then why on earth did you buy the bill?"

The capitalist flushed, but said frankly:

"I expect before the day is over to be the owner of other claims against this business."

"In order to wreck us and take the business?"

"Wreck you? Yes. That is good business. But, Mr. Pollard, we will make it well worth your while to stay with the new owners." He was well aware that the inventor might be on the verge of new inventions that would outdate the "Pollard," and he wanted to keep anything new for himself.

"Nothing would induce me to stay on if Mr. Farnum were forced out, Mr. Melville."

"What's that? Forced out?"

The voice came from the doorway, the door having been noiselessly opened, and Jacob Farnum stood at the entrance.

Melville and the lawyer turned in their seats and the others sprang to their feet.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Melville? What can I do for you?" asked the boatbuilder.

"You can settle for this claim, Farnum," and the capitalist held out the paper.

"Very well. I will write you a check at once. The banks are closed for the day now, but I will deposit the money the first thing in the morning. Until I do that, I have not enough in bank to cover this," and he looked at the paper. "By the way," and he turned to his employees and to the inventor, ignoring the two outsiders, "the Navy Department has accepted the 'Pollard.' I've sold her for one hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars. Have you any more assigned claims against me, Mr. Melville?" he drawled, again facing the capitalist.

"No," snapped the man. He had paid a thousand dollar bonus to get the one he had; and was feeling sick over the outcome.

Just then the door opened and the stenographer showed Broughton Emerson into the room.

"I see you answered my telegram in person, Mr. Emerson," said Farnum, rising from the chair he had taken and shaking hands.

"Yes, I came in person, and quite prepared to furnish the capital you need after the preliminaries are arranged."

George Melville rose and after a brief nod of farewell made for the door, followed by his lawyer. Jack opened the door quietly, then shut it just as softly.

Broughton Emerson invested heavily in Mr. Farnum's yard and the business was incorporated, Mr. Farnum and Mr. Pollard retaining control. The owners praised highly the three boys for the way they had handled the "Pollard" on its trial trip, saying that this was a factor in the Navy's acceptance of the submarine. They also gave the three boys one thousand dollars each and ten shares apiece in the new corporation.

George Melville had spent more than thirty thousand dollars in trying to get hold of Mr. Farnum's business. This, of course, was a total loss. Soon after this, in trying to get control of a railroad by his underhand methods, he lost all of his fortune and had to accept a small clerkship in order to make a living. Don, at the same time, became steward on the yacht of one of his father's old-time acquaintances.

Jacob Farnum had been in Washington, a fact his wife had known after the first day of his absence. He had been secretive about the matter, as he wished if possible to keep George Melville in ignorance of his whereabouts until his business was settled.

Not even with the transfer of the "Pollard" to the Government did the life of the submarine boys aboard their pet boat cease. Some further adventures of these boys are told of in a volume entitled: "The Submarine Boys and the Middies; or, The Prize Detail at Annapolis."

<eob>

On The Blockade

By

Oliver Optic



Chapter I

The United States Steamer Bronx


"She is a fine little steamer, father, without the possibility of a doubt," said Lieutenant Passford, who was seated at the table with his father in the captain's cabin on board of the Bronx. "I don't feel quite at home here, and I don't quite like the idea of being taken out of the Bellevite."

"You are not going to sea for the fun of it, my son," replied Captain Passford. "You are not setting out on a yachting excursion, but on the most serious business in the world."

"I know and feel all that, father, but I have spent so many pleasant days, hours, weeks, and months on board of the Bellevite, that I am very sorry to leave her," added Christy Passford, who had put on his new uniform, which was that of master in the United States Navy; and he was as becoming to the uniform as the uniform was to him.

"You cannot well help having some regrets at leaving the Bellevite; but you must remember that your life on board of her was mostly in the capacity of a pleasure-seeker, though you made a good use of your time and of your opportunities for improvement; and that is the reason why you have made such remarkable progress in your present profession."

"I shall miss my friends on board of the Bellevite. I have sailed with all her officers, and Paul Vapoor and I have been cronies for years," continued Christy, with a shade of gloom on his bright face.

"You will probably see them occasionally, and if your life is spared you may again find yourself an officer of the Bellevite. But I think you have no occasion to indulge in any regrets," said Captain Passford, imparting a cheerful expression to his dignified countenance. "Allow me to call your attention to the fact that you are the commander of this fine little steamer. Here you are in your own cabin, and you are still nothing but a boy, hardly eighteen years old."

"If I have not earned my rank, it is not my fault that I have it," answered Christy, hardly knowing whether to be glad or sorry for his rapid advancement. "I have never asked for anything; I did not ask or expect to be promoted. I was satisfied with my rank as a midshipman."

"I did not ask for your promotion, though I could probably have procured for you the rank of master when you entered the navy. I do not like to ask favors for a member of my own family. I have wished you to feel that you were in the service of your country because it needs you, and not for glory or profit."

"And I have tried to feel so, father."

"I think you have felt so, my son; and I am prouder of the fact that you are a disinterested patriot than of the rank you have nobly and bravely won," said Captain Passford, as he took some letters from his pocket, from which he selected one bearing an English postage stamp. "I have a letter from one of my agents in England, which, I think, contains valuable information. I have called the attention of the government to these employes of mine, and they will soon pass from my service to that of the naval department. The information sent me has sometimes been very important."

"I know that myself, for the information that came from that source enabled the Bellevite to capture the Killbright," added Christy.

"The contents of the letter in my hand have been sent to the Secretary of the Navy; but it will do no harm for you to possess the information given to me," continued Captain Passford, as he opened the letter. "But I see a man at work at the foot of the companion way, and I don't care to post the whole ship's company on this subject."

"That is Pink Mulgrum," said Christy with a smile on his face. "He is deaf and dumb, and he cannot make any use of what you say."

"Don't be sure of anything, Christy, except your religion and your patriotism, in these times," added Captain Passford, as he rose and closed the door of the cabin.

"I don't think there is much danger from a deaf mute, father," said the young commander of the Bronx laughing.

"Perhaps not; but when you have war intelligence to communicate, it is best to believe that every person has ears, and that every door has a keyhole. I learn from this letter that the Scotian sailed from Glasgow, and the Arran from Leith. The agent is of the opinion that both these steamers are fitted out by the same owners, who have formed a company, apparently to furnish the South with gunboats for its navy, as well as with needed supplies. In his letter my correspondent gives me the reason for this belief on his part."

"Does your agent give you any description of the vessels, father?" asked Christy, his eyes sparkling with the interest he felt in the information.

"Not a very full description, my son, for no strangers were allowed on board of either of them, for very obvious reasons; but they are both of less than five hundred tons burthen, are of precisely the same model and build, evidently constructed in the same yard. Both had been pleasure yachts, though owned by different gentlemen. Both sailed on the same day, the Scotian from Greenock and the Arran from Leith, March 3."

Christy opened his pocket diary, and put his finger on the date mentioned, counting up the days that had elapsed from that time to the present. Captain Passford could not help smiling at the interest his son manifested in the intelligence he had brought to him. The acting commander of the Bronx went over his calculation again.

"It is fourteen days since these vessels sailed," said he, looking at his father. "I doubt if your information will be of any value to me, for I suppose the steamers were selected on account of their great speed, as is the case with all blockade runners."

"Undoubtedly they were chosen for their speed, for a slow vessel does not amount to much in this sort of service," replied Captain Passford. "I received my letter day before yesterday, when the two vessels had been out twelve days."

"If they are fast steamers, they ought to be approaching the Southern coast by this time," suggested Christy.

"This is a windy month, and a vessel bound to the westward would encounter strong westerly gales, so that she could hardly make a quick passage. Then these steamers will almost certainly put in at Nassau or the Bermudas, if not for coal and supplies, at least to obtain the latest intelligence from the blockaded coast, and to pick up a pilot for the port to which they are bound. The agent thinks it is possible that the Scotian and Arran will meet some vessel to the southward of the Isle of Wight that will put an armament on board of them. He had written to another of my agents at Southampton to look up this matter. It is a quick mail from the latter city to New York, and I may get another letter on this subject before you sail, Christy."

"My orders may come off to me to-day," added the acting commander. "I am all ready to sail, and I am only waiting for them."

"If these two steamers sail in company, as they are likely to do if they are about equal in speed, and if they take on board an armament, it will hardly be prudent for you to meddle with them," said Captain Passford with a smile, though he had as much confidence in the prudence as in the bravery of his son.

"What shall I do, father, run away from them?" asked Christy, opening his eyes very wide.

"Certainly, my son. There is as much patriotism in running away from a superior force as there is in fighting an equal, for if the government should lose your vessel and lose you and your ship's company, it would be a disaster of more or less consequence to your country."

"I hardly think I shall fall in with the Scotian and the Arran, so I will not consider the question of running away from them," said Christy laughing.

"You have not received your orders yet, but they will probably require you to report at once to the flag-officer in the Gulf, and perhaps they will not permit you to look up blockade runners on the high seas," suggested Captain Passford. "These vessels may be fully armed and manned, in charge of Confederate naval officers; and doubtless they will be as glad to pick up the Bronx as you would be to pick up the Scotian or the Arran. You don't know yet whether they will come as simple blockade runners, or as naval vessels flying the Confederate flag. Whatever your orders, Christy, don't allow yourself to be carried away by any Quixotic enthusiasm."

"I don't think I have any more than half as much audacity as Captain Breaker said I had. As I look upon it, my first duty is to deliver my ship over to the flag-officer in the Gulf; and I suppose I shall be instructed to pick up a Confederate cruiser or a blockade runner, if one should cross my course."

"Obey your orders, Christy, whatever they may be. Now, I should like to look over the Bronx before I go on shore," said Captain Passford. "I think you said she was of about two hundred tons."

"That was what they said down south; but she is about three hundred tons," replied Christy, as he proceeded to show his father the cabin in which the conversation had taken place.

The captain's cabin was in the stern of the vessel, according to the orthodox rule in naval vessels. Of course it was small, though it seemed large to Christy who had spent so much of his leisure time in the cabin of the Florence, his sailboat on the Hudson. It was substantially fitted up, with little superfluous ornamentation; but it was a complete parlor, as a landsman would regard it. From it, on the port side opened the captain's state room, which was quite ample for a vessel no larger than the Bronx. Between it and the pantry on the starboard side, was a gangway leading from the foot of the companion way, by which the captain's cabin and the ward room were accessible from the quarter deck.

Crossing the gangway at the foot of the steps, Christy led the way into the ward room, where the principal officers were accommodated. It contained four berths, with portières in front of them, which could be drawn out so as to inclose each one in a temporary state room. The forward berth on the starboard side was occupied by the first lieutenant, and the after one by the second lieutenant, according to the custom in the navy. On the port side, the forward berth belonged to the chief engineer, and the after one to the surgeon. Forward of this was the steerage, in which the boatswain, gunner, carpenter, the assistant engineers, and the steward were berthed. Each of these apartments was provided with a table upon which the meals were served to the officers occupying it. The etiquette of a man-of-war is even more exacting than that of a drawing room on shore.

Captain Passford was then conducted to the deck where he found the officers and seamen engaged in their various duties. Besides his son, the former owner of the Bellevite was acquainted with only two persons on board of the Bronx, Sampson, the engineer, and Flint, the acting first lieutenant, both of whom had served on board of the steam yacht. Christy's father gave them a hearty greeting, and both were as glad to see him as he was to greet them. Captain Passford then looked over the rest of the ship's company with a deeper interest than he cared to manifest, for they were to some extent bound up with the immediate future of his son. It was not such a ship's company as that which manned the Bellevite, though composed of much good material. The captain shook hands with his son, and went on board of his boat. Two hours later he came on board again.



Chapter II

A Dinner For The Confederacy


Christy Passford was not a little surprised to see his father so soon after his former visit, and he was confident that he had some good reason for coming. He conducted him at once to his cabin, where Captain Passford immediately seated himself at the table, and drew from his pocket a telegram.

"I found this on my desk when I went to my office," said he, opening a cable message, and placing it before Christy.

"'Mutton, three veal, four sea chickens,'" Christy read from the paper placed before him, laughing all the time as he thought it was a joke of some sort. "Signed 'Warnock.' It looks as though somebody was going to have a dinner, father. Mutton, veal, and four sea chickens seem to form the substantial of the feast, though I never ate any sea chickens."

"Perhaps somebody will have a dinner, but I hope it will prove to be indigestible to those for whom it is provided," added Captain Passford, amused at the comments of his son.

"The message is signed by Warnock. I don't happen to have the pleasure of his acquaintance, and I don't see why he has taken the trouble to send you this bill of fare," chuckled the commander of the Bronx.

"This bill of fare is of more importance to me, and especially to you, than you seem to understand."

"It is all Greek to me; and I wonder why Warnock, whoever he may be, has spent his money in sending you such a message, though I suppose you know who is to eat this dinner."

"The expense of sending the cablegram is charged to me, though the dinner is prepared for the Confederate States of America. Of course I understand it, for if I could not, it would not have been sent to me," replied Captain Passford, assuming a very serious expression. "You know Warnock, for he has often been at Bonnydale, though not under the name he signs to this message. My three agents, one in the north, one in the south, and one in the west of England, have each an assumed name. They are Otis, Barnes, and Wilson, and you know them all. They have been captains or mates in my employ; and they know all about a vessel when they see it."

"I know them all very well, and they are all good friends of mine," added Christy.

"Warnock is Captain Barnes, and this message comes from him. Captain Otis signs himself Bixwell in his letters and cablegrams, and Mr. Wilson, who was formerly mate of the Manhattan, uses the name of Fleetley."

"I begin to see into your system, father; and I suppose the government will carry out your plan."

"Very likely; for it would hardly be proper to send such information as these men have to transmit in plain English, for there may be spies or operators bribed by Confederate agents to suppress such matter."

"I see. I understand the system very well, father," said Christy.

"It is simple enough," added his father, as he took a paper from his pocket-book.

"If you only understand it, it is simple enough."

"I can interpret the language of this message, and there is not another person on the western continent that can do so. Now, look at the cablegram, Christy," continued Captain Passford, as he opened the paper he held in his hand. "What is the first word?"

"Mutton," replied the commander.

"Mutton means armed; that is to say the Scotian and the Arran took an armament on board at some point south of England, as indicated by the fact that the intelligence comes from Warnock. In about a week the mail will bring me a letter from him in which he will explain how he obtained this information."

"He must have chartered a steamer and cruised off the Isle of Wight to pick it up," suggested Christy.

"He is instructed to do that when necessary. What is the next word?"

"'Three,'" replied Christy.

"One means large, two medium, and three small," explained his father. "Three what, does it say?"

"'Three veal.'"

"Veal means ship's company, or crew."

"Putting the pieces together, then, 'three veal' means that the Scotian and the Arran have small crews," said Christy, intensely interested in the information.

"Precisely so. Read the rest of the message," added Captain Passford.

"'Four sea chickens,'" the commander read.

"'Four' means some, a few, no great number; in other words, rather indefinite. Very likely Warnock could not obtain exact information. 'C' stands for Confederate, and 'sea' is written instead of the letter. 'Chickens' means officers. 'Four sea chickens,' translated means 'some Confederate officers.'"

Christy had written down on a piece of paper the solution of the enigma, as interpreted by his father, though not the symbol words of the cablegram. He continued to write for a little longer time, amplifying and filling in the wanting parts of the message. Then he read what he had written, as follows: "'The Scotian and the Arran are armed; there are some Confederate officers on board, but their ship's companies are small.' Is that it, father?"

"That is the substance of it," replied Captain Passford, as he restored the key of the cipher to his pocket-book, and rose from his seat. "Now you know all that can be known on this side of the Atlantic in regard to the two steamers. The important information is that they are armed, and even with small crews they may be able to sink the Bronx, if you should happen to fall in with them, or if your orders required you to be on the lookout for them. There is a knock at the door."

Christy opened the door, and found a naval officer waiting to see him. He handed him a formidable looking envelope, with a great seal upon it. The young commander looked at its address, and saw that it came from the Navy Department. With it was a letter, which he opened. It was an order for the immediate sailing of the Bronx, the sealed orders to be opened when she reached latitude 38° N. The messenger spoke some pleasant words, and then took his leave. Christy returned to the cabin, and showed the ponderous envelope to his father.

"Sealed orders, as I supposed you would have," said Captain Passford.

"And this is my order to sail immediately on receipt of it," added Christy.

"Then I must leave you, my son; and may the blessing of God go with you wherever your duty calls you!" exclaimed the father, not a little shaken by his paternal feelings. "Be brave, be watchful; but be prudent under all circumstances. Bravery and Prudence ought to be twin sisters, and I hope you will always have one of them on each side of you. I am not afraid that you will be a poltroon, a coward; but I do fear that your enthusiasm may carry you farther than you ought to go."

"I hope not, father; and your last words to me shall be remembered. When I am about to engage in any important enterprise, I will recall your admonition, and ask myself if I am heeding it."

"That satisfies me. I wish you had such a ship's company as we had on board of the Bellevite; but you have a great deal of good material, and I am confident that you will make the best use of it. Remember that you are fighting for your country and the best government God ever gave to the nations of the earth. Be brave, be prudent; but be a Christian, and let no mean, cruel or unworthy action stain your record."

Captain Passford took the hand of his son, and though neither of them wept, both of them were under the influence of the strongest emotions. Christy accompanied his father to the accommodation ladder, and shook hands with him again as he embarked in his boat. His mother and his sister had been on board that day, and the young commander had parted from them with quite as much emotion as on the present occasion. The members of the family were devotedly attached to each other, and in some respects the event seemed like a funeral to all of them, and not less to Christy than to the others, though he was entering upon a very exalted duty for one of his years.

"Pass the word for Mr. Flint," said Christy, after he had watched the receding boat that bore away his father for a few minutes.

"On duty, Captain Passford," said the first lieutenant, touching his cap to him a few minutes later.

"Heave short the anchor, and make ready to get under way," added the commander.

"Heave short, sir," replied Mr. Flint, as he touched his cap and retired. "Pass the word for Mr. Giblock."

Mr. Giblock was the boatswain of the ship, though he had only the rank of a boatswain's mate. He was an old sailor, as salt as a barrel of pickled pork, and knew his duty from keel to truck. In a few moments his pipe was heard, and the seamen began to walk around the capstan.

"Cable up and down, sir," said the boatswain, reporting to the second lieutenant on the forecastle.

Mr. Lillyworth was the acting second lieutenant, though he was not to be attached to the Bronx after she reached her destination in the Gulf. He repeated the report from the boatswain to the first lieutenant. The steamer was rigged as a topsail schooner; but the wind was contrary, and no sail was set before getting under way. The capstan was manned again, and as soon as the report came from the second lieutenant that the anchor was aweigh, the first lieutenant gave the order to strike one bell, which meant that the steamer was to go "ahead slow."

The Bronx had actually started on her mission, and the heart of Christy swelled in his bosom as he looked over the vessel, and realized that he was in command, though not for more than a week or two. All the courtesies and ceremonies were duly attended to, and the steamer, as soon as the anchor had been catted and fished, at the stroke of four bells, went ahead at full speed, though, as the fires had been banked in the furnaces, the engine was not working up to its capacity. In a couple of hours more she was outside of Sandy Hook, and on the broad ocean. The ship's company had been drilled to their duties, and everything worked to the entire satisfaction of the young commander.

The wind was ahead and light. All hands had been stationed, and at four in the afternoon, the first dog watch was on duty, and there was not much that could be called work for any one to do. Mr. Lillyworth, the second lieutenant, had the deck, and Christy had retired to his cabin to think over the events of the day, especially those relating to the Scotian and the Arran. He had not yet read his orders, and he could not decide what he should do, even if he discovered the two steamers in his track. He sat in his arm chair with the door of the cabin open, and when he saw the first lieutenant on his way to the ward room, he called him in.

"Well, Mr. Flint, what do you think of our crew?" asked the captain, after he had seated his guest.

"I have hardly seen enough of the men to be able to form an opinion," replied Flint. "I am afraid we have some hard material on board, though there are a good many first-class fellows among them."

"Of course we can not expect to get such a crew as we had in the Bellevite. How do you like Mr. Lillyworth?" asked the commander, looking sharply into the eye of his subordinate.

"I don't like him," replied Flint, bluntly. "You and I have been in some tight places together, and it is best to speak our minds squarely."

"That's right, Mr. Flint. We will talk of him another time. I have another matter on my mind just now," added Christy.

He proceeded to tell the first lieutenant something about the two steamers.



Chapter III

The Intruder At The Cabin Door


Before he said anything about the Scotian and the Arran, Christy, mindful of the injunction of his father, had closed the cabin door, the portière remaining drawn as it was before. When he had taken this precaution, he related some of the particulars which had been given to him earlier in the day.

"It is hardly worth while to talk about the matter yet awhile," added Christy. "I have my sealed orders, and I can not open the envelope until we are in latitude 38, and that will be sometime to-morrow forenoon."

"I don't think that Captain Folkner, who expected to be in command of the Teaser, as she was called before we put our hands upon her, overestimated her speed," replied Lieutenant Flint, consulting his watch. "We are making fifteen knots an hour just now, and Mr. Sampson is not hurrying her. I have been watching her very closely since we left Sandy Hook, and I really believe she will make eighteen knots with a little crowding."

"What makes you think so, Flint?" asked Christy, much interested in the statement of the first lieutenant.

"I suppose it is natural for a sailor to fall in love with his ship, and that is my condition in regard to the Bronx," replied Flint, with a smile which was intended as a mild apology for his weakness. "I used to be in love with the coasting schooner I owned and commanded, and I almost cried when I had to sell her."

"I don't think you need to be ashamed of this sentiment, or that an inanimate structure should call it into being," said the young commander. "I am sure I have not ceased to love the Bellevite; and in my eyes she is handsomer than any young lady I ever saw. I have not been able to transfer my affections to the Bronx as yet, and she will have to do something very remarkable before I do so. But about the speed of our ship?"

"I have noticed particularly how easily and gracefully she makes her way through the water when she is going fifteen knots. Why that is faster than most of the ocean passenger steamers travel."

"Very true; but like many of these blockade runners and other vessels which the Confederate government and rich men at the South have purchased in the United Kingdom, she was doubtless built on the Clyde. Not a few of them have been constructed for private yachts, and I have no doubt, from what I have seen, that the Bronx is one of the number. The Scotian and the Arran belonged to wealthy Britishers; and of course they were built in the very best manner, and were intended to attain the very highest rate of speed."

"I shall count on eighteen knots at least on the part of the Bronx when the situation shall require her to do her best. By the way, Captain Passford, don't you think that a rather queer name has been given to our steamer? Bronx! I am willing to confess that I don't know what the word means, or whether it is fish, flesh or fowl," continued Flint.

"It is not fish, flesh or fowl," replied Christy, laughing. "My father suggested the name to the Department, and it was adopted. He talked with me about a name, as he thought I had some interest in her, for the reason that I had done something in picking her up."

"Done something? I should say that you had done it all," added Flint.

"I did my share. The vessels of the navy have generally been named after a system, though it has often been varied. Besides the names of states and cities, the names of rivers have been given to vessels. The Bronx is the name of a small stream, hardly more than a brook, in West Chester County, New York. When I was a small boy, my father had a country place on its banks, and I did my first paddling in the water in the Bronx. I liked the name, and my father recommended it."

"I don't object to the name, though somehow it makes me think of a walnut cracked in your teeth when I hear it pronounced," added Flint. "Now that I know what it is and what it means, I shall take more kindly to it, though I am afraid we shall get to calling her the Bronxy before we have done with her, especially if she gets to be a pet, for the name seems to need another syllable."

"Young men fall in love with girls without regard to their names."

"That's so. A friend of mine in our town in Maine fell in love with a young lady by the name of Leatherbee; but she was a very pretty girl and her name was all the objection I had to her," said Flint, chuckling.

"But that was an objection which your friend evidently intended to remove at no very distant day," suggested Christy.

"Very true; and he did remove it some years ago. What was that noise?" asked the first lieutenant, suddenly rising from his seat.

Christy heard the sounds at the same moment. He and his companion in the cabin had been talking about the Scotian and the Arran, and what his father had said to him about prudence in speaking of his movements came to his mind. The noise was continued, and he hastened to the door of his state room, and threw it open. In the room he found Dave hard at work on the furniture; he had taken out the berth sack, and was brushing out the inside of the berth. The noise had been made by the shaking of the slats on which the mattress rested. Davis Talbot, the cabin steward of the Bronx, had been captured in the vessel when she was run out of Pensacola Bay some months before. As he was a very intelligent colored man, or rather mulatto, though they were all the same at the South, the young commander had selected him for his present service; and he never had occasion to regret the choice. Dave had passed his time since the Teaser arrived at New York at Bonnydale, and he had become a great favorite, not only with Christy, but with all the members of the family.

"What are you about, Dave?" demanded Christy, not a little astonished to find the steward in his room.

"I am putting the room in order for the captain, sir," replied Dave with a cheerful smile, such as he always wore in the presence of his superiors. "I found something in this berth I did not like to see about a bed in which a gentleman is to sleep, and I have been through it with poison and a feather; and I will give you the whole southern Confederacy if you find a single redback in the berth after this."

"I am very glad you have attended to this matter at once, Dave."

"Yes, sir; Captain Folkner never let me attend to it properly, for he was afraid I would read some of his papers on the desk. He was willing to sleep six in a bed with redbacks," chuckled Dave.

"Well, I am not, or even two in a bed with such companions. How long have you been in my room, Dave?" added Christy.

"More than two hours, I think; and I have been mighty busy too."

"Did you hear me when I came into the cabin?"

"No, sir, I did not; but I heard you talking with somebody a while ago."

"What did I say to the other person?"

"I don't know, sir; I could not make out a word, and I didn't stop in my work to listen. I have been very busy, Captain Passford," answered Dave, beginning to think he had been doing something that was not altogether regular.

"Don't you know what we were talking about, Dave?"

"No, sir; I did not make out a single word you said," protested the steward, really troubled to find that he had done something wrong, though he had not the least idea what it was. "I did not mean to do anything out of the way, Captain Passford."

"I have no fault to find this time, Dave."

"I should hope not, sir," added Dave, looking as solemn as a sleepy owl. "I would jump overboard before I would offend you, Massa Christy."

"You need not jump overboard just yet," replied the captain, with a pleasant smile, intended to remove the fears of the steward. "But I want to make a new rule for you, Dave."

"Thank you, sir; if you sit up nights to make rules for me, I will obey all of them; and I would give you the whole State of Florida before I would break one of them on purpose, Massa Christy."

"Massa Christy!" exclaimed the captain, laughing.

"Massa Captain Passford!" shouted Dave, hastening to correct his over-familiarity.

"I don't object to your calling me Christy when we are alone, for I look upon you as my friend, and I have tried to treat you as a gentleman, though you are a subordinate. But are you going to be a nigger again, and call white men 'Massa?' I told you not to use that word."

"I done forget it when I got excited because I was afraid I had offended you," pleaded the steward.

"Your education is vastly superior to most people of your class, and you should not belittle yourself. This is my cabin; and I shall sometimes have occasion to talk confidentially with my officers. Do you understand what I mean, Dave?"

"Perfectly, Captain Passford: I know what it is to talk confidently and what it is to talk confidentially, and you do both, sir," replied the steward.

"But I am sometimes more confidential than confident. Now you must do all your work in my state room when I am not in the cabin, and this is the new rule," said Christy, as he went out of the room. "I know that I can trust you, Dave; but when I tell a secret I want to know to how many persons I am telling it. You may finish your work now;" and he closed the door.

Christy could not have explained why he did so if it had been required of him, but he went directly to the door leading out into the companion way, and suddenly threw it wide open, drawing the portière aside at the same time. Not a little to his surprise, for he had not expected it, he found a man there; and the intruder was down on his knees, as if in position to place his ear at the keyhole. This time the young commander was indignant, and without stopping to consider as long as the precepts of his father required, he seized the man by the collar, and dragged him into the cabin.

"What are you doing there?" demanded Christy in the heat of his indignation.

The intruder, who was a rather stout man, began to shake his head with all his might, and to put the fore finger of his right hand on his mouth and one of his ears. He was big enough to have given the young commander a deal of trouble if he had chosen to resist the force used upon him; but he appeared to be tame and submissive. He did not speak, but he seemed to be exerting himself to the utmost to make himself understood. Flint had resumed his seat at the table, facing the door, and in spite of himself, apparently, he began to laugh.

"That is Pink Mulgrum, Captain Passford," said he, evidently to prevent his superior from misinterpreting the lightness of his conduct. "As you are aware, he is deaf and dumb."

Mulgrum at the captain's door.

"I see who he is now," replied Christy, who had just identified the man. "He may be deaf and dumb, but he seems to have a great deal of business at the door of my cabin."

"I have no doubt he is as deaf as the keel of the ship, and I have not yet heard him speak a word," added the first lieutenant. "But he is a stout fellow, very patriotic, and willing to work."

"All that may be, but I have found him once before hanging around that door to-day."

At this moment Mulgrum took from his pocket a tablet of paper and a pencil, and wrote upon it, "I am a deaf mute, and I don't know what you are talking about." Christy read it, and then wrote, "What were you doing at the door?" He replied that he had been sent by Mr. Lillyworth to clean the brasses on the door. He was then dismissed.



Chapter IV

A Deaf And Dumb Mystery


As he dismissed Mulgrum, Christy tore off the leaf from the tablet on which both of them had written before he handed it back to the owner. For a few moments, he said nothing, and had his attention fixed on the paper in his hand, which he seemed to be studying for some reason of his own.

"That man writes a very good hand for one in his position," said he, looking at the first lieutenant.

"I had noticed that before," replied Flint, as the commander handed him the paper, which he looked over with interest. "I had some talk with him on his tablet the day he came on board. He strikes me as a very intelligent and well-educated man."

"Was he born a deaf mute?" asked Christy.

"I did not think to ask him that question; but I judged from the language he used and his rapid writing that he was well educated. There is character in his handwriting too; and that is hardly to be expected from a deaf mute," replied Flint.

"Being a deaf mute, he can not have been shipped as a seaman, or even as an ordinary steward," suggested the captain.

"Of course not; he was employed as a sort of scullion to be worked wherever he could make himself useful. Mr. Nawood engaged him on the recommendation of Mr. Lillyworth," added Flint, with something like a frown on his brow, as though he had just sounded a new idea.

"Have you asked Mr. Lillyworth anything about him?"

"I have not; for somehow Mr. Lillyworth and I don't seem to be very affectionate towards each other, though we get along very well together. But Mulgrum wrote out for me that he was born in Cherryfield, Maine, and obtained his education as a deaf mute in Hartford. I learned the deaf and dumb alphabet when I was a schoolmaster, as a pastime, and I had some practice with it in the house where I boarded."

"Then you can talk in that way with Mulgrum."

"Not a bit of it; he knows nothing at all about the deaf and dumb alphabet, and could not spell out a single word I gave him."

"That is very odd," added the captain musing.

"So I thought; but he explained it by saying that at the school they were changing this method of communication for that of actually speaking and understanding what was said by observing the vocal organs. He had not remained long enough to master this method; in fact he had done all his talking with his tablets."

"It is a little strange that he should not have learned either method of communication."

"I thought so myself, and said as much to him; but he told me that he had inherited considerable property at the death of his father, and he was not inclined to learn new tricks," said Flint. "He is intensely patriotic, and said that he was willing to give himself and all his property for the salvation of his country. He had endeavored to obtain a position as captain's clerk, or something of that sort, in the navy; but failing of this, he had been willing to go to the war as a scullion. He says he shall fight, whatever his situation, when he has the opportunity; and that is all I know about him."

Christy looked on the floor, and seemed to be considering the facts he had just learned. He had twice discovered Mulgrum at the door of his cabin, though his presence there had been satisfactorily explained; or at least a reason had been given. This man had been brought on board by the influence of Mr. Lillyworth, who had been ordered to the Gulf for duty, and was on board as a substitute for Mr. Flint, who was acting in Christy's place, as the latter was in that of Mr. Blowitt, who outranked them all. Flint had not been favorably impressed with the acting second lieutenant, and he had not hesitated to speak his mind in regard to him to the captain. Though Christy had been more reserved in speech, he had the feeling that Mr. Lillyworth must establish a reputation for patriotism and fidelity to the government before he could trust him as he did the first lieutenant, though he was determined to manifest nothing like suspicion in regard to him.

At this stage of the war, that is to say in the earlier years of it, the government was obliged to accept such men as it could obtain for officers, for the number in demand greatly exceeded the supply of regularly educated naval officers. There were a great many applicants for positions, and candidates were examined in regard to their professional qualifications rather than their motives for entering the service. If a man desired to enter the army or the navy, the simple wish was regarded as a sufficient guaranty of his patriotism, especially in connection with his oath of allegiance. With the deaf mute's leaf in his hand Christy was thinking over this matter of the motives of officers. He was not satisfied in regard to either Lillyworth or Mulgrum, and besides the regular quota of officers and seamen permanently attached to the Bronx, there were eighteen seamen and petty officers berthed forward, who were really passengers, though they were doing duty.

"Where did you say this man Mulgrum was born, Mr. Flint?" asked the captain, after he had mused for quite a time.

"In Cherryfield, Maine," replied the first lieutenant; and he could not help feeling that the commander had not been silent so long for nothing.

"You are a Maine man, Flint: were you ever in this town?"

"I have been; I taught school there for six months; and it was the last place I filled before I went to sea."

"I am glad to hear it, for it will save me from looking any further for the man I want just now. If this deaf mute was born and brought up in Cherryfield, he must know something about the place," added Christy as he touched a bell on his table, to which Dave instantly responded.

"Do you know Mulgrum, Dave?" asked the captain.

"No, sir; never heard of him before," replied the steward.

"You don't know him! The man who has been cleaning the brass work on the doors?" exclaimed Christy.

"Oh! Pink, we all call him," said the steward.

"His name is Pinkney Mulgrum," Flint explained.

"Yes, sir; I know him, though we never had any long talks together," added Dave with a rich smile on his face.

"Go on deck, and tell Mulgrum to come into my cabin," said Christy.

"If I tell him that, he won't hear me," suggested Dave.

"Show him this paper," interposed the first lieutenant, handing him a card on which he had written the order.

Dave left the cabin to deliver the message, and the captain immediately instructed Flint to question the man in regard to the localities and other matters in Cherryfield, suggesting that he should conduct his examination so as not to excite any suspicion. Pink Mulgrum appeared promptly, and was placed at the table where both of the officers could observe his expression. Then Flint began to write on a sheet of paper, and passed his first question to the man. It was: "Don't you remember me?" Mulgrum wrote that he did not. Then the inquisitor asked when he had left Cherryfield to attend the school at Hartford; and the date he gave placed him there at the very time when Flint had been the master of the school for four months. On the question of locality, he could place the church, the schoolhouse and the hotel; and he seemed to have no further knowledge of the town. When asked where his father lived, he described a white house next to the church; but Flint knew that this had been owned and occupied by the minister for many years.

"This man is a humbug," was the next sentence the first lieutenant wrote, but he passed it to the captain. Christy wrote under it: "Tell him that we are perfectly satisfied with his replies, and thank him for his attendance;" which was done at once, and the captain smiled upon him as though he had conducted himself with distinguished ability.

"Mulgrum has been in Cherryfield; but he could not have remained there more than a day or two," said Flint, when the door had closed behind the deaf mute.

The captain made a gesture to impose silence upon his companion.

"Mulgrum is all right in every respect," said he in a loud tone, so that if the subject of the examination had stopped at the keyhole of the door, he would not be made any the wiser for what he heard there.

"He knows Cherryfield as well as he knows the deck of the Bronx, and as you say, Captain Passford, he is all right in every respect," added the first lieutenant in the same loud tone. "Mulgrum is a well educated man, captain, and you will have a great deal of writing to do: I suggest that you bring him into your cabin, and make him your clerk."

"That is a capital idea, Mr. Flint, and I shall consider it," returned the commander, making sure that the man at the door should hear him, if Mulgrum lingered there. "I have a number of letters sent over from England relating to blockade runners that I wish to have copied for the use of any naval officers with whom I may fall in; and I have not the time to do it myself."

"Mulgrum writes a very handsome hand, and no one could do the work any better than he."

Christy thought enough had been said to satisfy the curiosity of Mulgrum if he was still active in seeking information, and both of the officers were silent. The captain had enough to think of to last him a long while. The result of the inquiry into the auditory and vocal powers of the scullion, as Flint called him, had convinced him that the deaf mute was a fraud. He had no doubt that he could both speak and hear as well as the rest of the ship's company. But the puzzling question was in relation to the reason why he pretended to be deaf and dumb. If he was desirous of serving his country in the navy, and especially in the Bronx, it was not necessary to pretend to be deaf and dumb in order to obtain a fighting berth on board of her. It looked like a first class mystery to the young commander, but he was satisfied that the presence of Mulgrum meant mischief. He could not determine at once what it was best to do to solve the mystery; but he decided that the most extreme watchfulness was required of him and his first lieutenant. This was all he could do, and he touched his bell again.

"Dave," said he when the cabin steward presented himself before him, "go on deck and ask Mr. Lillyworth to report to me the log and the weather."

"The log and the weather, sir," replied Dave, as he hastened out of the cabin.

Christy watched him closely as he went out at the door, and he was satisfied that Mulgrum was not in the passage, if he had stopped there at all. His present purpose was to disarm all the suspicions of the subject of the mystery, but he would have been glad to know whether or not the man had lingered at the door to hear what was said in regard to him. He was not anxious in regard to the weather, or even the log, and he sent Dave on his errand in order to make sure that Mulgrum was not still doing duty as a listener.

"Wind south south west, log last time fifteen knots and a half," reported Dave, as he came in after knocking at the door.

"I can not imagine why that man pretended to be deaf and dumb in order to get a position on board of the Bronx. He is plainly a fraud," said the captain when Dave had gone back to his work in the state room.

"I don't believe he pretended to be a deaf mute in order to get a place on board, for that would ordinarily be enough to prevent him from getting it. I should put it that he had obtained his place in spite of being deaf and dumb. But the mystery exists just the same."

The captain went on deck, and the first lieutenant to the ward room.



Chapter V

A Confidential Steward


The wind still came from the southward, and it was very light. The sea was comparatively smooth, and the Bronx continued on her course. At the last bi-hourly heaving of the log, she was making sixteen knots an hour. The captain went into the engine room, where he found Mr. Gawl, one of the chief's two assistants, on duty. This officer informed him that no effort had been made to increase the speed of the steamer, and that she was under no strain whatever. The engine had been thoroughly overhauled, as well as every other part of the vessel, and every improvement that talent and experience suggested had been made. It now appeared that the engine had been greatly benefited by whatever changes had been made. These improvements had been explained to the commander by Mr. Sampson the day before; but Christy had not given much attention to the matter, for he preferred to let the speed of the vessel speak for itself; and this was what it appeared to be doing at the present time.

Christy walked the deck for some time, observing everything that presented itself, and taking especial notice of the working of the vessel. Though he made no claims to any superior skill, he was really an expert, and the many days and months he had passed in the companionship of Paul Vapoor in studying the movements of engines and hulls had made him wiser and more skilful than it had even been suspected that he was. He was fully competent for the position he was temporarily filling; but he had made himself so by years of study and practice.

Christy had not yet obtained all the experience he required as a naval officer, and he was fully aware that this was what he needed to enable him to discharge his duty in the best manner. He was in command of a small steamer, a position of responsibility which he had not coveted in this early stage of his career, though it was only for a week or less, as the present speed of the Bronx indicated. He had ambition enough to hope that he should be able to distinguish himself in this brief period, for it might be years before he again obtained such an opportunity. His youth was against him, and he was aware that he had been selected to take the steamer to the Gulf because there was a scarcity of officers of the proper grade, and his rank gave him the position.

The motion of the Bronx exactly suited him, and he judged that in a heavy sea she would behave very well. He had made one voyage in her from the Gulf to New York, and the steamer had done very well, though she had been greatly improved at the navy yard. Certainly her motion was better, and the connection between the engine and the inert material of which the steamer was constructed, seemed to be made without any straining or jerking. There was very little shaking and trembling as the powerful machinery drove her ahead over the quiet sea. There had been no very severe weather during his first cruise in the Bronx, and she had not been tested in a storm under his management, though she had doubtless encountered severe gales in crossing the Atlantic in a breezy season of the year.

While Christy was planking the deck, four bells were struck on the ship's great bell on the top-gallant forecastle. It was the beginning of the second dog watch, or six o'clock in the afternoon, and the watch which had been on duty since four o'clock was relieved. Mr. Flint ascended the bridge, and took the place of Mr. Lillyworth, the second lieutenant. Under this bridge was the pilot-house, and in spite of her small size, the steamer was steered by steam. The ship had been at sea but a few hours, and the crew were not inclined to leave the deck. The number of men on board was nearly doubled by the addition of those sent down to fill vacancies in other vessels on the blockade. Christy went on the bridge soon after, more to take a survey inboard than for any other purpose.

Mr. Lillyworth had gone aft, but when he met Mulgrum coming up from the galley, he stopped and looked around him. With the exception of himself nearly the whole ship's company were forward. The commander watched him with interest when he stopped in the vicinity of the deaf mute, who also halted in the presence of the second lieutenant. Then they walked together towards the companion way, and disappeared behind the mainmast. Christy had not before noticed any intercourse between the lieutenant and the scullion, though he thought it a little odd that the officer should set the man at work cleaning the brasses about the door of the captain's cabin, a matter that belonged to the steward's department. He had learned from Flint that Mulgrum had been recommended to the chief steward by Lillyworth, so that it was evident enough that they had been acquainted before either of them came on board. But he could not see them behind the mast, and he desired very much to know what they were doing.

Flint had taken his supper before he went on duty on the bridge, and the table was waiting for the other ward room officers who had just been relieved. It was time for Lillyworth to go to the meal, but he did not go, and he seemed to be otherwise engaged. After a while, Christy looked at his watch, and found that a quarter of an hour had elapsed since the second lieutenant had left the bridge, and he had spent nearly all this time abaft the mainmast with the scullion. The commander had become absolutely absorbed in his efforts to fathom the deaf and dumb mystery, and fortunately there was nothing else to occupy his attention, for Flint had drilled the crew, including the men for other vessels, and had billeted and stationed them during the several days he had been on board. Everything was working as though the Bronx had been at sea a month instead of less than half a day.

Christy was exceedingly anxious to ascertain what, if anything, was passing between Lillyworth and Mulgrum; but he could see no way to obtain any information on the subject. He had no doubt he was watched as closely as he was watching the second lieutenant. If he went aft, that would at once end the conference, if one was in progress. He could not call upon a seaman to report on such a delicate question without betraying himself, and he had not yet learned whom to trust in such a matter, and it was hardly proper to call upon a foremast hand to watch one of his officers.

The only person on board besides the first lieutenant in whom he felt that he could repose entire confidence was Dave. He knew him thoroughly, and his color was almost enough to guarantee his loyalty to the country and his officers, and especially to himself, for the steward possessed a rather extravagant admiration for the one who had "brought him out of bondage," as he expressed it, and had treated him like a gentleman from first to last. He could trust Dave even on the most delicate mission; but Dave was attending to the table in the ward room, and he did not care to call him from his duty.

At the end of another five minutes, Christy saw Mulgrum come from abaft the mainmast, and descend the ladder to the galley. He saw no more of Lillyworth, and he concluded that, keeping himself in the shadow of the mast, he had gone below. He remained on the bridge a while longer considering what he should do. He said nothing to Flint, for he did not like to take up the attention of any officer on duty. The commander thought that Dave could render him the assistance he required better than any other person on board, for being only a steward and a colored man at that, less notice would be taken of him than of one in a higher position. He was about to descend from the bridge when Flint spoke to him in regard to the weather, though he could have guessed to a point what the captain was thinking about, perhaps because the same subject occupied his own thoughts.

"I think we shall have a change of weather before morning, Captain Passford. The wind is drawing a little more to the southward, and we are likely to have wind and rain," said the first lieutenant.

"Wind and rain will not trouble us, and I am more afraid that we shall be bothered with fog on this cruise," added Christy as he descended the ladder to the main deck.

He walked about the deck for a few minutes, observing the various occupations of the men, who were generally engaged in amusing themselves, or in "reeling off sea yarns." Then he went below. At the foot of the stairs in the companion way, the door of the ward room was open, and he saw that Lillyworth was seated at the table. He sat at the foot of it, the head being the place of the first lieutenant, and the captain could see only his back. He was slightly bald at the apex of his head, for he was an older man than either the captain or the first lieutenant, but inferior to them in rank, though all of them were masters, and seniority depended upon the date of the commissions; and even a single day settled the degree in these days of multiplied appointments. Christy went into his cabin, where the table was set for his own supper.

The commander looked at his barometer, and his reading of it assured him that Flint was correct in regard to his prognostics of the weather. But the young officer had faced the winter gales of the Atlantic, and the approach of any ordinary storm did not disturb him in the least degree. On the contrary he rather liked a lively sea, for it was less monotonous than a calm. He did not brood over a storm, therefore, but continued to consider the subject which had so deeply interested him since he discovered Mulgrum on his knees at the door, with a rag and a saucer of rottenstone in his hands. He had a curiosity to examine the brass knob of his door at that moment, and it did not appear to have been very severely rubbed.

"Quarter of seven, sir," said Dave, presenting himself at the door while Christy was still musing over the incidents already detailed.

"All right, Dave; I will have my supper now," replied Christy, indifferently, for though he was generally blessed with a good appetite the mystery was too absorbing to permit the necessary duty of eating to drive it out of his mind.

Dave retired, and soon brought in a tray from the galley, the dishes from which he arranged on the table. It was an excellent supper, though he had not given any especial orders in regard to its preparation. He seated himself and began to eat in a rather mechanical manner, and no one who saw him would have mistaken him for an epicure. Dave stationed himself in front of the commander, so that he was between the table and the door. He watched Christy, keeping his eyes fixed on him without intermitting his gaze for a single instant. Once in a while he tendered a dish to him at the table, but there was but one object in existence for Christy at that moment.

"Dave," said the captain, after he had disposed of a portion of his supper.

"Here, sir, on duty," replied the steward.

"Open the door behind you, quick!"

Dave obeyed instantly, and threw the door back so that it was wide open, though he seemed to be amazed at the strangeness of the order.

"All right, Dave; close it," added Christy, when he saw there was no one in the passage; and he concluded that Mulgrum was not likely to be practising his vocation when there was no one in the cabin but himself and the steward.

Dave obeyed the order like a machine, and then renewed his gaze at the commander.

"Are you a Freemason, Dave?" asked Christy.

"No, sir," replied the steward with a magnificent smile.

"A Knight of Pythias, of Pythagoras, or anything of that sort?"

"No, sir; nothing of the sort."

"Then you can't keep a secret?"

"Yes, sir, I can. If I have a secret to keep, I will give the whole Alabama River to any one that can get it out of me."

Christy felt sure of his man without this protestation.



Chapter VI

A Mission Up The Foremast


Christy spent some time in delivering a lecture on naval etiquette to his single auditor. Probably he was not the highest authority on the subject of his discourse; but he was sufficiently learned to meet the requirements of the present occasion.

"You say you can keep a secret, Dave?" continued the commander.

"I don't take any secrets to keep from everybody, Captain Passford; and I don't much like to carry them about with me," replied the steward, looking a little more grave than usual, though he still wore a cheerful smile.

"Then you don't wish me to confide a secret to you?"

"I don't say that, Captain Passford. I don't want any man's secrets, and I don't run after them, except for the good of the service. I was a slave once, but I know what I am working for now. If you have a secret I ought to know, Captain Passford, I will take it in and bury it away down at the bottom of my bosom; and I will give the whole state of Louisiana to any one that will dig it out of me."

"That's enough, Dave; and I am willing to trust you without any oath on the Bible, and without even a Quaker's affirmation. I believe you will be prudent, discreet, and silent for my sake."

"Certainly I will be all that, Captain Passford, for I think you are a bigger man than Jeff Davis," protested Dave.

"That is because you do not know the President of the Confederate States, and you do know me; but Mr. Davis is a man of transcendent ability, and I am only sorry that he is engaged in a bad cause, though he believes with all his heart and soul that it is a good cause."

"He never treated me like a gentleman, as you have, sir."

"And he never treated you unkindly, I am very sure."

"He never treated me any way, for I never saw him; and I would not walk a hundred miles barefooted to see him, either. I am no gentleman or anything of that sort, Massa --  Captain Passford, but if I ever go back on you by the breadth of a hair, then the Alabama River will run up hill."

"I am satisfied with you, Dave; and here is my hand," added Christy, extending it to the steward, who shook it warmly, displaying a good deal of emotion as he did so. "Now, Dave, you know Mulgrum, or Pink, as you call him?"

"Well, sir, I know him as I do the rest of the people on board; but we are not sworn friends yet," replied Dave, rather puzzled to know what duty was required of him in connection with the scullion.

"You know him; that is enough. What do you think of him?"

"I haven't had any long talks with him, sir, and I don't know what to think of him."

"You know that he is dumb?"

"I expect he is, sir; but he never said anything to me about it," replied Dave. "He never told me he couldn't speak, and I never heard him speak to any one on board."

"Did you ever speak to him?"

"Yes, sir; I spoke to him when he first came on board; but he didn't answer me, or take any notice of me when I spoke to him, and I got tired of it."

"Open that door quickly, Dave," said the captain suddenly.

The steward promptly obeyed the order, and Christy saw that there was no one in the passage. He told his companion to close the door, and Dave was puzzled to know what this movement could mean.

"I beg your pardon, Captain Passford, and I have no right to ask any question; but I should like to know why you make me open that door two or three times for nothing," said Dave, in the humblest of tones.

"I told you to open it so that I could see if there was anybody at the door. This is my secret, Dave. I have twice found Mulgrum at that door while I was talking to the first lieutenant. He pretended to be cleaning the brass work."

"What was he there for? When a man is as deaf as the foremast of the ship what would he be doing at the door?"

"He was down on his knees, and his ear was not a great way from the keyhole of the door."

"But he could not hear anything."

"I don't know: that is what I want to find out. The mission I have for you, Dave, is to watch Mulgrum. In a word, I have my doubts in regard to his deafness and his dumbness."

"You don't believe he is deaf and dumb, Captain Passford!" exclaimed the steward, opening his eyes very wide, and looking as though an earthquake had just shaken him up.

"I don't say that, my man. I am in doubt. He may be a deaf mute, as he represents himself to be. I wish you to ascertain whether or not he can speak and hear. You are a shrewd fellow, Dave, I discovered some time ago; in fact the first time I ever saw you. You may do this job in any manner you please; but remember that your mission is my secret, and you must not betray it to Mulgrum, or to any other person."

"Be sure I won't do that, Captain Passford."

"If you obtain any satisfactory information, convey it to me immediately. You must be very careful not to let any one suspect that you are watching him, and least of all to let Mulgrum know it. Do you understand me perfectly, Dave?"

"Yes, sir; perfectly. Nobody takes any notice of me but you, and it won't be a hard job. I think I can manage it without any trouble. I am nothing but a nigger, and of no account."

"I have chosen you for this mission because you can do it better than any other person, Dave. Don't call yourself a nigger; I don't like the word, and you are ninety degrees in the shade above the lower class of negroes in the South."

"Thank you, sir," replied the steward with an expansive smile.

"There is one thing I wish you to understand particularly, Dave. I have not set you to watch any officer of the ship," said Christy impressively.

"No, sir; I reckon Pink Mulgrum is not an officer any more than I am."

"But you may discover, if you find that Mulgrum can speak and hear, that he is talking to an officer," added the captain in a low tone.

"What officer, Captain Passford?" asked the steward, opening his eyes to their utmost capacity, and looking as bewildered as an owl in the gaslight.

"I repeat that I do not set you to watch an officer; and I leave it to you to ascertain with whom Mulgrum has any talk, if with any one. Now I warn you that, if you accomplish anything in this mission, you will do it at night and not in the daytime. That is all that need be said at the present time, Dave, and you will attend to your duty as usual. If you lose much sleep, you may make it up in the forenoon watch."

"I don't care for the sleep, Captain Passford, and I can keep awake all night."

"One thing more, Dave; between eight bells and eight bells to-night, during the first watch, you may get at something, but you must keep out of sight as much as you can," added Christy, as he rose from his armchair, and went into his state room.

Dave busied himself in clearing the table, but he was in a very thoughtful mood all the time. Loading up his tray with dishes, he carried them through the steerage to the galley, where he found Mulgrum engaged in washing those from the ward room, which he had brought out some time before. The steward looked at the deaf mute with more interest than he had regarded him before. He was a supernumerary on board, and any one who had anything to do called Pink to do it. Another waiter was greatly needed, and Mr. Nawood, the chief steward, had engaged one, but he had failed to come on board before the steamer sailed. Pink had been pressed into service for the steerage; but he was of little use, and the work seemed very distasteful, if not disgusting, to him. He carried in the food, but that was about all he was good for.

Dave watched him for a few minutes as he washed and wiped the dishes, and saw that he was very awkward at it; it was plain to him that he was not an experienced hand at the business. But he was doing the steward's work, and Dave took hold and helped him. Pink was as solemn as an owl, and did his work in a very mechanical manner, and without the slightest interest in it. The cabin steward had a mission, and he was profoundly interested in its execution.

By the side of the galley, or range, was a sink at which they were at work. Dave thought he might as well begin then and there to test the hearing powers of his companion. Picking up one of the large blowers of the range, he placed himself so that Pink could not see what he was about, and then banged the sheet iron against the cast iron of the great stove. He kept his eye fixed all the time on the scullion. The noise was enough for the big midship gun on deck, or even for a small earthquake. Pink was evidently startled by the prodigious sound, and turned towards the steward, who was satisfied that he had heard it; but the fellow was cunning, and realizing that he had committed himself, he picked up one of his feet, and began to rub it as though he had been hit by the falling blower. At the same time, he pretended to be very angry, and demonstrated very earnestly against his companion.

Dave felt that he had made a point, and he did not carry his investigation of the auditory capacity of the scullion any farther that night. He finished his work below, and then went on deck. He lounged about in a very careless manner till eight bells were struck. Mr. Flint on the bridge was relieved by Mr. Lillyworth, and the port watch came on duty for the next four hours, or until midnight. This was the time the captain had indicated to Dave as a favorable one for the discharge of his special duty. Taking advantage of the absence of any person from the vicinity of the foremast, he adroitly curled himself up in the folds of the foresail, which was brailed up to the mast. He had his head in such a position that he could see without being seen by any casual passer-by.

He waited in this position over an hour, and during that time Pink went back and forth several times, and seemed to be looking up at the bridge, which was just forward of the foremast. On the top-gallant forecastle were two men on the lookout; in the waist was a quartermaster, who was doing the duty that belonged to the third lieutenant, if the scarcity of officers had permitted the Bronx to have one. The body of the port watch were spinning yarns on the forecastle, and none of them were very near the foremast. After a while, as Pink was approaching the forecastle, Dave saw the second lieutenant gesticulating to him very earnestly to come on the bridge. The supernumerary ascended the ladder, and the officer set him at work to lace on the sailcloth to the railing of the bridge, to shelter those on duty there from the force of the sea blast.

Dave listened with all his ears for any sound from the bridge; but he soon realized that if there was any, he was too far off to hear it. With the aid of the lashings of the foresail, he succeeded in climbing up on the mast to a point on a level with the bridge, and at the same time to make the mast conceal him from the eyes of Mr. Lillyworth and the scullion. The latter pretended to be at work, and occasionally the second lieutenant "jawed" at him for his clumsiness in lacing the sailcloth. Between these growls, they spoke together in a low tone, but Dave was near enough to hear what they said. Though he had never heard the voice of Pink Mulgrum before, he knew that of the second lieutenant, and he was in no danger of confounding the two. Pink used excellent language, as the steward was capable of judging, and it was plain enough that he was not what he had appeared to be.

Lillyworth and Mulgrum on the bridge.



Chapter VII

An Interview On The Bridge


Although Mr. Lillyworth knew very well that Pink Mulgrum was deaf and dumb, he "jawed" at him as though his hearing was as perfect as his own, doubtless forgetting for the moment his infirmity.

"Draw up the bight, and lace it tighter," exclaimed the second lieutenant, intermixing an expletive at each end of the sentence. "Oh, you can't hear me!" he shouted, as though the fact that the scullion could not hear him had suddenly come to his mind. "Well, it is a nice thing to talk to a deaf man!"

Dave could see that Mulgrum also seemed to forget that his ears were closed to all sounds, for he redoubled his efforts to haul the screen into its place.

"I could not hear anything that was of any consequence," the steward heard the deaf mute say in a lower tone than his companion used.

"Couldn't you hear anything?" asked Mr. Lillyworth, making a spring at the canvas as though he was disgusted with the operations of his companion on the bridge.

"Only what I have just told you," replied Mulgrum.

"But you were at the door when the captain and the first lieutenant were talking together in the cabin," continued the officer in a low tone.

"But they were talking about me, as I told you before," answered the scullion, rather impatiently, as though he too had a mind of his own.

"Wasn't anything said about the operations of the future?" demanded Mr. Lillyworth.

"Not a word; but you know as well as I do that the captain has sealed orders which he will not see before to-morrow. I heard him tell his father that he was to open the envelope in latitude 38," said the supernumerary.

"You must contrive some way to hear the captain when he reads his orders," continued the second lieutenant. "He will be likely to have Mr. Flint with him when he opens the envelope."

"It will be difficult," replied Mulgrum, and Dave could imagine that he saw him shake his head. "The captain has found me cleaning the brasses on his door twice, and it will hardly do to be found at the door again."

"Isn't there any place in his cabin where you can conceal yourself?" inquired Mr. Lillyworth.

"I don't know of any place, unless it is his state room; and the cabin steward has been at work there almost all the time since we got under way. Dave seems to be a sort of confidant of the captain," suggested Mulgrum; and it looked as though the deaf mute had not held his tongue and kept his ears open for nothing; but the steward could not understand how he had got this idea into his head, for he had received his instructions while the commander was at supper, and he was sure, as he had thrown the door open several times, that the scullion was not on the other side of it.

"A nigger for his confidant!" exclaimed the second lieutenant, as he interpolated a little jaw for the benefit of the seamen and petty officers within earshot of him. "What can we expect when a mere boy is put in command of a steamer like this one?"

"I think you need not complain, Pawcett, for you are on board of this vessel, and so am I, because she is under the command of a boy. But he is a tremendous smart boy, and he is older than many men of double his age," added Mulgrum.

Dave realized that the supernumerary was well informed in regard to current history in connection with naval matters, and he was willing to believe that he was quite as shrewd as the officer at his side.

"The boy is well enough, though he is abominably overrated, as you will see before I have done with him," said Mr. Lillyworth contemptuously. "It is galling for one who has seen some service to touch his cap to this boy and call him captain."

"I hope you are not forgetting yourself, Pawcett -- "

"Don't mention my name on board of this vessel, Hungerford," interposed the officer.

"And you will not mention mine," added the scullion promptly. "We are both careless in this matter, and we must do better. I think I ought to caution you not to neglect any outside tokens of respect to the captain. You can have your own opinions, but I think you do not treat him with sufficient deference."

"Perhaps I don't, for it is not an easy thing to do," replied the second lieutenant. "But I think the captain has no cause to complain of me. We must find out something about these orders, and you must be on the lookout for your chances at meridian to-morrow. If you can stow yourself away under the captain's berth in his state room, you may be able to hear him read them to the first lieutenant, as he will be sure to do."

"I don't believe in doing that," replied Mulgrum. "If I am discovered, no explanation could be made as to why I was concealed there."

"But we must take some risks," persisted Mr. Lillyworth. "After what you told me in the first of our talk, it may not be necessary to conceal yourself. I shall say something to the captain on the subject at which you hinted as soon as I get a chance. You may be in a situation to hear all that is said without danger."

Dave wondered what could be meant by this remark, for he had not heard the conversation between the captain and the first lieutenant which was intended as a "blind" to the listener, known to be at the door.

"I am willing to take any risk that will not ruin our enterprise," Mulgrum responded to the remark of his companion.

"At noon to-morrow I shall come on deck in charge, and the first lieutenant will be relieved, so that he will be at liberty to visit the captain in his cabin. That will be your time, and you must improve it."

"But I shall meet you again to-morrow, and I will look about me, and see what can be done," said Mulgrum, as he made a new demonstration at the canvas screen.

"I will keep my eyes open, and you must do the same. How is it with our men forward?" asked the officer.

"I have had no chance to speak with any of them, for they are all the time in the midst of the rest of the seamen," replied the deaf mute. "But I have no doubt they are all right."

"But you must have some way to communicate with them, or they might as well be on shore. As there are six of them, I should say you might get a chance to speak to one of them whenever you desire."

"I have had nothing to say to them so far, and I have not considered the matter of communicating with them."

"It is time to know how you can do so."

"I can manage it in some way when the time comes," replied Mulgrum confidently. "I am sure the captain and the first lieutenant have no suspicion that I am not what I seem to be. The executive officer put me through a full examination, especially in regard to Cherryfield, where I told him I used to live. I came off with flying colors, and I am certain that I am all right now."

Dave knew nothing about the examination to which Mr. Flint had subjected the deaf mute. It is evident that Mulgrum took an entirely different view of the result of the test from that taken by the examiner and the captain; but both of the latter had taken extreme pains to conceal their opinion from the subject of the test.

"I think we had better not say anything more to-night, and you have been on the bridge long enough," said Mr. Lillyworth, walking to the windward end of the bridge, and peering out into the gloom of the night.

He had hardly looked in the direction of the deaf mute while he was on the bridge, but had busied himself with the lashing of the screen, and done everything he could to make it appear that he was not talking to his companion. Mulgrum, overhauling the screen as he proceeded, made his way to the steps by the side of the foremast. But he did not go down, as he had evidently intended to do, and waited till the second lieutenant came over to the lee side of the vessel.

"Perhaps the man at the wheel has been listening to our conversation," said the deaf mute, plainly alarmed at the situation. "I did not think of him."

"I did," replied Mr. Lillyworth; "but it is all right, and the man at the wheel is Spoors, one of our number."

"All right," added Mulgrum, and he descended the steps.

Dave kept his place in the folds of the foresail, and hardly breathed as the scullion passed him. With the greatest caution, and after he had satisfied himself that no one was near enough to see him, he descended to the deck. He wandered about for a while, and saw that the supernumerary went to the galley, where, in the scarcity of accommodations for the extra persons on board, he was obliged to sleep on the floor. He was not likely to extend his operations any farther that night, and Dave went to the companion way, descended the steps, and knocked at the door of the captain's cabin.

"Come in," called the occupant, who had been writing at his desk in the state room, though the door was open.

Dave presented himself before the commander, who was very glad to see him. Christy wiped the perspiration from his forehead, for he had evidently been working very hard all the evening. Four bells had just struck, indicating that it was ten o'clock in the evening. Flint's prediction in regard to the weather seemed to be in the way of fulfilment, for the Bronx had been leaping mildly on a head sea for the last hour. But everything was going well, and the motion of the vessel was as satisfactory to the commander in rough water as it had been in a smooth sea.

"I am glad to see you, Dave," said Christy, as the steward presented himself at the door of the state room. "I suppose from your coming to-night that you have something to tell me."

"Yes, sir; I have; and I will give you the whole Gulf of Mexico if it isn't a big thing," replied Dave with his most expansive smile. "You done get into a hornet's nest, Captain Passford."

"Not so bad as that, I hope," replied Christy, laughing.

"Bad enough, sir, at any rate," added Dave. "Pink Mulgrum has been talking and listening to the second lieutenant all the evening."

"Then he is not a deaf mute, I take it."

"Not a bit of it; he can talk faster than I can, and he knows all about his grammar and dictionary. You have just eight traitors on board of the Bronx, Captain Passford," said Dave very impressively.

"Only eight?"

"That's all I know about; and I think that is enough for one cruise in a Yankee ship."

"Eight will do very well, Dave; but who are they?" asked the captain with interest.

"I know just three of them. One is the second lieutenant; Pink Mulgrum is another, and Spoors, one of the quartermasters, is the third. They didn't mention any more of them."

"All right, Dave; now sit down on that stool, and tell me the whole story," said Christy, pointing to the seat.

The steward, believing that he had done a "big thing" that evening, did not hesitate to seat himself in the presence of the commander, and proceeded at once to relate all that he had done, and all that he had seen and heard on the bridge. When Dave had finished his story, and answered the questions put to him, the commander was willing to believe that he had done a big thing; though he said nothing beyond a few words of general commendation to the steward. Then he dismissed him, and, locking his desk, he went on deck. After taking an observation of the weather he mounted the bridge.



Chapter VIII

Important Information, If True


"Good evening, Mr. Lillyworth," said Captain Passford, when he reached the bridge.

"Good evening, Captain Passford," replied the second lieutenant, as he touched his cap to his superior, galling as the act was, according to his own statement.

"It looks as though we should have some wind," added the captain.

"Yes, sir; and we shall have a nasty time of it across the Gulf Stream."

"If there is any decided change in the weather during your watch, you will oblige me by having me called," added the captain; "I think I am tired enough to turn in, for I have been very busy all the evening, copying letters and papers. I think I need a clerk almost as much as the captain of a frigate."

"I think you ought to have one, sir," added Mr. Lillyworth, manifesting a deep interest in this matter.

"As the matter now stands I have to use a good deal of my time in copying documents. By the way, if we fall in with any United States man-of-war, I wish to communicate with her."

"Of course I shall report to you, sir, if one comes in sight during my watch," replied the second lieutenant, with a greater manifestation of zeal than he had before displayed in his relations with his commander, evidently profiting by the suggestion made to him by Pink Mulgrum.

"But I hope we shall not fall in with one before day after tomorrow, for I have not copied all the letters I desire to use if such an occasion offers," said Captain Passford, who was really playing out a baited hook for the benefit of the second lieutenant, in regard to whose intentions he had no doubt since the revelations of the steward.

"By the way, Captain Passford, what you say in regard to the amount of writing imposed upon you reminds me that there is a man on board who might afford you some relief from this drudgery. Possibly you may have noticed this man, though he is doing duty as a mere scullion."

"Do you mean the man I have seen cleaning brass work about the cabin?" asked Christy, glad to have the other take hold of the baited hook.

"That is the one; he is deaf and dumb, but he has received a good education, and writes a good hand, and is rapid about it," added the second lieutenant, with some eagerness in his manner, though he tried to conceal it.

"But my writing is of a confidential nature," replied the captain.

"I have known this man, whose name is Pink Mulgrum, for some time. He is deaf and dumb, and you must have noticed him."

"Oh, yes; I have seen him, and he had an interview with Mr. Flint in my presence. I observed that he wrote a good hand, and wrote very rapidly."

"I am very confident that you can trust him with your papers, Captain Passford. He could not go into the service as a soldier or a sailor on account of his infirmity; but he desired to do something for his country. He was determined to go to the war, as he called it, in any capacity, even if it was as a scullion. He wrote me a letter to this effect, and Mr. Nawood consented to take him as a man of all work. If he ever gets into an action, you will find that he is a fighting character."

"That is the kind of men we want, and at the present time, when we are hardly in a fighting latitude, perhaps I can use him as a copyist, if he will agree to make no use whatever of any information he may obtain in that capacity. I will speak to Mr. Nawood about the matter."

"Thank you, Captain Passford. Mulgrum is a very worthy man, patriotic in every fibre of his frame, and in every drop of his blood. I should be glad to obtain some permanent occupation for him in the service of his country, for nothing else will suit him in the present exciting times. Perhaps when you have tested his qualifications, this will make an opening for him."

"I will consider the subject tomorrow," said Christy, as he descended from the bridge.

The commander was satisfied that the portion of the conversation which had taken place between the aspirant for the position of captain's clerk and the second lieutenant and which had been finished before the steward had reached his perch on the foremast, related to this matter. Mulgrum had heard the conversation between the first lieutenant and himself, which was intended to blind the listener, and he had reported it to his confederate. It was only another confirmation, if any were needed, in regard to the character of the conspirators.

Christy had no doubt in regard to the disloyalty of these two men; but nothing in respect to their ultimate intentions had yet been revealed. They had brought six seamen on board with them, and they appeared to have influence enough in some quarter to have had these men drafted into the Bronx. Eight men, even if two of them were officers, was an insignificant force, though he was willing to believe that they intended to obtain possession of the vessel in some manner. The captain returned to his cabin, and resumed his work in the state room.

Though Christy had spent several hours at his desk, he had really produced but a single letter, and had not yet finished it. When he heard eight bells strike, he left his state room, and seated himself at the table in the middle of his cabin. The door was open into the companion way. Mr. Flint presently appeared, and went on deck to relieve the second lieutenant, who came below a few minutes later, though the captain did not allow himself to be seen by him. Then he closed the cabin door, and turned in, for he began to realize that he needed some rest. He went to sleep at once, and he did not wake till four bells struck in the morning. The Bronx was pitching heavily, though she still maintained her reputation as an easy-going ship in spite of the head sea. He dressed himself, and seated himself at his desk at once, devoting himself to the letter upon which he had been engaged the evening before. The second lieutenant was on duty at this time, and the first was doubtless asleep in his berth, but he had been below six hours during the night, and, calling Dave with his bell, he sent him for Mr. Flint, who presented himself a few minutes later.

"Good morning, Captain Passford; you have turned out early, sir," said the first lieutenant.

"Not very early, and I am sorry to wake you so soon. I did not turn in till after you had gone on deck to take the midwatch. I have been very busy since we parted, and I need your advice and assistance," replied the commander. "I have got at something."

"Indeed! I am glad to hear it," added Mr. Flint.

Without the loss of any time, the captain called Dave, who was at work in the ward room, and told him to see that no one came near the door of his cabin. The steward understood him perfectly, and Christy resumed his place at the table with the executive officer, and proceeded to detail to him as briefly as he could all the information he had obtained through Dave, and the manner of obtaining it. It required some time to do this, and the first lieutenant was intensely interested in the narrative.

"I am not greatly surprised so far as Lillyworth is concerned, for there has been something about him that I could not fathom since both of us came on board," said Mr. Flint.

"Of course these men are on board for a purpose, though I acknowledge that I cannot fathom this purpose, unless it be treason in a general sense; but I am inclined to believe that they have some specific object," added the captain. "Of course you will be willing to believe that both of these men are sailing under false colors."

"Undoubtedly. It has occurred to me that the second lieutenant invented the name that represents him on the ship's books. Lillyworth is a little strained; if he had called himself Smith or Brown, it would have been less suspicious."

"In the conversation to which Dave listened on the bridge, both of them blundered, and let out their real names, though each of them reproved the other for doing so. The second lieutenant's real name is Pawcett, and that of the deaf mute is Hungerford."

"The last is decidedly a southern name, and the other may be for aught I know. Hungerford, Hungerford," said Mr. Flint, repeating the name several times. "It means something to me, but I can't make it out yet."

The first lieutenant cudgelled his brains for a minute or two as though he was trying to connect the name with some event in the past. The captain waited for him to sound his memory; but it was done in vain; Flint could not place him. He was confident, however, that the connection would be made in his mind at some other moment.

"The interesting question to us just now is to determine why these men, eight in number, are on board of the Bronx at all, and why they are on board at the present time," said the captain. "I happen to know that Lillyworth was offered a better position than the one he now fills temporarily; but my father says he insisted on going in the Bronx."

"Certainly he is not here on a fool's errand. He has business on board of this particular steamer," replied Flint, speaking out of his musing mind. "Ah! now I have it!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Hungerford was the executive officer of the Killbright, or the Yazoo, as they called her afterwards. I had a very slight inkling that I had seen the face of the deaf mute before; but he has shaved off his beard, and stained his face, so that it is no wonder I did not identify him; but the name satisfies me that he was the first officer of the Yazoo."

"That means then that he is a regular officer of the Confederate navy," suggested the captain; "and probably Lillyworth is also. The only other name Dave was able to obtain was that of Spoors, one of the quartermasters; and very likely he is also another."

"We have almost a double crew on board, Captain Passford, and what can eight men do to capture this vessel?" asked Flint.

"I don't know what they intend to do, and I must give it up. Now I want to read a letter to you that I have written; and you can tell me what you think of it." The commander then read as follows from the sheet in his hand, upon which appeared no end of changes and corrections:

"TO THE COMMANDER OF ANY UNITED STATES SHIP OF WAR, Sir: --  The undersigned, master in the United States Navy, in temporary command of the United States Steamer Bronx, bound to the Gulf of Mexico, respectfully informs you that he has information, just received, of the approach to the coast of the southern states of two steamers, the Scotian and the Arran, believed to be fitted out as cruisers for the Confederate Navy. They will be due in these waters about March 17. They are of about five hundred tons each. A letter from the confidential agent of my father, Captain Horatio Passford, an agent in whom he has perfect confidence, both on account of his loyalty to his country undivided, and because of his skill as a shipmaster, contains this statement, which is submitted to you for your guidance: 'I have put twelve loyal American seamen, with an officer, on board of each of the steamers mentioned above; and they comprise about one-half of the crew of each vessel; and they will take possession of each of the two steamers when supported by any United States man-of-war. WARNOCK.'

Respectfully yours, CHRISTOPHER PASSFORD, Master Commanding."

"I beg your pardon, Captain Passford, but what under the canopy is that letter for?" asked Flint, not a little excited.

"It is for Pink Mulgrum to copy," replied the captain. "That is all the use I intend to make of it."

Flint leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily, and the commander could not help joining him.



Chapter IX

A Volunteer Captain's Clerk


Mr. Flint was really amused at the plan of the commander of the Bronx, as indicated in the letter he had just read, and he was not laughing out of mere compliment to his superior officer, as some subordinates feel obliged to do even when they feel more like weeping. Perhaps no one knew Christy Passford so well as his executive officer, not even his own father, for Flint had been with him in the most difficult and trying ordeals of his life. He had been the young leader's second in command in the capture of the Teaser, whose cabin they now occupied, and they had been prisoners together. He had been amazed at his young companion's audacity, but he had always justified his action in the end. They had become excellent friends as well as associates in the navy, and there was a hearty sympathy between them.

Christy laughed almost in spite of himself, for he had been giving very serious attention to the situation on board of the Bronx. In the ship's company were at least two officers on the other side of the great question of the day, both of them doubtless men of great experience in their profession, more mature in years than their opponent on this chess-board of fate, and they had come on board of the steamer to accomplish some important purpose. The game at which they were engaged had already become quite exciting, especially as it looked as if the final result was to be determined by strategy rather than hard fighting, for Pawcett and Hungerford could hardly expect to capture the Bronx with only a force of eight men.

"Mulgrum is to copy this letter," said Flint, suppressing his laughter.

"I have written the letter in order to have something for him to copy, and at the same time to give him and his confederate something to think about," replied Christy; and he could hardly help chuckling when he thought of the effect the contents of the letter would produce in the minds of those for whom the missive was really intended.

"Do you think they will swallow this fiction, Captain Passford?" asked the first lieutenant.

"Why shouldn't they swallow it, hook, bait, and sinker? They are Confederate agents beyond the possibility of a doubt; and they are looking for a ship in which they intend to ravage the commerce of the United States," replied Christy; and the question had done something to stimulate his reasoning powers. "They want a vessel, and the Bronx would suit them very well."

"But they will not attempt to capture her under present circumstances, I am very confident. They know that we have about twenty seamen extra on board."

"They know that certainly; but possibly they know some things in this connection that we do not know," added Christy, as he put his hand on his forehead, and leaned over the table, as though his mind were strongly exercised by some serious question he was unable to answer satisfactorily to himself.

"What can they know that we don't know in regard to this vessel?" demanded Flint, looking quite as serious as the commander.

"Whether our extra men are loyal or not," answered Christy, dropping his hand, and looking his companion full in the face.

"Do you think there is any doubt in regard to them?"

"I confess that I have not had a doubt till this moment," said the captain, wiping the perspiration from his brow, for the terrible possibility that any considerable portion of the extra men were in the employ of the two Confederates had almost overcome him.

For a few moments he was silent as he thought of this tremendous idea. It was appalling to think of going into action with the Scotian or the Arran, or both of them, and have a part of his own force turn against him on his own deck. This was possible, but he could hardly believe it was probable. Dave had reported very faithfully to him all the details of the conversation between the Confederates, and they had claimed only six men. If they had any hold on the extra men on board, they would have been likely to say so, or at least to speak more indefinitely than they had of their expectations.

"Have you any friends on board, Mr. Flint, among the crew?" asked Christy suddenly, as though a solution of the difficult question of the loyalty of the men had suggested itself to him.

"I have at least half a dozen whom I worked hard to have drafted into the Bronx, for I know that they are good and true men, though they may not be able to pass the technical examination of the naval officers," replied the first lieutenant promptly. "I can trust every one of them as far as I could trust myself. One of them was the mate of my vessel at the time I sold her, and he has since been in command of her."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Baskirk; and he is a quartermaster now. I wrote to him, and promised to do the best I could to advance him. He is not a graduate of a college, but he is a well-informed man, well read, sober, honest, and a man of good common-sense."

"The others?"

"McSpindle was a classmate of mine in college, and he is a capital fellow. Unfortunately, he got into the habit of drinking more than was good for him, and spoiled his immediate future. He has made two foreign voyages, and he is a good seaman. He came home second mate of an Indiaman, promoted on his merit. He is also a quartermaster," said Flint, who was evidently very deeply interested in the persons he described.

"Any more?"

"Luffard is a quartermaster, for I selected the best men I had for these positions. He is a young fellow, and the son of a rich man in Portland. He is a regular water bird, though he is not over eighteen years old."

"His age is no objection," added Christy with a smile.

"I suppose not; but I have taken Luffard on his bright promise rather than for anything he has ever done, though I have seen him sail a forty-footer in a race and win the first prize. The other men I happen to think of just now have been sailors on board of my coaster. They are good men, and I can vouch for their loyalty, though not for their education. They are all petty officers."

"I have a mission for your men, to be undertaken at once, and I shall be likely to want the first three you named for important positions, if my orders do not fetter me too closely," said Christy. "As the matter stands just now, Mr. Flint, it would hardly be expedient for us to capture a schooner running the blockade for the want of an officer to act as prize master."

"The three quartermasters I named are competent for this duty, for they are navigators, and all of them have handled a vessel."

"I am glad to hear it; we are better off than I supposed we were. My father told me that several vessels had been sent to the South short of officers, and we are no worse off than some others, though what you say makes us all right."

"I can find three officers on board who are as competent as I am, though that is not saying much," added Flint.

"I can ask no better officers, then. But to return to this letter. I have spent a considerable part of my time at Bonnydale in talking with my father. He is in the confidence of the naval department."

"He ought to be, for he gave to the navy one of its best steamers, to say the least."

"I don't want to brag of my father," suggested Christy, laughing; "I only wanted to show that he is posted. Coming to the point at once, putting this and that together of what I learned on shore, and of what I have discovered on board of the Bronx, I am inclined to believe that Pawcett and Hungerford have their mission on board of this steamer in connection with the Scotian and the Arran. I will not stop now to explain why I have this idea, for I shall obtain more evidence as we proceed. At any rate, I thought I would put the ghost of a stumbling-block in the path of these conspirators; and this is the reason why I have put thirteen American seamen on board of each of the expected steamers. If my conjectures are wrong the stumbling-block will be nothing but a ghost; if I am right, it will make our men somewhat cautious as to what they do if we should be so fortunate as to fall in with the two vessels."

"I understand you perfectly, Captain Passford. You said that you had something for my men to do at once; but you did not explain what this duty was," said Flint. "If you require their services at once, I will instruct them."

"I did not explain, for I have so many irons in the fire that I am afraid I am getting them mixed, and I forgot to tell you what they were to do. But I shall leave the details to be settled in your own way. I want to know who are loyal men and who are not. There are at least six men, according to the report of Dave, who are followers of Pawcett and Hungerford. We don't know who they are; but doubtless they have been selected for their shrewdness. Probably they will be looking for information among the men. Spoors is one of them, and by watching him some clew may be obtained to the others."

"I am confident my men can find out all you want to know," added the first lieutenant.

"It should be done as soon as possible," replied the commander.

"Not a moment shall be lost. I have the deck at eight this morning, and one of the quartermasters will be at the wheel. I will begin with him."

Mr. Flint left the cabin, for his breakfast was waiting for him in the ward room. Christy walked through to the steerage, where he found Mulgrum attending to the wants of the warrant officers as well as he could. He looked at this man with vastly more interest than before he had listened to Dave's report. It was easy to see that he was not an ordinary man such as one would find in menial positions; but it was not prudent for him to make a study of the man, for his quick eye was taking in everything that occurred near him.

Eight bells struck, and Mr. Flint hastened on deck to relieve the second lieutenant. Christy took his morning meal at a later hour, and when he had finished it, he sent for Pink Mulgrum. Of course the conversation had to be written, and the captain placed the scullion opposite himself at the table.

"I learn from Mr. Lillyworth that you are a good writer, and that you are well educated," Christy wrote on a piece of paper, passing it to the deaf mute.

Mulgrum read the sentence, and nodded his head with something like a smile. If Christy was a judge of his expression, he was certainly pleased, evidently to find that his confederate's plan was working well.

"I have a letter of which I desire several copies. Can I trust you to make these copies?" Christy wrote.

The man read and nodded his head eagerly.

"Will you promise on your honor as a man that you will not reveal what you write to any person whatever?" Christy proceeded. Mulgrum read, and nodded his head earnestly several times.

The commander procured paper and other writing materials for him, and placed them before him. Then he seated himself again opposite the copyist, and fixed his gaze upon him; unfolding the letter, of which he had made a fair copy himself, he placed it under the eyes of the deaf mute. Mulgrum had retained his smile till this moment. He had arranged his paper and taken a pen in his hand. Then he began to read; as he proceeded the smile deserted his face. He was plainly startled.



Chapter X

The Unexpected Orders


Christy sat for some minutes watching the expression of Mulgrum as he read the letter he was to copy. Like a careful man, he was evidently taking a glance at it as a whole. The interested observer could see that he fixed his gaze upon the last part of the letter, the extract from the missive of Warnock, relating to the twelve loyal American seamen and their officer. In fact, he seemed to be paralyzed by what he read.

The commander was satisfied with what he had seen, and he rose from his chair. His movement seemed to restore the self-possession of the deaf mute, and he began to write very rapidly. Christy went into his state room, where he kept all his important papers in his desk. He gave himself up to a consideration of the situation in which he was placed. He had partly closed the door. But he had not been in the room half an hour before he heard a knock.

"Come in," said he, supposing the caller was Dave.

The door was pushed open, and Mulgrum came in with his tablet in his hand. The deaf mute had certainly heard his reply to the knock, for he had heeded it instantly, and he smiled at the manner in which the conspirator had "given himself away." The scullion presented his tablet to the captain with a very deferential bow.

"There is an error in the copy of the letter you gave me -- in the extract. If you will give me the original letter from Mr. Warnock, I will correct the mistake," Christy read on the tablet. It was not impossible that he had made a mistake in copying his letter; but the object of Mulgrum in desiring to see the original of the letter from England was sufficiently apparent. "Bring me my copy of the letter," he wrote on the tablet, and handed it back to the owner.

The captain took from his desk a bundle of letters and selected one, which he opened and laid on the table, though not where his copyist could see it. Mulgrum returned and presented him the letter, pointing out the mistake he had discovered. He looked at the blind letter, and then at the other. There was certainly an error, for his letter said "and they comprise about one of crew of each vessel." This was nonsense, for he had accidentally omitted the word "half" after "one." He inserted the word above the line in its proper place, and gave it back to the copyist. It was clear enough that Mulgrum was disappointed in the result of this interview; but he took the letter and returned to the table.

At the end of another quarter of an hour, he brought the first copy of the letter. He knocked as before, and though Christy told him in a loud tone to come in, he did not do so. He repeated the words, but the conspirator, possibly aware of the blunder he had made before, did not make it again. Then he wrote on his tablet, after the captain had approved his work, that he found the table very uncomfortable to write upon while the ship was pitching so smartly, and suggested that he should be allowed to make the rest of the copies on the desk in the state room, if the captain did not desire to use it himself. Unfortunately for the writer, he did desire to use it himself, and he could not help smiling at the enterprise of the deaf mute in his attempt to obtain an opportunity to forage among the papers in his drawers.

Mulgrum certainly did his work nicely and expeditiously, for he had finished it at three bells in the forenoon watch. He was dismissed then, for his presence was not particularly agreeable to the commander. Christy locked his desk and all the drawers that contained papers, not as against a thief or a burglar, but against one who would scorn to appropriate anything of value that did not belong to him, for he had no doubt now that Mulgrum was a gentleman who was trying to serve what he regarded as his country, though it was nothing but a fraction of it.

In fact, inheriting, as it were, the broad and generous policy of his father, Christy had no personal prejudices against this enemy of his country, and he felt just as he would if he had been sailing a boat against him, or playing a game of whist with him. He was determined to beat him if he could. But he was not satisfied with locking his papers up; he called Dave, and set him as a watch over them. If the conspirator overhauled his papers, he would have been more concerned about what he did not find than in relation to what he did find, for the absence of the original of Warnock's letter would go far to convince him that the extract from it was an invention.

When he had taken these precautions he went on deck. The wind was blowing a moderate gale; but the Bronx was doing exceedingly well, lifting herself very lightly over the foaming billows, and conveying to one walking her deck the impression of solidity and strength. The captain went to the bridge after a while, though not till he had noticed that something was going on among the crew; but he was not disposed to inquire into the matter, possibly regarding it as beneath the dignity of a commander to do so.

Christy mounted the steps to the bridge. This structure is hardly a man-of-war appendage. It had been there, and it had been permitted to remain. The first shot in action might carry it away, and this contingency had been provided for, as she was provided with a duplicate steam-steering apparatus, as well as a hand wheel at the stern. The proper position of the officer of the watch, who is practically in command for the time being, is on the quarter deck, though he is required during his watch to visit all parts of the deck. On board of the Bronx this officer was placed on the bridge, where he could overlook all parts of the ship.

The first lieutenant, who had the forenoon watch, saluted him, but there was nothing of interest to report. Christy asked the meaning of the movement he had observed among the seamen and petty officers, and was told that Baskirk was getting up an association on board, the first requirement to which was for all who wished to become members to sign the oath of allegiance to the United States government, "as represented by and presided over by the President at Washington." It was to be a secret society, and Flint added that it was really a branch of the Union League. Christy did not think it wise to ask any more questions, but he understood that this was really a movement to ascertain the sentiments of the members of the ship's company as to the extent of their duty in supporting the government.

"Mr. Flint, I am not a little dissatisfied with the manner in which we are compelled to carry on our duty on board of the Bronx, though no blame is to be attached to the naval department on account of it," said Christy, after he had walked the bridge for a time.

"Is anything going wrong, Captain Passford?" asked the first lieutenant anxiously.

"Oh, no: I have no fault to find with any one, and least of all with you," added the captain promptly. "The trouble is that we are short of officers, though all that could be spared for this vessel were sent on board of her. As the matter now stands, Dr. Spokeley and I are the only idlers on board in the cabin and ward room. The first lieutenant has to keep a watch, which is not at all regular, and I foresee that this arrangement will be a very great disadvantage to me. It could not be helped, and the Bronx was evidently regarded as of no great importance, for she is little more than a storeship just now, though the flag officer in the Gulf will doubtless make something more of her."

"We have a big crew for this vessel, but we are short of officers," added Flint.

"From the best calculations I have been able to make, with my father to help me, we ought to fall in with the Scotian and the Arran; and in view of such an event, I propose to prepare for the emergency by appointing a temporary third lieutenant."

"I think that would be a very wise step to take," added Flint very cordially.

"Of the men you mentioned to me, who is the best one for this position?" asked Christy.

"I have no hesitation in saying that Baskirk is the right man for the position."

"Very well; he shall be appointed," added Christy, as he left the bridge. But in a few minutes he returned, and handed an order to the first lieutenant.

Baskirk was sent for, and the captain had a long talk with him. He found that the candidate had more knowledge of naval discipline than he had supposed, and he was pleased with the man. He was the leading quartermaster in rank, having been appointed first. After another talk with Flint, the latter gave the order to pass the word for Mr. Giblock, who was the acting boatswain, though in rank he was only a boatswain's mate. He was directed to call all hands. When the ship's company were assembled on the forward deck, though this is not the usual place for such a gathering, the first lieutenant read the order of the commander appointing George Baskirk as acting third lieutenant of the Bronx, and directing that he should be respected and obeyed as such. A smart cheer followed the announcement, though the second lieutenant, who had taken a place on the bridge, looked as though he did not approve the step the captain had taken. The officer of the deck next appointed Thomas McLinn a quartermaster. The ship's company were then dismissed.

Just before noon by the clocks, Lieutenant Baskirk appeared on the bridge, dressed in a brand-new uniform, with a sextant in his hands. Christy, who did not depend upon his pay for the extent of his wardrobe, had not less than three new suits, and he had presented one of them to the newly appointed officer, for there was no material difference in the size of the two persons. All the officers who kept watches were required to "take the sun," and at the moment the meridian was crossed, the captain gave the word to "make it noon," and the great bell sounded out eight bells. The officers proceeded to figure up the results of the observations. The longitude and latitude were entered on the log slate, to be transferred to the log book. Baskirk was directed to take the starboard watch, and he was formally presented to the second lieutenant by the captain; and whatever his feeling or opinions in regard to the step which had just been taken, he accepted the hand of the new officer and treated him with proper courtesy.

"Latitude 37° 52'," said the captain significantly, as he led the way down from the bridge, attended by the first and third lieutenants.

They followed him to the captain's cabin. Christy gave them seats at the table, and then went into his state room for the ponderous envelope which contained his orders. He seated himself between his two officers; but before he broke the great seal, he discovered Dave in the passageway making energetic signs to him. He hastened to him, and followed him into the ward room.

"Pink is under your berth in the state room," whispered the steward in the most impressive manner.

"All right, Dave; you have been faithful to your duty," said Christy, as he hastened back into his cabin.

Resuming his place at the table, he broke the seal of the huge envelope. He unfolded the inclosed instructions, and ran over them without speaking a word.

"We have nothing to do on this cruise," said he, apparently taking his idea from the paper in his hand. "I will read the material parts of it," he continued in a much louder tone than the size of the cabin and the nearness of his auditors seemed to demand. "'You will proceed with all reasonable despatch to the Gulf of Mexico, and report to the flag officer, or his representative, of the eastern Gulf Squadron. You will attempt no operations on your passage, and if an enemy appears you will avoid her if possible with honor.' That's all, gentlemen."

The two listeners seemed to be utterly confounded.



Chapter XI

Another Reading Of The Sealed Orders


Christy finished the reading of the orders, folded up the document, and put it in his pocket. But he immediately took it out and unfolded it again, as though a new thought had struck him. Flint watched him with the utmost attention, and he realized that the bearing of the commander was quite different from his usual manner; but he attributed it to the very unexpected nature of the orders he had just read. He was distinctly directed to attempt no operations on the passage, and to proceed to the destination indicated with all reasonable despatch.

The wording of the order was rather peculiar, and somewhat clumsy, Flint thought; but then he had been a schoolmaster, and perhaps he was inclined to be over-critical. But the meaning of the first clause could not be mistaken, however, though the word "operations" seemed to indicate something on a grander scale and more prolonged than an encounter with a blockade-runner, or a Confederate man-of-war; something in the nature of a campaign on shore, or a thorough scouring of the ocean in search of the vessels of the enemy.

But any such interpretation of the order was rendered impossible by what followed. The commander was distinctly forbidden to engage the enemy if such an encounter could be avoided "with honor." The first lieutenant knew that a combat could be easily avoided simply by not following up any suspicious craft, unless a fully manned and armed Confederate cruiser presented herself, and then it might be honorable to run away from her. There was no mistaking the meaning of the orders, and there was no chance to strain a point, and fall upon one or both of the expected steamers.

The captain was strictly enjoined from meddling with them, even if they came in his way. If they chased the Bronx, she would be justified in defending herself under the orders; and that was the most she could do. Flint was terribly disappointed, and he regarded the commander with the deepest interest to learn what interpretation he would give to the orders, though there seemed to him to be no room even to take advantage of any fortunate circumstance.

The appearance of the commander did not throw any new light upon the contents of the document. After he had finished the reading of the paper, Christy sat in his chair, apparently still looking it over, as though he did not fully comprehend its meaning. But he made no sign and indulged in no remark of any kind, and in a few moments folded the order and put it back into his pocket. Undoubtedly he was thinking very energetically of something, but he did not reveal the nature of his reflections.

Flint concluded that he was utterly dissatisfied with his orders, and even regarded them as a slight upon himself as the commander of the steamer for the time being. It was not customary to direct captains to avoid the enemy under all circumstances that were likely to be presented. The first lieutenant began to realize the disadvantage of sailing with a captain so young, for it looked to him as though the strange order had been issued on account of the youth of the commander.

When Christy had restored the paper to his pocket, he rose from his seat, and thus indicated that there was to be no consultation with the officers in regard to the unusual instructions. The two officers rose at the same time, and closely observed the face of the commander; but this time Flint could find nothing there as serious as he had observed before; in fact, there was a twinkle in his eye that looked promising.

"Gentlemen, it is dinner time in the ward room, and I will not detain you any longer," said Christy, as politely as he usually spoke to his officers, though the opera of "Pinafore" had not been written at that time.

Flint bowed to his captain, and left the cabin; and his example was followed by Baskirk. Christy certainly did not look as though he were embarrassed by his orders, or as if he were disappointed at the restrictions they imposed upon him. He left the cabin so that Dave could prepare his table for dinner as he had the time to do so. He left the cabin; but in the passage he called the steward to him, and whispered a brief sentence to him.

He then ascended to the deck, and proceeded to take a "constitutional" on the windward side of the quarter deck. The gale had moderated very sensibly, though the wind was still from the southward. The sea was still quite rough, though it was likely to subside very soon. After the captain had walked as long as he cared to do, he mounted the bridge.

"What do you think of the weather, Mr. Lillyworth?" he asked of the officer of the deck, after he had politely returned his salute.

"I don't believe we shall have any more wind today," replied the second lieutenant, as he looked wisely at the weather indications the sky presented. "But it don't look much like fairing off, and I shall look for fog as long as the wind holds where it is."

"I have been expecting to be buried in fog," added the captain, as he took a survey of the deck beneath him. "I see by the log slate that we are making fifteen knots an hour, and we certainly are not driving her."

"There can be no doubt that this is a very fast vessel," said Mr. Lillyworth. "Well, she ought to be, for I understand that she was built for a nobleman's yacht, and such men want speed, and are willing to pay for it."

"By tomorrow, we shall be in the latitude of the Bermudas, and most of the blockade runners put in there, or some more southern port, to get the news, and obtain a pilot, if they don't happen to have one on board."

"That seems to be the way they do it."

"This fog is favorable to blockade runners if they have a skilful pilot on board; and they all contrive to have such a one," added the captain, as he moved towards the steps to the deck.

"I suppose you have opened your sealed orders, Captain Passford," said the second lieutenant, who seemed to be interested in this subject. "We have crossed the thirty-eighth parallel."

"Yes; I have opened the envelope, and found the orders very peculiar and very disappointing," replied the captain as he took a step on the ladder. "But you will excuse me now from speaking of them, for I have another matter on my mind."

Christy thought Pink Mulgrum might as well tell him about the orders and he could at least save his breath if he had no other motive for leaving the second lieutenant in the dark for the present. He went to the deck, and then down into the cabin. His breakfast was ready, but Dave was not there, and he walked forward into the ward room, from which he saw Mulgrum replenishing the table in the steerage. He had evacuated his place under the berth in the state room, and the captain went to his breakfast in his cabin. Dave soon appeared with the hot dishes from the galley, for he had seen Christy take his place at the table.

"What's the news, Dave?" asked the captain.

"No news, sir, except that I gave Pink a chance to get out of that state room," replied the steward, spreading out his broadest smile. "I spoke out loud just like I was calling to some one in the ward room, 'No, sir, I can't go now; I have to go to the galley for the dishes.' Then I left the cabin, and went forward; when I came back, I looked under your berth, sir, and Pink wasn't there then."

"How did you know he was under the berth in the first place, Dave?"

"Just before eight bells I saw him cleaning the brasses on the door. I think he will wear those door knobs all out before the cruise is up. I knew he was up to something, and I just watched him. He went out of sight and I did not know where he was. Then I took the feather duster, and worked about the cabin; but I couldn't find him. Then I dusted the state room, and then I did find him."

"You have rendered good service, Dave, and I shall not forget it," added Christy. "Where are Mr. Flint and Mr. Baskirk?"

"In the ward room, sir."

"Give my compliments to them, and say that I wish to see them in my cabin in about ten minutes," continued the captain.

Dave left the cabin, and Christy devoted himself to his breakfast; and in his haste to meet the officers indicated, he hurried the meal more than was prudent for the digestion. The steward reported that he had delivered the message, and Christy finished his hasty collation.

The table was hurriedly cleared by the steward, and the captain paid a visit to his state room, during which he did not fail to look under his berth. He had a trunk there, and he saw that it had been moved to the front of the space, so that there was room enough for the conspirator to conceal his body behind it, though his was a good-sized body. Returning to the cabin, he took his usual seat at the table, facing the door. In a few minutes more Mr. Flint and Mr. Baskirk came to the door and were invited to come in. Dave had returned from the galley, and he was instructed to watch that door as he was told to close it.

Dave finds Mulgrum under the berth.

Flint took the seat assigned to him, and Baskirk was placed opposite to him. The first lieutenant appeared to be a great deal more dissatisfied than the captain; but then he was a poor man, and next to his duty to his country, he was as anxious as the average officer to make all the money he could out of the prizes captured by his ship. It looked to him as though all his chances had slipped beyond his reach for the present.

Flint had taken no little stock in the two steamers that were expected on the coast at this time, and in spite of the treachery anticipated he had counted upon a share in at least one of them. He knew very well that the commander, from sharp experience at his side some months before, would not pass by an opportunity to strike a blow, even in the face of any reasonable risk. But now, as he looked at it, the wings of the young captain had been clipped by the authorities at Washington, in the sealed orders.

"I am glad to meet you again, gentlemen; indeed I may say that I am particularly glad to see you," said Christy in his most cheerful tones, as he looked about the cabin, and especially at the ports, to see if there was a spy looking in at one of them.

The thought came to him then and there that it was possible for a man to hang over the rail, and place one of his ears at an opening and listen to what was going on; and besides there were, besides Mulgrum, six others who were capable of doing such a thing. He sent Mr. Baskirk on deck to see that no man was at work over the side. He returned and reported that no one was in a position to hear what was said in the cabin.

Flint did not seem to be as much interested in the proceedings as on former occasions, for he had had time to consider the effect of the orders, and he saw no way to evade them. They might pick up some cotton schooners, but no such prizes as the Scotian and the Arran were likely to be taken when the steamer reached her station, wherever it might be, and the whole squadron shared the proceeds of the captures.

"You listened to the orders I read this noon," began Christy, with a pronounced twinkling of his eyes.

"Yes, sir; and, Captain Passford, I have felt as if the gates of honor and profit had been closed against the Bronx," added Flint.

"Perhaps a second reading of the orders will put a different aspect on the gates," said the captain with a significant smile, the force of which, however, the first lieutenant failed to comprehend.

"Under these orders there seems to be no alternative but to hasten to the Gulf of Mexico, and run away from any blockade runner we may happen to see," growled Flint.

"You are not as amiable as usual, Mr. Flint."

"How can one be amiable under such orders?" added Flint, trying to smile.

"I will read them over again, now that we have not as many auditors as before," said the captain.

Christy proceeded to read the document as it was written.



Chapter XII

A Sail On The Starboard Bow


Before Captain Passford had read two lines of the document in his hands, a noise as of a scuffle was heard in the passage way to the ward room. Mr. Baskirk was sent to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, and he threw the door wide open. Dave was there, blocking the passage way, and Pink Mulgrum was trying to force his way towards the cabin door. The steward declared that no one must go to the cabin; it was the order of the captain himself. Mulgrum found it convenient not to hear on this occasion. The moment Baskirk appeared, the deaf mute exhibited a paper, which he passed to the new lieutenant, evidently satisfied that he could get no nearer to the door. When he had delivered the paper, he hastened up the ladder to the deck. Dave came into the cabin and explained that Mulgrum had tried to force him out of the way, and he had resisted. The intruder did not exhibit any paper till the third lieutenant appeared at the door.

"That man is very persevering in his efforts to procure information," said Christy, as he unfolded the paper. "'The fog is very dense ahead, and we shall soon be shut in by it,'" he read from the paper. "Mr. Lillyworth might have found a man that could speak for his messenger," he continued, "but of course he wanted to assist his confederate to obtain more information."

"I don't see what he wants to know now, for Mulgrum has told him the contents of the sealed envelope before this time, and he knows that the gates are closed against us," added Flint. "It is plain enough that they have had their heads together."

"Certainly they have; but Mr. Lillyworth may not be any better satisfied with his information than you are, Mr. Flint," replied the captain, with an expressive smile, though he felt that his fellow officer had been tantalized long enough by the circumstances. "I have read and studied my orders very attentively. They direct me to proceed with all reasonable despatch to the Gulf of Mexico, and report to the flag officer of the Eastern Gulf Squadron, or his representative."

"'But information has been received,'" continued Christy, reading what he had not read before, "'that two steamers, probably fitted out for service in the Confederate navy, are approaching the coast of the Southern States, and it is very important that they should be intercepted. Both of these vessels are reported to have small crews, but they are said to be fast. The department regrets that it has not a suitable steamer available to send in search of these two vessels; but relying upon your well-known patriotism and the excellent record you have already made, you are instructed to intercept them, even if you are delayed a week or more by any hopeful circumstances.' That is the material portion of my orders," added Christy, as he read the last sentence. "But I beg you to bear in mind that I did not write the commendatory expressions in the paper."

"But they are as true as the holy Gospels!" exclaimed Flint, springing out of his chair in the heat of the excitement which the new reading of the orders produced in his mind. "But I thought you had read the sealed orders to us before, Captain Passford."

"I read but a very small part of them before; and as I had to improvise the greater part of what I read, or rather did not read, but simply uttered, the language was not all well chosen," replied Christy, laughing in spite of all his attempts to maintain his dignity. "The fact is, Mr. Flint, I had too many listeners when I read the paper before."

"There was no one in the cabin but Mr. Baskirk and myself, and Dave had been stationed at the door; or at least he was there, for he beckoned you out into the gangway just as you were beginning to read the orders," argued Flint. "Possibly I should have understood the first reading better if I had not seen for myself that you had taken all precautions against any listener. You went out when Dave called you; but you were not gone half a minute; and that was not long enough for the steward to spin any long yarn."

"But it was long enough for Dave to tell me that Pink Mulgrum was under my berth, with the state room door open," replied Christy.

"Just so; I comprehend the whole matter now," said Flint, joining the captain in the laugh.

"Now you know what my instructions are, gentlemen," continued the commander, "and I hope and believe that Mr. Lillyworth and his right hand man do not know them. I think you have been already posted, Mr. Baskirk, in regard to the anomalous state of affairs on board of the Bronx," added the captain.

"Not fully, Captain Passford; but Mr. Flint has told me something about the situation," replied the third lieutenant.

"It may not be necessary, gentlemen, that I should say it, but not a word of what passes in my cabin is to be repeated in any other part of the ship; not even in the ward room when you believe you are entirely alone," said the captain, very earnestly and impressively. "If the doors and keyholes do not have ears, there may be ears behind them, as some of us have learned to our entire satisfaction."

"Not a word from me, Captain Passford," added Baskirk.

"And not one from me," repeated Flint.

"Unquestionably the curiosity of Mr. Lillyworth and his confederate are and will continue to be excited to the highest pitch," continued Christy. "I shall have occasion to change the course of the ship, and head her more to the eastward. Of course the second lieutenant will observe this, and will understand that I am not following the orders reported to him by Mulgrum. You are my only confidants on board, and it will be necessary for you to refer Mr. Lillyworth to me when he asks for further information."

"Perfectly understood," replied Flint, who was now in most excellent humor.

"Now, gentlemen, I will leave you in my cabin that Mr. Baskirk may be more fully instructed in regard to the matters which have passed between Mr. Flint and myself. I have great expectations in regard to you, Mr. Baskirk, and I am confident that you will realize them."

Saying this, Christy bowed to his companions, and left the cabin, retiring to his state room and closing the door. He had on board a full supply of charts and nautical instruments of his own, in addition to those belonging to the ship. Spreading out the chart of the South Atlantic on the desk, he went to work with his dividers and parallel rule. He made his figures on a piece of paper, and then laid off a course on the chart with a pencil, to be deepened in red ink at another time.

Writing "southeast by east" on a slip of paper, he restored his charts and instruments to their places and left the state room. The two lieutenants were still in his cabin, but he did not disturb them and went on deck. Before he reached the bridge, six bells struck, or three o'clock in the afternoon. He then ascended the ladder to the bridge. The fog which the second lieutenant had predicted had not yet enveloped the ship; on the contrary, it looked more like clearing off, and some patches of blue sky could be seen.

"Mr. Lillyworth, you will make the course southeast by east," said Christy, looking at the officer of the deck.

"Southeast by east!" exclaimed the second lieutenant; and his remark needed an exclamation point after it, for though it was customary to repeat an order to make sure that it was understood, he did so in such a tone and in such a manner as to manifest very clearly his astonishment at the nature of the order. The former course had been south by west.

One thing was fully evident from this surprise -- that the officer of the deck gave full faith to the bogus instructions which had been imparted to him by Mulgrum. He believed that the Bronx was to hasten to the Gulf, as the former course indicated. It was plain enough to Lillyworth that the captain was disregarding his instructions; but his lips were sealed in regard to this disobedience, for he could not indicate in any manner that he knew the purport of the sealed orders; and doubtless it did not occur to him that the deaf mute had been blinded, in addition to his other infirmities. The course was given out to the quartermaster at the wheel. The steamer promptly fell off, and began to ride quartering over the smart billows, brought out by the wind from the south-southwest, as it had blown for the last hour or more.

Christy believed that he had put everything in train for accomplishing the mission of the Bronx on the new course he had just ordered. There were no more orders to be read, and he did not see that the conspirators could do anything more to derange the plans of the loyal officers and seamen on board. All they had attempted so far was to obtain information in regard to the movements of the vessel; and Christy had taken care that they should receive all the information they wanted, though not as reliable as it might have been. He was satisfied with the situation as it must remain till some decided event should call for energetic action.

The captain and the two ward-room officers in his confidence were obliged to conduct themselves with the utmost caution and discretion in order not to undo anything which had been done in blinding the eyes of the conspirators. Christy had an abundance of writing to do, and it was of a kind that would not betray any of his secrets; he called upon Mulgrum to do this work, in order to keep up appearances. He did not call any more conferences with his friends in the cabin, for there was no need of any, and entire silence was the more prudent.

The Bronx proceeded on the course the captain had given out until the twentieth of the month, when the steamer was a little to the southward of the Bermudas. She had not been near enough to the islands to be made out from the shore. On this day, when the Bronx was three days from Sandy Hook, the fog which Mr. Lillyworth had been predicting settled down on the steamer, not as dense as it might be, but thick enough to prevent those on board of her from seeing anything at any great distance from her. The second lieutenant, in charge of the deck, suggested to the captain that the whistle should be blown; but Christy answered very emphatically that no whistles were to be blown; though he ordered the lookouts to be doubled, and the steamer to proceed at half speed.

In the middle of the second dog watch, in charge of Mr. Baskirk, the lookout on the topsail yard made himself heard, and the others aloft repeated the call.

"Sail on the starboard bow, sir!" said the first lookout from the yard, hailing the bridge.

Captain Passford heard the hail from aloft, for he was planking the deck with the first lieutenant. Both of them rushed forward at a pace rather undignified for a commander.

"Silence, aloft!" shouted the captain. "We have made her out. Mr. Flint, you will take the deck, and call all hands without any unnecessary noise."

This order was given to Giblock, the boatswain, and in a minute or two every man on board was in his station. The first lieutenant remained on the bridge, but the second took his place in the waist, and the third forward, though this arrangement of the officers was not sanctioned by ancient usage. Silence was commanded, and the engine, working at half speed, made hardly any noise. The captain had spoken to Sampson, the chief engineer, and he had done his best to avoid all noise in his department.

The captain and the first lieutenant remained on the bridge, anxiously sighting in the direction in which the sail had been reported to be. As the captain had instructed the engineer to do, he had caused the fires to be reduced and a change of fuel used so that the smokestack of the Bronx was just beginning to send up volumes of black smoke. The bunkers contained a small portion of soft coal for this purpose.



Chapter XIII

The Steamer In The Fog


The Bronx was slowly approaching the steamer in the fog, which appeared to have stopped her propeller, and to be resting motionless on the long swells, hardly disturbed by a breath of air. By this time the smokestack of the Bronx was vomiting forth dense clouds of black smoke. The steamers of the navy used anthracite coal, which burns without any great volume of smoke, and blockade runners had already begun to lay in whatever stock of it they were able to procure to be used as they approached the coast where they were to steal through the national fleet. The attention of the naval department of the United States had already been given to this subject, and the first steps had been taken to prevent the sale of this comparatively smokeless coal where it could be obtained by the blockade runners.

Christy had been on the blockade; and he had been in action with a steamer from the other side of the ocean; and he knew that this black smoke of the soft coal, exclusively used by English steamers, was a telltale in regard to such vessels. It had been an idea of his own to take in a supply of this kind of fuel, for while its smoke betrayed the character of vessels intending to run the blockade, the absence of it betrayed the loyalty of the national steamers to the blockade runners. It was a poor rule that would not work both ways, and the commander of the Bronx had determined to adopt the scheme he had now put in force on board of his vessel. Although the craft on the starboard bow could hardly be distinguished in the fog, Christy had sent a trusty seaman aloft to report on the color of the smoke that issued from her funnel.

This man had reported by swinging his cap in the air, as the captain had instructed him to do if he found that the smoke was that of soft coal. If there was no black smoke, he was to return to the deck without making any sign. The moment therefore that the man had been able to see the quality of the smoke, the commander was made as wise as though he had seen it himself. The information left him no doubt that the steamer was intended to run the blockade; but whether or not she was one of the expected pair, of course he could form no opinion, for already this part of the ocean had begun to swarm with vessels in this service.

"I am beginning to make her out a little better," said Flint, who had been straining his eyes to the utmost capacity, as everybody else on board was doing, to obtain the best and earliest information in regard to the stranger on the starboard bow.

"What do you make out, Mr. Flint?" asked Christy, who was too busily employed in watching the movements of the officers and seamen on his own deck to give especial attention to the character of the other steamer.

"I can't see well enough yet to say anything in regard to details," replied the first lieutenant. "I can only make out her form and size; and she seems to be as nearly like the Bronx as one pea is like another, though I should say that she was longer."

"Is she in motion?" asked the captain with interest.

"She appears to be at rest, though it is possible that she is moving very slowly; but if she has not stopped her screw, she is not going more than four knots."

"You say that she is built like the Bronx, Mr. Flint?" asked Christy anxiously.

"Just like her; I should say that both hulls came out of the same mould."

"That very nearly settles the question in my mind. Probably she was designed by the same naval architect, and constructed by the same builders, as the Bronx," replied Christy, gazing intently at the dim outlines of the steamer in the fog. "When a designer has made a great reputation for fast ships, men with piles of money, like the former owners of the Bronx, the Scotian, and the Arran, employ him to furnish the plans for their steam yachts. From what we have learned so far, though it is very little indeed, I feel reasonably sure that this steamer ahead of us is the Scotian or the Arran, and I don't care much which it is. But why has she stopped her screw, or reduced her speed to four knots?"

"That is a question that can only be answered an hour or two hence, if ever," replied the first lieutenant.

"But it is a very important question all the same," added Christy.

"I doubt if the Bronx is making four knots at the present moment," said Flint, as he went to the end of the bridge, and looked down into the water.

"In changing the fires in the furnaces, Mr. Sampson had been obliged to clear them out in part, and that has reduced the pressure of steam; but we shall soon have the usual head," said Christy, as he went to the speaking tube and communicated with the chief engineer.

He was informed that his explanation was correct in regard to the coal, and that in a very short time the boilers would have a full head of steam. Christy spent the next few minutes in an earnest study of the scarcely perceptible outline of the steamer in the fog. He was hardly wiser when he had finished his examination than before. The hull and lower masts of the vessel could be indistinctly made out, and that was all. Sampson informed him that he had not been using all the steam he had, and that the screw was hardly turning at all. He ordered him to stop it entirely.

Impatient as he was to follow up the discovery that had been made, he realized that it would be very imprudent to expose his ship to possible danger when he had not steam enough to work her to the best advantage. He could only wait; but he was satisfied that he had done the best possible thing in changing the coal, for the black smoke would effectually blind the officers of the other vessel. They were not engaged in a chase, and the exciting question could be settled a few hours hence as well as at the present time.

"If the steamer ahead is the Scotian or the Arran, as I fully believe she is, probably her consort is somewhere in these waters," said the commander.

"Probably she lost sight of her in this fog," added Flint. "But, Captain Passford, we are in the face of something, though we do not yet know precisely what. I suppose you have your eye on Mr. Lillyworth?"

"I have kept him in sight all the time. He is on the quarter deck now, as he has been since all hands were called," replied Christy, who had not failed to look at him for a full minute since the discovery of the sail on the starboard. "He seems to be perplexed by the situation, and his time for action, if he intends to act, has not yet come."

"I don't see Pink Mulgrum anywhere about the deck."

"I saw him a few minutes since," added Christy. "He passed several times quite near Mr. Lillyworth, and very likely something was said between them; but they had no long talk."

Christy had charged Dave to watch Mulgrum if he went below, and to follow him up closely; but the deaf mute had been on deck most of the time. There was nothing that he could do, and nothing that the second lieutenant could do, to embarrass the operations of the ship while she remained at rest. The captain then descended to the deck, and personally looked into the condition of everything. In the course of his round he came to the quarter deck where the second lieutenant was stationed. He could see that he was nervous and uneasy about something, and it was not difficult to divine what perplexed him. He could hardly see the black smoke from the funnel of the steamer in the fog, for his place on the deck did not permit him to obtain as good a view of her as could be had from the bridge, and especially from aloft.

"Do you make out what that vessel is, Captain Passford?" asked Lillyworth, as Christy passed near him.

"Not yet, Mr. Lillyworth," replied the captain, not caring to converse with the conspirator.

"The fog does not seem to be very dense, and I should think the vessel might be made out from aloft," added the second lieutenant, evidently very anxious to know more about the sail ahead.

"Not very clearly," replied Christy, as he went forward to the engine hatch.

He descended to the engine room, and while he was listening to the roar of the flames in the furnaces, so different from the action of anthracite coal, Sampson came up from the fire room.

"We shall have a sufficient head of steam in a few minutes to justify you in going ahead, Captain Passford," said the engineer without waiting to be questioned.

"I am glad to hear it, though we are in no special hurry at present, in spite of our impatience to know what is before us," replied the captain. "Do you know the man who passes under the name of Mulgrum, Mr. Sampson?"

"You mean Pink, the deaf mute? Mr. Nawood pointed him out to me, and I have seen him about the deck or in the steerage several times."

"Has he been in the engine room at any time since we sailed?" asked Christy.

"He may have been; but I have not noticed him anywhere in my department," replied Sampson.

"You will not allow him in the engine or fire room," continued the captain. "Send him out, drive him out, if necessary, at once."

"Being deaf and dumb, I should suppose he were harmless wherever he happened to be. Is he -- "

"Never mind what he is just now, Mr. Sampson," interposed Christy. "Be very particular to obey my order in regard to him to the letter; that's all now. Inform me at once when you are ready to go ahead, and I shall be on the bridge."

The order which Christy had just given to the engineer was the result of his reflection since he came down from the bridge. He had been cudgelling his brains to determine what the conspirators could possibly do when the decisive moment came, if it should happen to come as he neared the steamer in the fog, to derange the operations on board. It seemed to him before that all they could do was to leap on board of the enemy, if it came to boarding her, and reinforce her crew. He had talked over this matter with Flint and Baskirk, and there were three who would be ready to shoot either of them the instant their treachery should be apparent.

Before it would be possible to board, a man as intelligent as Mulgrum, who had served as executive officer, could easily disable the engine. This idea had but just come to the commander, who thought before that he had closed every opening against the conspirators. He went on deck as soon as he had settled this matter. The fog seemed to be rather more dense than before, and when he went on the bridge, it was reported that the stranger could no longer be made out.

"I have just received the roster of the 'Bronx Association,'" said Flint, as the captain joined him. "It is signed by every man on board, including the supernumeraries forward, except Spoors, Blocker, Veering, Packer, Pickford, and Runyon. I inquired why these men would not join, but could not learn that they had any reason except that they did not wish to be members. I have seen Mr. Lillyworth talking to all of these men, and I think we can be certain now who is white and who is black."

"On the bridge!" came from the speaking tube, at this moment, and the captain was near enough to hear it. Mr. Sampson reported that he had steam enough to make at least ten knots an hour.

The commander then instructed the first lieutenant to see that both divisions of boarders were armed with cutlass and revolver, in readiness for action. The second lieutenant was to attend to the working of the broadside guns, Mr. Baskirk was to lead the first division of boarders, and Mr. Giblock, the boatswain, the second. Flint went below to the deck to execute his orders, and the captain ordered the quartermaster to ring one bell.



Chapter XIV

The Confederate Steamer Scotian


One bell sounded on the gong in the engine room, and the Bronx began to go ahead. Christy felt that the most tremendous hour of his lifetime had come, and he struggled to keep down the excitement which agitated him; and he succeeded so far that he appeared to be the coolest man on board of the ship. When Flint came in the vicinity of the bridge, he called to him to join him. The men were procuring their revolvers and cutlasses, and he had a moment to spare. The captain instructed him to conceal the boarders so that they could not be seen on board the steamer in the fog when the Bronx came up with her. He added some other details to his orders.

"If possible, I wish you to keep as near Lillyworth as you can," continued Christy, "for I shall not have the opportunity to watch him. This war cannot be conducted on peace principles, and if that man attempts to defeat my orders in any manner, don't hesitate to put a ball from your revolver through his heart. Use reasonable care, Mr. Flint, but bear in mind that I am not to be defeated in the capture of that steamer, if she proves to be what I suppose she is, by the treachery of one who accepted a position as an officer on board of the Bronx." The commander was firm and decided in his manner, and Flint had served with him enough to know that he meant what he said.

"I will obey your orders to the letter, Captain Passford, using all reasonable precautions in the discharge of my duty," replied Flint. "Mr. Lillyworth was in a state of mutiny just now, and spoke to me."

"What did he say?"

"He declared that he was second lieutenant of the ship, and it was his right to command the first division of boarders. He wouldn't stand it. I told him he was to be in command of the guns. He insisted that you did not intend to fire a gun if you could help it. I replied that we should not board the vessel either if we could help it. But I had no time to argue with him, and referred him to the captain. Then he moved towards the ladder of the bridge, and I forbade him to leave his station. That is the whole of it. I have seen him speak to each of the six men we now know to be his friends, to say nothing of Mulgrum. I left him then."

"All right so far, Mr. Flint. Return to the deck, if you please, and be sure that the boarders are kept out of sight from this moment," added Christy. "Quartermaster, ring four bells," he added, turning to the pilot house.

"Four bells, sir," repeated McSpindle, who was at the wheel.

The Bronx soon began to feel the effect of this order, and the smoke poured out in increased volume from the smokestack, affected by the stronger draught produced by the additional speed.

"On the topsail yard!" called the captain, directing his speaking trumpet aloft.

"On the bridge, sir!" replied the man.

"Can you make out the steamer?"

"No, sir; only her topmasts and fore rigging."

"How does she lie from the Bronx?"

"Still on the starboard bow, sir."

"Port the helm, quartermaster," added the captain.

"Port, sir," replied McSpindle.

For about five minutes more, the Bronx went ahead at full speed, and Christy was confident that she was again making fifteen knots.

"On the bridge, sir!" called the man on the fore yard.

"Aloft!"

"I make her out now; she has the Confederate flag at the peak."

"All right!" exclaimed Christy to himself, though he spoke out loud.

The steamer had set her colors, and there was no longer any doubt in regard to her character. The flag also indicated that she was not a blockade runner in the ordinary sense of the word, but a Confederate man-of-war. Warnock reported that she had taken her armament on board from another vessel at some point south of England, and the colors also assured Christy that the steamer was one of the pair expected.

Still the Bronx went ahead at full speed, and presently a gun was heard from the direction in which she lay, though the captain was unable to decide what it meant. It might be a signal of distress, but the man on the yard had not reported the colors as union down; and it might be simply a defiance. It was probable that the Scotian and Arran had put in at St. George, and it was more than possible that they had shipped a reinforcement to her reported small crew.

"Aloft!" called the captain again.

"On the bridge, sir!" replied the lookout.

"Is the steamer under way?"

"I think not, sir; but I can't make out her wake, it is so low."

"Starboard a little, quartermaster."

"Starboard, sir."

Christy heard, or thought he heard, for he was not sure about it, the sound of a bell. A minute later the quartermaster in the pilot house struck seven bells, which was repeated on the top-gallant forecastle of the Bronx, and he was confident this was what he had heard on board of the stranger.

"Quartermaster, strike one bell," he added.

"One bell, sir;" and the gong resounded from the engine room, and the speed of the Bronx was immediately reduced.

A minute later Christy obtained a full view of the steamer. She was headed to the southwest, and her propeller was not in motion. As the lookout had reported, she was the counterpart of the Bronx, though she was a larger vessel. He gave some further orders to the quartermaster at the wheel, for he had decided to board the steamer on her port side. The boarders had been concealed in proper places under this arrangement, and the captain had directed the course of the Bronx so that a shot from her could hardly do any harm, if she took it into her head to fire one.

"Arran, ahoy!" shouted a hoarse voice through a speaking trumpet from the steamer.

"On board the Scotian!" replied Christy through his trumpet.

After the vessel had hailed the Arran, the captain had no difficulty in deciding that the other craft was the Scotian; and he was especially glad that the officer of that vessel had hailed him in this particular form. The single word spoken through that trumpet was the key to the entire enigma. Every possible doubt was removed by it. He was now assured, as he had not been before, that he had fallen in with one of the two vessels of which his father had given him information, and which his sealed orders required him to seek, even if he was detained a week or more. Christy spent no time in congratulating himself on the situation, but the tremendous idea passed through his whole being in an instant.

"We are disabled!" shouted the officer on board of the Scotian through his trumpet. "Please send your engineer on board."

"All right!" replied Christy. "Go ahead a little faster, Mr. Sampson. We are very near the steamer."

The young commander cast his eyes over the deck of his vessel to assure himself that everything was ready for the important moment, though the situation did not indicate that a very sharp battle was to be fought. Everything was in order, and the first lieutenant was planking the deck, looking as though he felt quite at home, for he was as cool as a Jersey cucumber. Farther aft was Lillyworth, as uneasy as a caged tiger, for no doubt he realized that the Scotian was to fall a victim to the circumstances that beset her, rather than as the result of a spirited chase or a sharply fought battle. He looked about him for a moment, and the instant he turned his head, Mulgrum came out from behind the mast, and passed quite near him.

The captain could not tell whether the second lieutenant had spoken to the deaf mute or not, but the latter hastened to the engine hatch, and descended to the engine room. The Bronx was within less than a cable's length of the Scotian, whose name could now be read on her stern, when Mulgrum, apparently ordered by Lillyworth to do so, had hastened to the engine hatch. Even on the bridge the noise of a scuffle could be heard in the engine room, and the captain was sure that Sampson had been obedient to his orders. Another minute or two would determine in what manner the Scotian was to be captured, and Christy hastened down the ladder to the deck.

As soon as his foot pressed the planks, he hastened to the engine hatch. Calling to the engineer, he learned that the deaf mute had been knocked senseless by Sampson, and lay on the sofa. He waited to hear no more, but went forward where there were bell pulls on the deck, and rang two bells to stop her. Then he gave some orders to the quartermaster, and rang three bells to back her. The Bronx came alongside of the Scotian as handsomely as though she had been a river steamer making one of her usual landings. The hands who had been stationed for the purpose immediately used their grappling irons, and the two vessels were fast to each other.

"Boarders! -- " the first lieutenant shouted at a sign from the captain; but before he could complete the order, Pawcett, for we may now call him by his right name, leaped on the bulwarks of the Bronx.

"This is a United States" -- he began to say, but he was allowed to proceed no farther, for the first lieutenant raised the revolver he carried in his left hand, doubtless for this very purpose, and fired.

Pawcett did not utter another word, but fell back upon the deck of the Bronx; where no one took any further notice of him.

"Boarders, away!" shouted the first lieutenant.

This time the sentence was finished, and the order was promptly executed. Hardly a half minute had been lost by the attempt of Pawcett to prepare the officers of the Scotian to do their duty; but he had said enough to enable the ship's company to understand what he would have said if he had finished his announcement. The officers and seamen were both surprised, and there was a panic among the latter, though the former rallied them in a moment. But they had lost all their chances, and after an insignificant struggle, the deck of the steamer was in possession of the boarders. The crew were driven forward by the victorious "Bronxies" as Giblock called them. "Do you surrender?" said Mr. Baskirk to the officer he took for the captain.

"I do not see that I have any other alternative," replied the commander of the Scotian, politely enough, but it was evident that he was sorely afflicted, and even ashamed of himself. "I understand now that I am the victim of a Yankee trick."

"Allow me to introduce you to Captain Passford, commander of the United States steamer Bronx," continued Mr. Baskirk, as Christy came on board of the prize.

The captain of the Scotian retreated a pace as Christy stepped up in front of him, and gracefully lifted his cap to the unfortunate commander.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but did I understand you to say that this young gentleman is the commander of the steamer alongside?" demanded the captain, looking at Christy from head to foot.

"He is the commander, sir; Captain Passford," added Baskirk.

"May I be allowed to ask whom I have the honor to address?" Christy began, lifting his cap again, as did the other also.

"Captain Dinsmore, at your service."

"I sincerely regret your personal misfortune while I rejoice at the result of this action, as a loyal citizen of the United States," replied Christy.

Then he invited the captain to his cabin.



Chapter XV

The Scotian Becomes The Ocklockonee


As he went to the deck of the Bronx, the young commander sent the first lieutenant on board of the prize to superintend the arrangements for disposing of the ship's company. Captain Dinsmore was requested to produce his papers, and Christy conducted him to his cabin. As his father had advised him always to be on such occasions, he was studiously polite, as in fact he was at all times. Whether the other captain was usually so or not, he was certainly courteous in every respect, though, with the heavy misfortune which had befallen him, it was vastly more difficult for him to control his feelings, and conduct himself in a gentlemanly manner. Captain Passford desired to understand in what capacity the Scotian was approaching the American coast before he made his final arrangements. After giving his guest, as he regarded him, or rather treated him, a chair in his cabin, Christy called Dave, who had followed him below.

"Will you excuse me a moment or two while I attend to a necessary duty?" said he, turning to Captain Dinsmore, as he seated himself at the table.

"Certainly, captain; I am not so much in a hurry as I have been at other times," replied the other with a rather sickly smile.

"Keep a sharp lookout for the Arran," Christy wrote on a piece of paper, and handed it to the steward. "Give that to Mr. Flint."

Captain Passford had observed when he visited the deck of the Scotian that she was well armed, and he had no doubt that her consort was similarly provided for the business of war. It was therefore of the highest importance that the Arran should not come unexpectedly upon the Bronx at a time when she was hardly in condition to meet an enemy.

"Now, Captain Dinsmore, may I trouble you for your papers?" he continued, turning to his guest, as he preferred to regard him.

"I admit your right to examine them under present circumstances," replied Captain Dinsmore, as he delivered the package to him.

"Perhaps we may simplify and abbreviate this examination to some extent, sir, if you are so disposed," added Christy, as he looked the other full in the face.

"I shall be happy to have you do so, Captain Passford," replied the visitor in the cabin, with something like eagerness in his manner. "You conduct yourself like a gentleman, sir, and I am not at all disposed to embarrass you unnecessarily."

"Thank you, sir; I appreciate your courtesy."

"I am afraid it is not so much courtesy as it is desperation, for if I should act in accordance with my feelings, I should blow my brains out without any delay," said Captain Dinsmore. "I should not say as much as this to any but a generous enemy; but I feel that I am ruined, and that there is nothing more in the future for me."

Christy really sympathized with him, and could not help thinking how he should feel if the situations were reversed. He realized that the commander of the Scotian had been very careless in the discharge of his duty in permitting any vessel to come alongside of her without considering that she might be an enemy. This inefficiency was doubtless the cause of his distress. Christy had kept uppermost in his mind the advice of his father at the last moment before he sailed, and he asked himself if, while the prisoner was thus exciting his sympathy and compassion, the latter was not expecting the Arran would appear and reverse the fortunes of war.

"I am sorry you take such a severe view of your situation," added the captain of the Bronx. "But my first duty is to ascertain the character of the vessel which you surrender."

"You shall have no doubt in regard to that, Captain Passford," answered the commander of the Scotian, proudly. "I am not a dickering merchant, trying to make money out of the situation of my country. The Scotian, as you call her, is the Confederate steamer Ocklockonee, and here is my commission as a lieutenant in the Confederate Navy," he added as he took the document from his pocket and tendered it to his captor.

Christy looked at the paper, and then examined the other papers in the packet. They left no doubt in his mind as to the character of the Ocklockonee, if he had had any before. He folded up the commission and politely returned it to the owner. The examination was completed so far as he was concerned; but Captain Dinsmore did not seem to be satisfied, though he made no complaint that anything was wrong in the proceedings. He was evidently a very proud and high-strung man, and appeared to be unable to reconcile himself to the situation.

"I am a ruined man!" he exclaimed several times; and when he looked at the commander of the Bronx, measuring him from head to foot, as he had already done several times, it seemed to increase his distress of mind, and make him more nervous than before.

"While I regret that a brave man like yourself, captain, should be at war with the government which I honor and love, I hope that personally your future will be as bright as I am sure your merit deserves," said Christy.

"If it had been a square and well-fought action, I should not feel as I do about it. You will pardon me, and understand that I mean no disrespect to you, captain, but I look upon myself as the victim of a Yankee trick," said Captain Dinsmore, bitterly. "But please to consider that I do not charge any blame or treachery upon you, sir."

"I think I can understand your feelings, sir; but I cannot see that in resorting to strategy to save my men, my conduct has been in any manner dishonorable," replied Christy, holding his head a little higher than usual. "I should hold that I had been guilty of misconduct if I had failed to take advantage of the circumstances under which I have captured the Ocklockonee."

"I quite agree with you, Captain Passford. I should have done the same thing myself if the opportunity had been presented to me," the guest hastened to say. "But that does not in the least degree relieve me from the consequences of my own negligence. When you are more at leisure, I hope you will permit me to make an explanation of the situation in which I was placed."

"I shall be happy to listen to anything you may desire to say to me when I have the leisure to hear you."

"Thank you, sir."

Christy hastened on deck to attend to the many duties required of him. The first sight that presented itself when he reached the head of the companion way was the form of the second lieutenant, which remained as it had fallen from the rail. He sent for Dr. Spokely, and directed him to ascertain whether or not Pawcett was dead. While the surgeon was examining him, Mr. Sampson came up from below with a bolt in his hand, and touched his cap to the commander.

"You are at work on the engine of the Ocklockonee, are you?" asked Christy, and this inquiry was one of the duties which had been on his mind before he left the cabin.

"Yes, sir; and I have already examined her engine; I suppose you mean the Scotian, for that is the name on her stern, they tell me," replied the chief engineer.

"Her new name is the Ocklockonee."

"I have examined the engine," replied Sampson.

"Is the damage very serious?" asked the captain anxiously.

"Far from it; she has broken a bolt which disables her, and she ought to have had one to replace it without more than five minutes' delay, but it appears that they have not one on board; at least none could be found when it was wanted, and they were at work forging one when the Bronx came alongside."

"All right; repair the damage as soon as possible. I heard a scuffle in the engine room just as we were running alongside the Ocklockonee," said the captain, looking inquiringly at the engineer.

"Yes, sir; there was a scuffle there. Pink Mulgrum was rushing down the ladder when I stopped him. He tried to push by me when I made signs to him to return to the deck. Then he gave a spring at my throat, and as I saw that he had a revolver in his hand, I did not hesitate to hit him on the head with a bar of iron I had in my hand. He dropped on the deck. I put his revolver in my pocket, and stretched him out on the sofa. He did not move, and I left him there."

"I will send the surgeon to him," added the captain, as he went on board of the prize, followed by Sampson.

The first lieutenant had been busy on the deck of the vessel, but he had been able to accomplish but little in the absence of definite instructions from the captain. All the seamen were held in the forward part of the deck, and there were twenty-four of them, including the petty officers, but not the stokers, as the firemen were called. The engineers and all connected with their department remained below so far as could be learned. Two officers remained seated on the quarter deck; but they did not appear to be so thoroughly cast down as the captain, doubtless because they were not called upon to bear the responsibility of the capture.

"Have you set a sharp lookout, Mr. Flint?" asked the captain.

"The lookout remains the same on board of the Bronx, though I have cautioned the quartermaster on the fore yard to keep his eyes wide open; and I have stationed four men on board of the Scotian."

"Very well; we are all right so far; but if the other vessel is as well armed as this one she is capable of giving us a great deal of trouble," replied the captain.

"I only hope we may find her," added Flint heartily.

"We shall look for her at any rate. But we must get things regulated on board of both vessels at once, for I judge that the Arran cannot be far off, for the officers hailed us as the Arran when we were approaching, which shows that they were confident in regard to her identity, or they would not have given themselves away so readily."

"We have made a lucky hit, and I hope we shall be able to reap the full benefit of it," added Flint.

"We must provide for the immediate future without any delay," continued Christy. "Our first duty will be to search for the Arran, and we can use the Ocklockonee, which the captain says is her present name, to assist in the chase, for we have force enough to man both vessels, though we are not oversupplied with officers."

"There are two more quartermasters who are nearly as good men as Baskirk," replied the first lieutenant.

"I ask no better officer than Baskirk has proved himself to be. I shall retain him on board of the Bronx, and for the present I shall ask you to take command of the Ocklockonee; and you may select your own officers. The probability is that, if we find the Arran, we shall have a fight with her."

"Then I shall make McSpindle my first lieutenant, and Luffard my second," added Flint, evidently pleased with the idea of having even a temporary command.

"I shall appoint Baskirk in your place on board of the Bronx; but I need one more."

"I recommend Amblen, though he is not as well qualified as the others I have named."

"Send for these men at once," added the captain.

One of them was on the topsail yard of the Bronx, but all of them soon appeared in the waist of the prize. They were informed of the honor which had been conferred upon them, and were immediately assigned to duty. The crew of the Ocklockonee were divided between the two steamers, and were put under guard below.



Chapter XVI

Captain Passford's Final Orders


A tolerable state of order and regularity had been brought out of the confusion that prevailed on board of the Ocklockonee, and the newly appointed officers went to the stations where they belonged. Sampson reported the engine of the steamer as in good order, and ready for service.

"Who is the chief engineer of the Ocklockonee, Mr. Sampson?" asked Captain Passford, after he had listened to the report.

"His name is Bockburn; he is a Scotchman, and appears to be a very good fellow," replied the engineer of the Bronx.

"Does he talk at all about what has just happened on board of his steamer?" asked the captain, deeply interested, for he had some difficulty in arranging the engineer's department on board of the prize, as he considered the new order of things.

"Yes, sir; he talks at the rate of twenty knots an hour, and if his steamer can get ahead as well as his tongue, she is a fast one," replied Sampson, laughing.

"Well, what does he say? I want to know how he stands affected by the present condition of affairs," continued the captain rather impatiently, for he was too busy to enjoy the humor of the engineer.

"He is a thrifty Scotchman; and I don't believe he has any interest in anything under the sun except his wages; and he is a little sour on that account to find that his cruise is finished, as he puts it."

"Send for him and his assistants, Mr. Sampson."

The engineer went to the engine hatch, and called the men below.

"Now send for Mr. Gawl," added the captain. "He is your first assistant; is he a competent man to run an engine?"

"As competent as I am myself; and the engine of this steamer is exactly like that of the Bronx, so that he can have no trouble with it, if you think of retaining him on board of the Ocklockonee," replied Sampson.

"I propose to make him chief engineer of her."

"You could not find a better man," said Sampson, as he went to summon Gawl.

The three engineers of the prize came on deck, and the captain took the chief aside.

"Mr. Bockburn, I believe, the chief engineer of the Ocklockonee?" said Christy.

"Of the Scotian, sir; for I know nothing of the jaw-cracking names that the officers in the cabin have given her," replied the engineer, shrugging his shoulders, and presenting a dissatisfied air.

"Are you an engineer in the Confederate Navy, sir?" asked Christy, bringing the business to a head at once.

"No, sir, I am not," answered the engineer very decidedly. "You see, captain, that the Scotian was sold to come across the water, and I was out of a job, with a family to support. They did not say anything about the service in which the Scotian was to be engaged, but I understood it. When they spoke to me about it, I was glad to keep my place as long as she did not make war on the United Kingdom. In truth, I may say that I did not care a fig about the quarrel in the States, and was as ready to run an engine on one side as the other as long as I got my wages, and was able to support my family handsomely, as, thank God, I have always done. I am not a student of politics, and I only read enough in the newspapers to know what is going on in the world. I always find that I get ahead better when I mind my own business, and it can't be said that Andy Bockburn ever -- "

"Precisely so, Mr. Bockburn; but I will hear the rest of your story at another time," interposed the captain when he found that the man was faithful to the description Sampson had given of his talking powers.

"You understand perfectly what has transpired on board of the Scotian as you choose still to call her; in a word, that she is a prize to the United States steamer Bronx?"

"I understand it all as clearly as though I read it in a book; and it was all on account of the want of a bolt that I was sure I put on board of the vessel before she sailed; and I am just as sure of it now as I ever was. But then, you see, captain, a man can't always be sure of the men under him, though he may be sure of himself. I have no doubt -- "

"Short yarns, if you please, Mr. Bockburn. You understand the situation, and I will add that I intend to use this vessel as well as the Bronx in the service of my government. Are you willing to do duty on board of her in any capacity in which I may place you in the engineer department, provided you receive the same wages as before?"

"I am, sir; and I was paid a month in advance, so that I shall not lose anything," chuckled the careful Scotchman.

"If you are regularly appointed, though I can only give you a temporary position, in addition to your wages, you will be entitled to your share in any prize we may hereafter capture."

"Then I will take any position you will please to give me," answered the engineer, apparently delighted with the prospect thus held out to him.

"I shall appoint you first assistant engineer of the Bronx," continued the captain, not a little to the astonishment of Flint, who wondered that he was not assigned to the Ocklockonee.

"I am quite satisfied, captain," replied Bockburn, bowing and smiling, for wages were more than rank to him. "I will bring up my kit at once, sir. You see, captain, when a man has a family he -- "

"Precisely as you say, Mr. Bockburn," interrupted the captain. "You will report to Mr. Sampson in the engine room of the Bronx for further orders."

"Thank you, sir; I supposed I was out of a job from this out, and I was feeling -- "

"Feel your way to the engine room of the Bronx. Mr. Gawl," the captain proceeded.

"On duty, sir," replied the first assistant engineer of the Bronx, touching his cap as respectfully as though the commander had been forty years old.

"You are appointed temporarily as chief engineer of the Ocklockonee, and you will take your place in the engine room as soon as possible," said the captain, as brusquely as though favors cost nothing.

Mr. Gawl was taken to the engine room and introduced to the first and second assistants, Rowe and Leeds, and was kindly received by them, for, like their late chief, the question of wages was the only one that affected them. They promised to be faithful to the government they were to serve, and to discharge their duties faithfully under the direction of the new chief. The two officers on the quarter deck had watched all these proceedings with interest. They were the only persons remaining on board who had not been disposed of in some manner.

Christy approached them while Captain Flint, as he was now to be called by courtesy, was making his final arrangements with the crew that had been assigned to the prize. Both of the officers bowed civilly to the commander as he presented himself on the quarter deck. They were older men than Captain Dinsmore, though neither was over forty-five. Christy suspected that they were not Confederate officers as soon as he had a chance to look them over.

"May I ask, gentlemen, if you are officers of the Confederate Navy?" asked Christy, as he looked from one to the other of the men.

"We are not, sir," replied the senior of them.

"Of course you are aware that you are serving in a Confederate man-of-war?" added Christy.

"I should say that was hardly true up to date. The captain holds a commission in the Confederate Navy, but the ship has never been into a Confederate port, Captain Passford," replied the senior, who had learned the commander's name.

"As you call me by name, perhaps you will enable me to do as much with you," added Christy.

"My name is Farley Lippard; I shipped as first officer of the Scotian," replied the senior.

"And mine is Edward Sangston; and I shipped as second officer of the steamer."

"We shipped only for the voyage, and were told that we could not retain our situations after the ship's company was fully organized," added Mr. Lippard.

"Then I hope you were paid in advance, as the engineers were," said Christy with a smile.

"We were, sir, thank you," added the first officer. "Though we were told that we could not obtain any rank in the navy because there were more officers than ships, the agent said we should find plenty of employment on board of blockade runners coming out with cotton."

"I suppose you are Englishmen?" said the captain.

"Scotchmen, sir, but British subjects."

"I cannot put you on shore and I may not have an opportunity to ship you to your homes by another vessel. I shall leave you on board of the Ocklockonee, and the acting commander will assign to you such quarters in the cabin as may be at his command," continued Christy. "It is only necessary that I should say I expect you to remain neutral, whatever occurs on board of the steamer."

"That is understood," replied Mr. Lippard.

"You will be regarded as passengers; but of course if you commit any act hostile to the government of the United States, you will be considered as enemies, and treated as prisoners of war," Christy proceeded. "I hope the situation is clearly understood."

"Certainly, sir; we have no interest in the quarrel in the States, and we are not in the pay of the Confederacy, as they call it," replied Mr. Lippard.

"Then there will be no trouble. Captain Flint," called the commander.

Flint, who had been very busy appointing petty officers and organizing the new crew, came at the call and was introduced to the late officers of the prize. The understanding which had just been reached in regard to them was repeated for the benefit of the new captain. He was quite as pliable as his superior had always been, and there was no indication that any friction would result from their presence on board of the prize, now temporarily put into the service of the navy.

"Have you made all your arrangements, Captain Flint?" asked Christy when he was all ready to return to the Bronx.

"I have very nearly completed them, Captain Passford; and I can easily finish them after we get under way," replied Flint. "All I need before we part is my orders."

"From all that I can learn, the Arran must be to the eastward of the Ocklockonee," said Christy, who had given this subject all the thought his time would permit. "The officers of the prize hailed the Bronx coming from that direction, and that indicates that she was expected from that quarter. Our coming from that way seems to have made Captain Dinsmore confident that the Bronx was the Arran. I shall lay the course of my ship to the northeast, while you will proceed to the southwest. After you have gone fifty miles in that direction, you will make a course due east, as I shall also after I have made the same distance. Having run due east twenty miles, you will run to the northeast, as I shall to the southwest. If you discover the Arran fire your midship gun, and I will do the same."

Christy shook hands with Flint, and went on board of the Bronx. The order was given on board of both vessels to cast off the grapnels; the gong bell sounded in each engine room, and both vessels went ahead, the Bronx coming about to her new course.



Chapter XVII

A Couple Of Astonished Conspirators


The fog had been very variable in its density, and had been lifting and settling at times during the day of the capture. By the time the two vessels were ready to get under way, it had become more solid than before. The night had come, and the darkness with it, at about the same time. The lookouts were still in their places; but so far as seeing anything was concerned they might as well have been in the hold. If the Arran was still in the vicinity, as no doubt she was, the Bronx might run into her. Wherever she was, it was well assured that her officers knew nothing of the capture of the Ocklockonee, for not a great gun had been discharged, and the combat had been so quickly decided that there had been very little noise of any kind.

Everything worked without friction on board of the Bronx; and Captain Passford felt even more elastic than usual. Doubtless the capture he had just made afforded him a good deal of inspiration; but the fact that the mystery of the deaf mute and the second lieutenant had been solved, and the unfathomable catastrophe which their presence on board threatened had been escaped was a great source of relief.

The two conspirators were disabled and confined to the sick bay, and they were not likely to make any trouble at present. If they had had any definite plan on which they intended to act, they had certainly lost their opportunities, for the visit of Hungerford to the engine room of the Bronx, no doubt for the purpose of disabling the machinery, and the effort of Pawcett to warn the officers of the prize, had been simply acts of desperation, adopted after they had evidently failed in every other direction.

Pawcett was not really a loyal officer, and his expression and manners had attracted the attention of both the captain and the first lieutenant. The deaf mute had been brought on board in order to obtain information, and he had been very diligent in carrying out his part of the programme. As Christy thought the matter over, seated at his supper in his cabin, he thought he owed more to the advice of his father at their parting than to anything else. He had kept his own counsel in spite of the difficulties, and had done more to blind the actors in the conspiracy than to enlighten them. He had hoped before he parted with the prize for the present to obtain some information in regard to the Arran; but he had too much self-respect to ask the officers of the Ocklockonee in regard to such matters.

The seamen who had been spotted as adherents of the late second lieutenant had done nothing, for there had been nothing that they could do under the circumstances. Spoors and two others of them had been drafted into the other vessel, while the other three remained on board of the Bronx. They were not regarded as very dangerous enemies, and they were not in condition to undertake anything in the absence of their leaders.

Christy had inquired in regard to the condition of Pawcett and Hungerford before he went to his cabin, and Dr. Spokeley informed him that neither of them would be in condition to do duty on either side for a considerable period. They were in no danger under careful treatment, but both of them were too seriously injured to trouble their heads with any exciting subjects.

"Good evening, Captain Dinsmore," Christy said, when he went into his cabin, after he had attended to all the duties that required present attention. "I hope you are feeling better this evening."

"Hardly better, Captain Passford, though I am trying to reconcile myself to my situation," replied the late captain of the Ocklockonee.

"Supper is all ready, sir," interposed Dave, as he passed by the captain, after he had brought in the dishes from the galley.

"Take a seat at the table, Captain Dinsmore," continued Christy, placing a chair for him, and looking over the table to see what cheer he had to offer to his guest.

It looked as though the cook, aware that the commander had a guest, or thinking that he deserved a better supper than usual after the capture of a prize, had done his best in honor of the occasion. The broiled chickens looked especially inviting, and other dishes were quite tempting to a man who was two hours late at the meal.

"Thank you, captain," replied the guest, as he took the seat assigned to him. "I can't say that I have a very fierce appetite after the misfortune that has befallen me; but I am none the less indebted to you for your courtesy and kindness."

"I acknowledge that I am in condition to be very happy this evening, Captain Dinsmore, and I can hardly expect to be an agreeable companion to one with a burden on his mind; but I can assure you of my personal sympathy."

"You are very kind, captain. I should like to ask if many of the officers of the old navy are young gentlemen like yourself?" inquired the guest, looking at his host very curiously.

"There are a great many young officers in the navy at the present time, for the exigency has pushed forward the older ones, and there are not enough of them to take all the positions. But we shall all of us grow older," replied Christy good-naturedly, as he helped the officer to a piece of the chicken, which had just come from the galley fire.

"Perhaps you are older than you appear to be," suggested the guest. "I should judge that you were not over twenty, or at least not much more."

"I am eighteen, sir, though, unlike a lady, I try to make myself as old as I can."

"Eighteen!" exclaimed Captain Dinsmore.

But Christy told something of his experience on board of the Bellevite which had prepared him for his duties, and his case was rather exceptional.

"You have physique enough for a man of twenty-five," added the guest. "And you have been more fortunate than I have."

"And I have been as unfortunate as you are, for I have seen the inside of a Confederate prison, though I concluded not to remain there for any length of time," added Christy, laughing.

"You are a fortunate young man, and I do not belong to that class," said Captain Dinsmore, shaking his head. "I have lost my steamer, and I suppose that will finish my career."

"Perhaps not;" but Christy was satisfied that he had lost his vessel by a want of care, and he could not waste any compliments upon him, though he had profited by the other's carelessness.

"I was confident when the Bronx approached the Ocklockonee that she was another vessel," continued the guest.

"What vessel did you take her to be?"

"You will excuse me if I decline to go into particulars. I can only say that I was sure your steamer was another, and I had no suspicion that I was wrong till that man mounted the rail of the Bronx, and began to tell us to the contrary," replied Captain Dinsmore. "A bolt in the engine was broken, and the engineer could not find another on board. We expected to obtain one when the Bronx approached us. I was deceived; and that is the reason why I am here instead of in the cabin of my own ship."

The guest seemed to feel a little better after he had made this explanation, though it contained nothing new to the commander of the Bronx. Possibly the excellent supper, of which he had partaken heartily in spite of his want of appetite, had influenced his mind through the body. He had certainly become more cheerful, though his burden was no lighter than when he came on board of the Bronx. Christy was also light-hearted, not alone because he had been so successful, but because he felt that he was no longer compelled to watch the conspirators.

"I am sorry to be obliged to impose any restrictions upon you, Captain Dinsmore," said Christy, as he rose from the supper table. "The circumstances compel me to request you to remain in my cabin."

"Of course I am subject to your will and pleasure, Captain Passford," replied the guest.

"You are a gentleman, sir, and if you will simply give me your word to remain here, there will be no occasion for any unpleasantness. It is possible that we may go into action at any time; and in that case you can remain where you please below."

"I give you my word that I will remain below until I notify you of my intention to do otherwise," replied the prisoner, though Christy preferred to regard him as his guest.

"I am entirely satisfied. I shall be obliged to berth you in the ward room, and you are at liberty to pass your time as you please in these two apartments. I shall be happy to introduce you to the first lieutenant," added the captain, as he led the way to the ward room.

Mr. Baskirk received the prisoner very politely, a berth was assigned to him, and Christy went on deck. It was as dark as Egypt there, but Mr. Amblen, the new acting second lieutenant, on the bridge, said the wind was hauling to the westward, and he thought there would be a change of weather before morning. Mr. Baskirk had made all his appointments of petty officers rendered necessary by sending a portion of the seamen to the Ocklockonee. Everything was in good order on deck, and Christy next went down to the sick bay, where Hungerford and Pawcett were the only occupants. He found Dr. Spokeley there, and inquired in regard to the condition of the wounded men. The surgeon described the wounds of his patients, and pointed them out to the captain.

"Does Mr. Hungerford talk any now?" asked Christy.

"Who is Mr. Hungerford?" asked the doctor.

"He is the deaf mute. He was the first officer of the Confederate steamer Yazoo when we captured her in the Bellevite last year," replied the captain, upon whom the eyes of the wounded man were fixed all the time.

"He has not spoken yet in my hearing, though I have thought that he could hear."

"His duty on board of the Bronx was to obtain information, and he procured a good deal of it, though not all of it was as reliable as it might have been."

"Indeed! Then he was a traitor," added the surgeon.

"He is a gentleman in spite of the role he has been playing, and I am sorry he has been injured, though Mr. Sampson obeyed my order when he struck him down in the engine room."

"Struck me from behind like an assassin," added Hungerford feebly.

"Did you expect to arrange a duel with him at such a time, Mr. Hungerford?" asked Christy. "You went into the engine room to disable the machine when you found you could do nothing else. If you had returned to the deck when the engineer told you to do so, he would not have disabled you. You crowded past him, and then he did his duty."

"I have been in the habit of serving with men who were square and above board," muttered Hungerford.

"Was that where you learned to listen at my cabin door, and to conceal yourself under the berth in my state room?" asked Christy, rather sharply for him. "Is that the reason why Mr. Pawcett wished to have you do the copying of my papers?"

"I can only say that I tried to do my duty to my country and I have failed," added Hungerford, as he turned over in his berth, and showed his back to the captain.

"May I ask, Captain Passford, who told you my name?" asked the late second lieutenant, who seemed to be confounded by what he had heard.

"You called Mr. Hungerford by his real name, and he called you by yours, in the interview you had with him the first night out from New York. I have known you from the first," replied Christy.

Pawcett was as disgusted as the other had been, and he turned his face to the ceiling of his berth. Christy was satisfied that these men would give him no more trouble at present.



Chapter XVIII

A Triangular Action With Great Guns


When Mr. Baskirk went on deck to take his watch at midnight, the fog had disappeared, and a fresh breeze was blowing from the westward. This change was reported to the captain, and he went on deck. No sail had been seen since the fog cleared off, and Christy returned to his state room, where he was soon asleep again. He was called, as he had directed, at four in the morning, but no change in the weather was reported, and no sail had been seen.

At four bells in the morning watch two sails were reported to him, one dead ahead, and the other on the port beam. He hastened to the deck, and found Mr. Amblen using his spyglass, and trying to make out the distant sails. The one at the northeast of the Bronx was making a long streak of black smoke on the sky, and there was no such appearance over the other. Both were steamers.

"The one ahead of us is the Ocklockonee," said Captain Passford, after he had used the spyglass. "I have no doubt the other is the Arran. Probably she has a new name by this time, but I have not heard it yet. Pass the word for Mr. Ambleton."

This was the gunner, and he was directed to fire a single shot, blank, from the midship gun. This was immediately done, and was the signal agreed upon with Flint if either discovered the Arran. It was promptly answered by a similar discharge on board of the Ocklockonee, indicating that she had seen the steamer in question.

"Now, make her course southeast, Mr. Amblen," said Christy, after the two signals had been made.

"Southeast, sir," responded the second lieutenant, giving the course to the quartermaster at the wheel.

The commander of the Ocklockonee changed his course as soon as the Bronx had done so. Both steamers were headed directly towards the sail in the southeast, and both were running for the apex of the triangle where the third steamer was located.

The captain visited every part of the vessel, and gave orders to have breakfast served at once, for he expected there would be lively times before many hours. Everything was overhauled, and put in order. At eight bells, when Mr. Baskirk took the deck, the captain did not care how soon the battle began. Everything was ready and waiting, and he went below for his breakfast.

From delicacy or some other motive Captain Dinsmore spent most of his time in the ward room; but he was called to breakfast with the commander. Both captains were as polite to each other as they had been the evening before, but it was evident to Christy that his guest was quite uneasy, as though he had discovered what had transpired on deck; and the movements there were quite enough to inform him without a word from any one. He had not asked a question of any person on board; and it was impossible for him to know that a sail supposed to be the Arran was in sight.

"I have heard some firing this morning, Captain Passford," said he as he seated himself at the table, and watched the expression of his host's countenance.

"Merely a couple of signals; the distant shot came from the Ocklockonee," replied Christy lightly.

"I thought it possible that you had fallen in with another steamer," added the guest.

"I have considered it more than possible, and within the limits of probability, that we should fall in with another steamer ever since we ran so opportunely upon the Scotian, as she was formerly called."

"Opportunely for you, but very inopportunely for me," added Captain Dinsmore with a faint smile.

"I am happy to inform you that we have passed beyond both possibility and probability, and come into the region of fact," continued Christy.

"Then you have made out a sail?" asked the guest anxiously.

"We have; a steamer on our port beam; and I am reasonably confident it is the vessel you supposed was coming alongside the Ocklockonee last evening."

"Indeed?" added the guest, as though he did not know just what to say, and did not mean to commit himself.

"In other words, I am almost sure this steamer is the Arran, though doubtless you have changed her name," said Christy, as he helped the other from the choicest dish on the table.

"The Arran?" repeated Captain Dinsmore, manifesting but not expressing his surprise that his companion in a different service from his own knew this name.

"Perhaps you can give me her later name, as I have no doubt she is or will be called after some southern river, which is quite proper, and entirely patriotic. Perhaps she is called the Perdido, which is not very far from Perdition, where I shall do my best to send her unless she surrenders within a reasonable time, or runs away from me," said Captain Passford lightly. "Is your coffee quite right, Captain Dinsmore?"

"It is very good indeed, captain, thank you."

"Perhaps it is too strong for you, like the United States Navy, and you would prefer it weaker," suggested Christy.

"It is quite right as it is, and, like the United States Navy of which you speak, it will be used up in a short time," replied the guest as pleasantly as the captain of the Bronx.

"That is yet to be settled," laughed Christy.

"Well, captain, the coffee is settled, and that is more than can be said of our navy, which will be as clear as this in due time."

"I thought it best to inform you that we might be in action in the course of a couple of hours, and you were to notify me in case you wished to change your status on board," added Christy more seriously.

"I am much obliged to you, Captain Passford, for your courtesy and kindness, but I see no reason to change my position. I will still confine myself to the cabin and ward room. I cannot wish you success in the action in which you are about to engage, for it would break my heart to have the Arran, as you call her, captured," added the guest.

"I think you may fairly count upon such a result," replied Christy confidently.

"You must excuse me, Captain Passford, but I think you are reckoning without your host, and therein your youth makes its only manifestation," said the guest, shaking his head. "I can only say that, when you are a prisoner on board of the Escambia, I shall do my best to have you as handsomely treated as I have been in your cabin."

"Thank you, captain; I assure you I shall appreciate any courtesy and kindness extended to me. The Escambia is her name then. That is not so near Perdition as the word I suggested, and I am glad it is not so long as the name you gave the Scotian. I shall expect to come across an Apalachicola in due time. They are all very good names, but we shall be compelled to change them when they fall into our hands," said Christy.

"I have plenty of spare time on my hands just now, and perhaps I had better think up a new name for the Bronx; and Apalachicola would be as good as any other. I wonder you did not call her the Nutcracker, for her present name rather suggests that idea."

"I have heard a similar remark before; but she is not big enough for such a long name as the one you suggest, and you would have to begin to pronounce it before breakfast in order to get it out before the dog watches," said Christy, as he rose from the table and went on deck.

The first thing he noticed when he came on the bridge was that the Ocklockonee was headed to intercept the Bronx. Captain Flint signalled that he wished to speak to him, and he changed his course to comply with the request. At the end of another hour they came together, the Arran being still at least four miles distant, going very slowly if she was moving at all.

Christy had written out his orders for Captain Flint in full. So far as he had been able to judge of the speed of the other steamer, it appeared to be about the same as that of the Bronx. He had directed the Ocklockonee to get to the southward of the Arran. A boat was sent to her with the orders, and Flint immediately proceeded to obey them. The Bronx slowed down her engines to enable the other to gain her position; but the Arran did not seem to be willing to permit her to do this, and gave chase to her at once.

The commander of the Bronx met this change by one on his own part, and went ahead with all the speed he could get out of her. The Confederate steamer was farther to the eastward than either of the other two, and after the changes of position which Christy had brought about in speaking the Ocklockonee, the Arran was nearly southeast of both of the others. Flint went directly to the south, and Christy ran for the enemy.

All hands had been beaten to quarters on board of the Bronx, and the captain was on the bridge, watching with the most intense interest the progress of the other two vessels. It was soon apparent to him that the Ocklockonee could not get into the position to which she had been ordered under present circumstances, for the enemy was giving his whole attention to her.

"There goes a gun from the enemy!" exclaimed Mr. Amblen, as a puff of smoke rose from the forward deck of the Arran.

"The shot struck in the water," added Christy a moment later; "but the two vessels are within range. There is the first shot from the Ocklockonee! Captain Flint is not asleep."

The firing was done on both vessels with the heavy midship guns, and doubtless the calibre of the pieces was the same; but Flint was the more fortunate of the two, for his shot struck the smokestack of the enemy, or partly upset it. Christy thought it was time for him to take a hand in the game, and he ordered the midship gun to be fired, charged as it was with a solid shot. The gunner aimed the piece himself, and the shot was seen to tear up the water alongside of the enemy. He discharged the piece four times more with no better result. Evidently he had not got the hang of the gun, though he was improving at every trial.

Three steamers were rushing towards each other with all the fury steam could give them, for the overthrow of the funnel of the enemy did not disable her, though it probably diminished the draught of her furnaces. Through the glass it could be seen that they were making an effort to restore the fallen smokestack to its position. All three of the steamers were delivering the fire of their midship guns very regularly, though with little effect, the distance was so great. The gunner of the Bronx was evidently greatly nettled at the number of solid shots he had wasted, though the gun of the Ocklockonee had done little better so far as could be seen. The three vessels were not much more than half a mile from each other, and the enemy had begun to use his broadside guns.

"Good!" shouted Mr. Amblen suddenly after the gunner had just let off the great gun. "That shot overturned the midship piece of the Arran. Ambleton has fully redeemed himself." The announcement of the effect of this last shot sent up a volley of cheers from the crew.

The Bronx and her consort had set the American flag at the beginning of the action, and the Confederate had promptly displayed her ensign, as though she scorned to go into action without having it fully understood what she was. She did not claim to be a blockade runner, and do her best to escape, but "faced the music," even when she realized that she had two enemies instead of one.

Christy had evidently inherited some of the naval blood on his mother's side, and he was not satisfied with the slow progress of the action, for the shots from the broadside guns of the enemy were beginning to tell upon the Bronx, though she had received no serious injury. He caused the signal to prepare to board to be set as agreed upon with Captain Flint. The orders already given were to be carried out, and both vessels bore down on the Arran with all speed.



Chapter XIX

On The Deck Of The Arran


Captain Passford had carried out the programme agreed upon with Captain Flint, and the latter had been working to the southward since the Bronx came into the action, and as soon as the order to get ready to board was given, the Ocklockonee went ahead at full speed, headed in that direction. She had reached a position dead ahead of the Arran, so that she no longer suffered from the shots of the latter's broadside guns, and the Bronx was getting the entire benefit of them.

Both vessels had kept up a full head of steam, and the coal passers were kept very busy at just this time. The Arran's midship gun had been disabled so that she could not make any very telling shots, but her crew had succeeded in righting her funnel, which had not gone entirely over, but had been held by the stays. Yet it could be seen that there was a big opening near the deck, for the smoke did not all pass through the smokestack.

The broadside guns of the Arran were well served, and they were doing considerable mischief on board of the Bronx. Christy was obliged to hold back until her consort was in position to board the Arran on the port hand, and he manoeuvred the steamer so as to receive as little damage as possible from her guns. He was to board on the starboard hand of the enemy, and he was working nearer to her all the time. Mr. Ambleton the gunner had greatly improved his practice, and the commander was obliged to check his enthusiasm, or there would have been nothing left of the Arran in half an hour more. Christy considered the final result as fully assured, for he did not believe the present enemy was any more heavily manned than her consort had been, and he could throw double her force upon her deck as soon as the two steamers were in position to do so.

"Are you doing all you can in the engine room, Mr. Sampson?" asked Christy, pausing at the engine hatch.

"Everything, Captain Passford, and I think we must be making sixteen knots," replied the chief engineer.

"Is Mr. Bockburn on duty?"

"He is, sir; and if he were a Connecticut Yankee he could not do any better, or appear to be any more interested."

"He seems to be entirely impartial; all he wants is his pay, and he is as willing to be on one side as the other if he only gets it," said Christy. "Has any damage been done to the engine?"

"None at all, sir; a shot from one of those broadside guns went through the side, and passed just over the top of one of the boilers," replied the engineer. "Bockburn plugged the shot hole very skilfully, and said it would not be possible for a shot to come in low enough to hit the boilers. He knows all about the other two vessels, and has served as an engineer on board of the Arran on the other side of the Atlantic."

Just at that moment a shot from the Arran struck the bridge and a splinter from the structure knocked two men over. One of them picked himself up, but said he was not much hurt, and refused to be sent below. The other man was Veering; he seemed to be unable to get up, and was carried down by order of the boatswain. This man was one of the adherents of Hungerford and Pawcett, though so far he had been of no service to them.

Christy hastened forward to ascertain the extent of the damage done to the bridge. It was completely wrecked, and was no longer in condition to be occupied by an officer. But the pilot house was still in serviceable repair, and the quartermaster had not been disturbed. By this time, the Ocklockonee had obtained a position on the port bow of the Arran, and the commander directed the quartermaster at the wheel to run directly for the other side of the enemy.

The time for decisive and final action had come. Mr. Baskirk placed the boarders in position to be thrown on board of the Arran. He was to command the first division himself, and Mr. Amblen the second. The Ocklockonee was rushing at all the speed she could command to the work before her.

The captain of the Arran.

For some reason not apparent the Arran had stopped her screw, though she had kept in motion till now, doing her best to secure the most favorable position for action. Possibly her commander believed a collision between the vessels at a high rate of speed would be more fatal to him than anything that could result from being boarded. It was soon discovered that she was backing, and it was evident then that her captain had some manoeuvre of his own in mind, though it was possible that he was only doing something to counteract the effect of a collision. Doubtless he thought the two vessels approaching him at such a rapid rate intended to crush the Arran between them, and that they desired only to sink him.

He was not allowed many minutes more to carry out his policy, whatever it was, for the Ocklockonee came up alongside of the Arran, the grapnels were thrown out, and the whole boarding force of the steamer was hurled upon her decks. But the commander was a plucky man, however he regarded the chances for or against him, and his crew proceeded vigorously to repel boarders. Christy had timed the movements of the Bronx very carefully, and the Ocklockonee had hardly fastened to the Arran on one side before he had his steamer grappled on the other.

"Boarders, away!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, and flourishing his sword over his head, not however with the intention of going into the fight himself, but as a demonstration to inspire the men.

Baskirk and Amblen rushed forward with cutlasses in their hands, leaping upon the deck of the enemy. The crew was found to equal in numbers about the force that the Ocklockonee had brought to bear upon them. The boarders from the Bronx attacked them in the rear while they were fully occupied with the boarders in front of them. The officers of the enemy behaved with distinguished gallantry, and urged their men forward with the most desperate enthusiasm. They struck hard blows, and several of the boarders belonging to the consort had fallen, to say nothing of wounds that did not entirely disable others. Some of the men belonging to the Arran, doubtless shipped on the other side of the ocean or at the Bermudas, were disposed to shirk their duty, though their officers held them well up to the work.

One of the brave officers who had done the boarders a good deal of mischief fell at a pistol shot from Mr. Amblen; this loss of his leadership caused a sensible giving way on the part of his division, and his men began to fall back. The other officers, including the captain, who fought with a heavy cutlass, held out for a short time longer; but Christy saw that it was slaughter.

The captain of the Arran was the next to go down, though he was not killed. This event practically ended the contest for the deck of the steamer. The boarders crowded upon the crew and drove them to the bow of the vessel, where they yielded the deck, and submitted to the excess of numbers.

"Don't butcher my men!" cried the captain of the Arran, raising himself partially from his place where he had fallen. "I surrender, for we are outnumbered two to one."

But the fighting had ceased forward. Mr. Baskirk was as earnest to save any further slaughter as he had been to win the fight. Christy came on board of the prize, not greatly elated at the victory, for it had been a very unequal affair as to numbers. The Arran was captured; that was all that could be said of it. She had been bravely defended; and the "honors were even," though the fortunes of the day were against the Arran and her ship's company.

"Allow me to introduce myself as the commander of the United States steamer Bronx," said Christy, approaching the fallen captain of the Arran. "I sincerely hope that you are not seriously injured, sir."

"Who under the canopy are you?" demanded the commander of the prize, as he looked at the young officer with something like contempt in his expression.

"I have just informed you who under the canopy I am," replied Christy, not pleased with the manner of the other. "To be a little more definite, I am Captain Christopher Passford, commander of the United States steamer Bronx, of which the Arran appears to be a prize."

"The captain!" exclaimed the fallen man. "You are nothing but a boy!"

"But I am old enough to try to be a gentleman. You are evidently old enough to be my father, though I have no comments to make," added Christy.

"I beg your pardon, Captain Passford," said the captain of the Arran, attempting to rise from the deck, in which he was assisted by Christy and by Mr. Baskirk, who had just come aft. "I beg your pardon, Captain Passford, for I did not understand what you said at first, and I did not suspect that you were the captain."

"I hope you are not seriously injured, sir," added Christy.

"I don't know how seriously, but I have a cut on the hip, for which I exchanged one on the head, parrying the stroke so that it took me below the belt."

"Have you a surgeon on board, Captain  --  --  I have not the pleasure of knowing your name, sir."

"Captain Richfield, lieutenant in the Confederate Navy. We have a surgeon on board, and he is below attending to the wounded," replied the captain.

"Allow me to assist you to your cabin, Captain Richfield," continued Christy, as he and Baskirk each took one of the wounded officer's arms.

"Thank you, sir. I see that you have been doubly fortunate, Captain Passford, and you have both the Escambia and the Ocklockonee. I did the best I could to save my ship, but the day has gone against me."

"And no one could have done any more than you have done. Your ship has been ably and bravely defended; but it was my good fortune to be able to outnumber you both in ships and in men."

Captain Richfield was taken to his state room, and assisted into his berth. A steward was sent for the surgeon, and Christy and his first lieutenant retired from the cabin. The captured seamen of the Arran were all sent below, and everything was done that the occasion required.

Christy asked Captain Flint to meet him in the cabin of the Bronx for a consultation over the situation, for the sealed orders of the commander had been carried out to the letter so far as the two expected steamers were concerned, and it only remained to report to the flag officer of the Eastern Gulf squadron. But with two prizes, and a considerable number of prisoners, the situation was not without its difficulties.

"I hope you are quite comfortable, Captain Dinsmore," said Christy as he entered his cabin, and found his guest reading at the table.

"Quite so, Captain Passford. I have heard a great deal of firing in the last hour, and I am rather surprised to find that you are not a prisoner on board of the Escambia, or perhaps you have come to your cabin for your clothes," replied the guest cheerfully.

"I have not come on any such mission; and I have the pleasure of informing you that the Confederate steamer Escambia is a prize to the Bronx," replied Christy quite as cheerfully. "I am sorry to add that Captain Richfield was wounded in the hip, and that Mr. Berwick, the first lieutenant, was killed."

The Confederate officer leaped out of his chair astonished at the news. He declared that he had confidently expected to be released by the capture of the Bronx. Christy gave a brief review of the action; and Captain Dinsmore was not surprised at the result when informed that the Ocklockonee had taken part in the capture. The commander then requested him to retire to the ward room, and Flint came in. They seated themselves at the table, and proceeded to figure up their resources and consider what was to be done. Mr. Baskirk was then sent for to assist in the conference.



Chapter XX

The New Commander Of The Bronx


"Captain Flint, the first question to be settled is in regard to the engineer force," said Christy, as the three officers seated themselves at the table.

"I think we shall have no difficulty on that score, Captain Passford, for I have already sounded those on board of the Arran, or the Escambia, as her officers call her. As long as their wages are paid, they don't care which side they serve. Mr. Pivotte is the chief, and he is as willing to go one way as the other."

"Very well; then he shall retain his present position, and Bockburn shall be restored to the Ocklockonee. Of course the arrangements made after the capture of the first vessel were only temporary, and I propose to report to the flag officer with everything as nearly as possible in the condition in which we left New York," continued Christy.

"Of course I expected to resume my former position on board of the Bronx as soon as we had disposed of the two steamers; and I can say that I shall not be sorry to do so," said Flint with a pleasant smile, as though he did not intend to grieve over the loss of his command.

"In a few days more, we shall move down a peg, and I shall cease to have a command as well as yourself," added Christy.

"And I suppose I shall be relegated to my position as a quartermaster," said Baskirk; "but I shall be satisfied. I don't care to wear any spurs that I have not won, though I shall be glad to have a higher rank when I deserve it."

"You deserve it now, Mr. Baskirk, and if you don't receive it, it will not be on account of any weakness in my report of the events of the last twenty-four hours," added Christy heartily.

"Thank you, captain; I suppose I could have procured a better position than that of able seaman, but I preferred to work my way up."

"It was wise not to begin too high up, and you have already won your spurs. Now, Mr. Baskirk, I shall ask you to take the deck, relieving Mr. Amblen," added Christy, who wished to talk with Flint alone.

"I shall be really glad to get back into the Bronx, for I feel at home here with you, captain," said Flint.

"You will be back to your berth here very soon. Now we have to send these two steamers to New York. They are fine vessels, and will be needed. We want two prize masters, and we must have able men. Have you any suggestion to make, Mr. Flint? I first thought of sending you as the principal one; but I cannot spare you, and the service in the Gulf needs you."

"I am entirely willing to go where my duty calls me, without regard to personal preferences," replied Flint. "I have a suggestion to make: which is that Baskirk take one of the steamers."

"That is exactly my own idea; from what I have seen of him, there is no more devoted officer in the service."

"I have known him for many years, and I believe in him. McSpindle is almost as good, and has had a better education than Baskirk. I don't think you could find two better men in the navy for this duty."

"Very well; then I will appoint them both."

Flint was instructed to communicate their appointment to Baskirk and McSpindle, and make all the preparations for the departure of the Escambia and the Ocklockonee. Christy went to his state room, and wrote his report of the capture of the two steamers, in which he commended the two officers who were to go as prize masters, and then wrote a letter to his father, with a strong appeal in their favor. Then he wrote very careful instructions for the government of the officers to be sent away, in which he directed them to use all necessary precautions in regard to the prisoners. In a couple of hours after the capture of the Escambia, the two prizes sailed for New York. Captain Dinsmore expressed his thanks very warmly to Captain Passford for his courtesy and kindness at parting.

Christy had visited every part of the two steamers, and talked with the officers and men, and especially with the engineers, and he discovered no elements of discord on board of either. Hungerford and Pawcett were transferred to the Escambia, and committed to the care of the surgeon of the ship. Both of them were suffering from fever, and they were not likely to give the prize master any trouble during the passage, which could only be three or four days in duration. Baskirk and McSpindle were required to make all the speed they could consistent with safety, though Christy hardly thought they would encounter any Confederate rover on the voyage, for they were not very plenty at this stage of the war.

It seemed a little lonesome on board of the Bronx after the two steamers had disappeared in the distance, and the number of the crew had been so largely reduced by the drafts for the prizes. The steamer was hardly in condition to engage an enemy of any considerable force, and Sampson was directed to hurry as much as possible. Christy had heard of the Bellevite twice since he left her off Pensacola Bay. She had been sent to other stations on duty, and had captured two schooners loaded with cotton as prizes; but at the last accounts she had returned to the station where the Bronx had left her.

Christy was not so anxious as he had been before the recent captures to fall in with an enemy, for with less than twenty seamen it would not be prudent to attack such a steamer as either of those he had captured, though he would not have objected to chase a blockade runner if he had discovered one pursued by the gunboats.

It was a quiet time on board of the Bronx compared with the excitement of the earlier days of the voyage. In the very beginning of the trip, he had discovered the deaf mute at the cabin door, and his thought, his inquiries, and his action in defeating the treachery of the second lieutenant had kept him busy night and day. Now the weather was fine most of the time, and he had little to do beyond his routine duties. But he did a great deal of thinking in his cabin, though most of it was in relation to the events which had transpired on board of the Bronx.

He had captured two valuable prizes; but he could not feel that he was entitled to any great credit for the achievements of his vessel, since he had been warned in the beginning to look out for the Scotian and the Arran. He had taken the first by surprise, and the result was due to the carelessness of her commander rather than to any great merit on his own part. The second he had taken with double the force of the enemy in ships and men; and the latter was not precisely the kind of a victory he was ambitious to win.

At the same time, his self-respect assured him that he had done his duty faithfully, and that it had been possible for him to throw away his advantage by carelessness. If he had fallen in with both the Scotian and the Arran at the same time, the result might have been different, though he was sure that he should have fought his ship as long as there was anything left of her. In that case there would have been more room for manoeuvring and strategy, for he did not admit to himself that he should have been beaten.

Amblen continued to hold his place as second lieutenant, and McLinn was appointed acting third lieutenant. The carpenter repaired the bridge, though Christy would not have been very sorry if it had been so thoroughly smashed as to be beyond restoration, for it was hardly a naval institution. The men who had been only slightly wounded in the action with the Escambia were progressing finely under the care of Dr. Spokeley, and when the Bronx was off the southern cape of Florida, they were able to return to duty. The latest information located the flag officer off Pensacola, and in due time Christy reported to him. The Bellevite was still there, and the commander went on board of her, where he received an ovation from the former officers and seamen with whom he had sailed. He did not take any pains to recite his experience, but it was soon known throughout the fleet.

"Christy, I shall hardly dare to sail in command of a ship of which you are the executive officer," said Lieutenant Blowitt, who was to command the Bronx, with a laugh.

"Why not? Is my reputation so bad as that?" asked Christy.

"Bad! No, it is so good. The fact of it is, you are such a tremendous fellow, there will be no room for any other officer to shine in the same sky."

"I have been in command for a few days, hardly more than a week, but I assure you that I can and shall obey the orders of my commander to the very letter," added Christy.

"But you took two steamers, each of them of nearly twice the tonnage of your own ship, in mid ocean."

"But I took them one at a time. If I had fallen in with both at the same time, the affair might have gone the other way. We captured the first one by accident, as it were, and the second with double the force of the enemy. I don't take much credit to myself for that sort of thing. I don't think it was half as much of an affair as bringing out the Teaser, for we had to use some science on that occasion," replied Christy quietly.

"Science, is it?" laughed Mr. Blowitt. "Perhaps you can assist me to some of your science, when it is required."

"I shall obey my superior officer, and not presume to advise him unless he asks me to do so."

"Well, Christy, I think you are the most audacious young fellow I ever met," added the future commander of the Bronx.

"I haven't anything about me that I call audacity, so far as I understand myself. When I am told to do any duty, I do it if it is possible; and whether it is possible often depends upon whether you think it is or not."

"I should say that it was audacious for you to think of capturing two steamers, fitted out for war purposes, and twice the size of your own ship, with the Bronx," added Mr. Blowitt, still laughing, to take off the edge of his criticism.

"Why did the Navy Department instruct me in my sealed orders to look out for these steamers, if I was to do so in a Pickwickian sense?" demanded Christy earnestly. "What would you have done, Mr. Blowitt?"

"Perhaps I should have been as audacious as you were, Christy, if such had been my orders."

This conversation took place on the deck of the Bellevite where Christy had come to see his friends; and it was interrupted by a boat from the flag ship which brought a big envelope for Mr. Blowitt. It instructed him to go on board of the Bronx, to the command of which he had been appointed. Another order required him to proceed to a point on the western coast of Florida, where the enemy were supposed to be loading vessels with cotton, and break up the depot established for the purpose, where it could be supplied by the Florida Railroad.

The new commander packed his clothing, and he was sent with Christy in one of the Bellevite's boats to the Bronx. They went on board, where the late acting commander had already removed his own property to the ward room, and Captain Blowitt was conducted to his cabin and state room, of which he took formal possession. He seemed to be very much pleased with his accommodations since the government had put the vessel in order, though he had been on board of her, and fought a battle on her deck, while she was still the Teaser.

"I am sure I could not ask for anything better than this cabin," said he, after he had invited his first lieutenant to come in.

"I found it very comfortable," added Christy. "Flint is second lieutenant, and Sampson chief engineer; and that is all there are of those who were in the Bellevite. I will introduce you to the acting third lieutenant, Mr. Amblen, and you can retain him or not as you please."

Mr. Amblen was called in and presented to the captain, and then Flint was ordered to get under way.



Chapter XXI

An Expedition In The Gulf


The Bronx had been three days on the station, Christy had made his report in full on her arrival, and the flag officer had visited the vessel in person, in order to ascertain her fitness for several enterprises he had in view. The Confederates were not sleepy or inactive, and resorted to every expedient within their means to counteract both morally and materially the efficiency of the blockade.

The Bronx was admirably adapted to service in the shoal waters where the heavier vessels of the investing squadron could not go, and her arrival solved several problems then under consideration. Captain Blowitt and Christy had been sent for, and the late commander of the Bronx was questioned in regard to the steamer, her draught, her speed, and her ship's company. The damage done to her in the conflict with the Escambia had been fully repaired by the carpenter and his gang, and the steamer was in as good condition as when she sailed from New York.

"In regard to the present officers, Mr. Passford, excepting present company, of course, they are excellent," said Captain McKeon, the flag officer. "For the service in which the Bronx is to be engaged, its success will depend upon the officers, though it is hardly exceptional in this respect. I understand that you sailed from New York rather short-handed abaft the mainmast."

"Yes, sir, we did; but fortunately we had most excellent material of which to make officers, and we made them," replied Christy.

"I should like to know something about them; I mean apart from Captain Blowitt and yourself, for you have already made your record, and yours, Mr. Passford, is rather a dazzling reputation for one so young."

"I am willing to apologize for it, sir," replied Christy, blushing like a maiden, as he was in duty bound to do, for he could not control the crimson that rose to his browned cheeks.

"Quite unnecessary," replied Captain McKeon, smiling. "As long as you do your duty nobody will be jealous of you, and you will be a fit officer for all our young men to emulate. You were the acting commander on the voyage of the Bronx from New York. Your executive officer is the present second lieutenant. Is he qualified for the peculiar duty before you?"

"No one could be more so, sir," replied Christy with proper enthusiasm.

"I can fully indorse this opinion of Mr. Passford," added Captain Blowitt. "In the capture and bringing out of the Teaser, Mr. Flint was the right hand man of the leader of the enterprise."

"And I gave him the command of the Ocklockonee, after her capture, and she took an active part in the affair with the Escambia, sir," said Christy.

"Then we will consider him the right man in the right place," replied the flag officer. "Who is the present third lieutenant?"

"Mr. Amblen is acting in that capacity at present, and he is a very good officer, though he holds no rank," answered Christy.

"Then I can hardly confirm him as second lieutenant," added Captain McKeon.

"In my report of the affairs with the Ocklockonee and the Escambia, I have strongly recommended him and three other officers for promotion, for all of them are fitted by education and experience at sea to do duty on board of such vessels as the Bronx."

"Have you any officer in mind who would acceptably fill the vacant place, Captain Blowitt?"

"I know of no one at present who holds the rank to entitle him to such a position, and I shall appeal to Mr. Passford," replied the new commander.

"You have named Mr. Amblen, Mr. Passford; is he just the officer you would select if the matter were left to you?" asked the flag officer.

"No, sir, though he would do very well. Mr. Baskirk, who served as executive officer while Mr. Flint was away in the Ocklockonee, is better adapted for the place," said Christy. "He commanded the first division of boarders on board of the Escambia, and he fought like a hero and is a man of excellent judgment. I am confident that he will make his mark as an officer. I am willing to admit that I wrote a letter to my father especially requesting him to do what he could for the immediate promotion of Mr. Baskirk."

"Then he will be immediately promoted," added Captain McKeon with an expressive smile.

"I may add also that I was presumptive enough to suggest his appointment as third lieutenant of the Bronx," continued Christy.

"Then he will be the third lieutenant of the Bronx; and what you say would have settled the matter in the first place as well as now," said the flag officer, as much pleased with the reticence of the young officer as with his modesty. "Amblen may remain on board till his commission comes, and you can retain him as third lieutenant, Captain Blowitt, if you are so disposed. I have ordered a draft of twelve seamen to the Bronx, which will give you a crew of thirty, and I cannot spare any more until more men are sent down. I may add that I have taken some of them from the Bellevite."

"I am quite satisfied, sir, with the number, though ten more would be acceptable," replied the commander of the Bronx.

The two officers were then dismissed and ordered on board of their ship. A little later the draft of seamen was sent on board, and among them Christy was not sorry to see Boxie, the old sheet-anchor man of the Bellevite, who had made him a sort of pet, and had done a great deal to instruct him in matters of seamanship, naval customs, and traditions not found in any books.

The commander and the executive officer paid their final visit to the Bellevite the next day, and the order was given to weigh anchor. When all hands were called, Christy thought he had never seen a better set of men except on board of the Bellevite, and the expedition, whatever it was, commenced under the most favorable auspices.

The Bronx sailed in the middle of the forenoon, and the flag officer was careful not to reveal the destination of the steamer to any one, for with the aid of the telegraph, the object of the expedition might reach the scene of operations in advance of the arrival of the force. At four o'clock in the afternoon Captain Blowitt opened his envelope in presence of the executive officer. He looked the paper through before he spoke, and then handed it to Christy, who read it with quite as much interest as the commander had.

"Cedar Keys," said the captain, glancing at his associate.

"That is not a long run from the station," added Christy. "We are very likely to be there before to-morrow morning."

"It is about two hundred and eighty statute miles, I had occasion to ascertain a week ago when something was said about Cedar Keys," replied Captain Blowitt. "We have been making about fifteen knots, for the Bronx is a flyer, and we ought to be near our destination at about midnight. That would be an excellent time to arrive if we only had a pilot."

"Perhaps we have one," added Christy with a smile.

"Are you a pilot on this coast, Mr. Passford?" asked the commander, mistaking the smile.

"No, sir, I am not; but I remember a conversation Mr. Flint and I had with Mr. Amblen, who was engaged in some sort of a speculation in Florida when the war came on. He was so provoked at the treatment he received that he shipped in the navy at once. I only know that he had a small steamer in these waters."

"Send for Mr. Amblen at once!" exclaimed the commander, who appeared to have become suddenly excited. "There will be no moon to-night in these parts, and we may be able to hurry this matter up if we have a competent pilot."

Christy called Dave, and sent him for the acting third lieutenant, for he knew that Mr. Flint had had the watch since four o'clock. Mr. Amblen was sunning himself on the quarter deck, and he promptly obeyed the summons.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Amblen, and I hope you will prove to be as useful a person as I have been led to believe you may be," said the captain.

"I shall endeavor to do my duty, sir," replied the third lieutenant, who was always very ambitious to earn the good opinion of his superiors. "I mean to do the best I can to make myself useful, Captain Blowitt."

"I know that very well; but the question now is what you know rather than what you can do as an officer. Mr. Passford informs me that you were formerly engaged in some kind of a speculation on the west coast of Florida."

"Hardly a speculation, sir, for I was engaged in the fish business," replied Mr. Amblen, laughing at the name which had been given to his calling. "When I sold a small coaster that belonged to me, I got in exchange a tug boat. I had been out of health a few years before; I spent six months at Cedar Keys and Tampa, and got well. Fish were plenty here, and of a kind that bring a good price farther north. I loaded my tug with ice, and came down here in her. I did a first-rate business buying from boats and in catching fish myself, and for a time I made money, though ice was so dear that I had to sell in the South."

"Did you have a pilot on board of your tug?" asked the captain.

"No, sir; I was my own pilot. I had the charts, and I studied out the bottom, so that I knew where I was in the darkest night."

"Then you are just the person we want if you are a pilot in these waters."

"What waters, sir? We are now off Cape St. Blas and Apalachicola Bay. I have been into the bay, but I am not a pilot in those waters, as you suggest."

"I have just opened my orders, and I find we are ordered to Cedar Keys," interposed the commander.

"That is quite another thing, sir; and there isn't a foot of bottom within five miles of the Keys to which I have not been personally introduced. When I was down here for my health I was on the water more than half of the time, and I learned all about the bay and coast; and I have been up the Suwanee River, which flows into the Gulf eighteen miles north of the Keys."

"I am exceedingly glad to find that we have such an excellent pilot on board. I am informed in my orders that schooners load with cotton at this place, and make an easy thing of getting to sea," added Captain Blowitt.

"I should say that it was a capital port for the Confederates to use for that sort of business. Small steamers can bring cotton down the Suwanee River, the railroad from Fernandina terminates at the Key, and this road connects with that to Jacksonville and the whole of western Florida as far as Tallahassee."

"We may find a steamer or two there."

"You may, though not one any larger than the Bronx, for there is only eleven feet of water on the bar. Probably no blockaders have yet been stationed off the port, and it is a good place to run out cotton."

"I am much obliged to you, Mr. Amblen, for the information you have given me, and your services will probably be in demand this very night," added the commander, rising from his chair.

"I am ready for duty at all times, sir," replied Mr. Amblen, as he retired from the cabin.

The charts were then consulted, and sundry calculations were made. At one o'clock that night the Bronx was off Cedar Keys.



Chapter XXII

A Night Expedition In The Boats


During the evening Captain Blowitt had consulted his officers, and arranged his plans for operations, or at least for obtaining information in regard to the situation inside of North Key, where the landing place is situated. He had already arranged to give the command of the boat expedition to Christy, with the second lieutenant in another boat, Mr. Amblen being with the executive officer in the first.

"Now, Mr. Passford, I do not expect you to capture the whole State of Florida, and if you should return without accomplishing anything at all, I shall not be disappointed, but I shall feel that you have done everything that could be done," said the captain, with a very cheerful smile, when all had been arranged.

"I shall endeavor to obey my orders, Captain Blowitt, if I can do so in the exercise of a reasonable prudence," replied Christy, who took in all that his superior looked, as well as all that he said.

"A reasonable prudence is decidedly good, coming from you, Mr. Passford," said the captain, laughing outright.

"Why is it decidedly good from me rather than from anybody else?" asked Christy, somewhat nettled by the remark.

"You objected once on board of the Bellevite when I mildly hinted that you might sometimes, under some circumstances, with a strong temptation before you, be just a little audacious," said the captain, still laughing, as though he were engaged in a mere joke.

"That statement is certainly qualified in almost all directions, if you will excuse me for saying so, captain," replied Christy, who was fully determined not to take offence at anything his superior might say, for he had always regarded him as one of his best friends. "If I remember rightly the mild suggestion of a criticism which you gently and tenderly applied to me was after we had brought out the Teaser from Pensacola Bay."

"That was the time. Captain Breaker sent you to ascertain, if you could, where the Teaser was, and you reported by bringing her out, which certainly no one expected you would do, and I believe this part of the programme carried out on that excursion was not mentioned in your orders."

"It was not; but if I had a good chance to capture the steamer, was it my duty to pass over that chance, and run the risk of letting the vessel get out?"

"On the contrary, it was your duty, if you got a good chance, to capture the steamer."

"And that is precisely what I did. I did not lose a man, or have one wounded in the expedition; and I have only to be penitent for being audacious," laughed Christy; and he was laughing very earnestly, as though the extra cachinnation was assumed for a purpose. "I suppose I ought to dress myself in ash cloth and sashes, shut myself up in my state room always when off duty, and shed penitential tears from the rising of the sun to the going down of the same, and during the lone watches of the night, and in fortifying my soul against the monstrous sin of audacity. I will think of it."

"I hope you have no feeling about this matter, Mr. Passford," said the captain, rising from his chair and taking Christy by the hand.

"Not a particle, Captain Blowitt. I am absolutely sure that you would have done precisely what I did, if you had been in my situation," protested Christy. "About the last thing my father talked about to me when we parted in this cabin in New York Harbor was the necessity of prudence and discretion in the discharge of my duties; and I am sure his advice saved me from falling into the traps set for me by Hungerford and Pawcett, and enabled me to capture two of the enemy's crack steamers."

"I will never use the word audacity or the adjective audacious to you again, Christy. I see that it nettles you, to say the least," added the captain, pressing his hand with more earnestness.

"I am perfectly willing you should apply both words to me when I deserve it. Audacity means boldness, impudence, according to Stormonth. Audacious means very bold, daring, impudent. It may have been bold to run out the Teaser, and the enemy would even call it impudent, for the meaning of a word sometimes depends upon which side you belong to. My father was quite as impudent as I was when he ran the Bellevite out of Mobile Bay, under the guns of Fort Morgan. He was audacious, wasn't he?"

"We should hardly apply that word to him."

"Why not? Simply because my father was forty-five years old when he told Captain Breaker to do it. If I were only thirty years old I should not be audacious. I am a boy, and therefore anything that I do is daring, audacious, impudent, imprudent."

"I rather think you are right, Mr. Passford, and it is your age more than the results of your actions that is the basis of our judgment," said Captain Blowitt.

"I wish to add seriously, captain, as a friend and not as an officer, I do not claim that the command of this expedition should be given to me because I am first lieutenant of the Bronx, or for any other reason," added Christy with an earnest expression. "Perhaps it would be better to give the command to the second lieutenant; and if you do so, I assure you, upon my honor, that it will not produce a particle of feeling in my mind. I shall honor, respect, and love you as I have always, Captain Blowitt."

"My dear fellow, you are entirely misunderstanding me," protested the commander, as earnestly as his subordinate had spoken. "I give you the command of this expedition because I honestly and sincerely believe you are the very best person on board to whom I can commit such a responsibility."

"That is enough, captain, and a great deal more than you were under any obligations to say to me; and I shall obey my orders with all the prudence and discretion I can bring to bear upon them," said Christy, taking the captain's offered hand. "If I fail it will not be because I do not try to be prudent."

"There is such a thing as being too prudent, and I hope that nothing which has been said to you by your father or by me will drive you to the other extreme."

Though this conversation had at times been very animated, Christy was glad that it had taken place, for it gave him a better insight into his own standing than he had before. He did not look upon it as a very great affair to command a couple of boats, in a night expedition, for he had recently commanded two steamers, and brought them off victorious. He had it in mind to ask the captain to send Flint in command of the expedition, though it would compel him, on account of his rank, to remain inactive on board of the Bronx; but he could not do this, after what had been said, without leaving some evidence that he was disaffected by what the commander had said to him about audacity.

It was found after a calculation of the run very carefully made that the Bronx would arrive too soon at her destination, and she was slowed down as the evening came on. In the ward room, of which Christy was now the occupant of the forward berth on the starboard side, he studied the chart with Amblen a good part of the waiting hours, and the executive officer obtained all the information he could from the third lieutenant. There were three principal keys, or cays, one of which, called the North Key, was the nearest to the mainland, and was set in the mouth of a bay. This was the nearest to the peninsula at the end of which the railroad terminates. About southwest of it is the Seahorse Key, on which there is a light in peaceful times. To the south of the point is the Snake Key, and between the last two is the main channel to the port, which twists about like the track of a snake. There is a town, or rather a village, near the landing.

Six bells struck on deck, and all the officers, including the captain, adjourned to the bridge, which was a useful institution on such occasions as the present. A sharp watch had been kept by Lieutenant Flint in charge; but though the night was clear, nothing had been made out in the direction of the shore. All lights on board had been put out, and the Bronx went along in the smooth sea as quietly as a lady on a fashionable promenade, and it was not believed that anything could be seen of her from the shore.

About midnight the lookout man aloft reported that he could see a twinkling light. It was promptly investigated by Mr. Amblen, who went aloft for the purpose. He was satisfied that it was a light in some house in the village, probably in the upper story. It soon disappeared, and it was thought to be occasioned by the late retiring of some person.

"I should say, Captain Blowitt, that we are not more than five miles outside of Seahorse Key," said Mr. Amblen, after he had interpreted the meaning of the light. "It is after midnight, and these people are not in the habit of sitting up so late."

"If they are shipping much cotton from this port, it is not improbable that there is a force here to protect the vessels, whatever they are," added the commander.

"Of that, of course, I can know nothing; but I shall expect to find a Confederate battery somewhere on the point, and I know about where to look for it."

"The place has never been of any great importance, and you can hardly expect to find a very strong force in it," added the captain.

It has since become a place of more note, both as a resort for invalids and pleasure-seekers, and as the termination of the railroad from Fernandina and Jacksonville, and steamers have run regularly from the port to Havana and New Orleans.

"If you will excuse me, Captain Blowitt, I should say that it was not advisable to take the Bronx nearer than within about four miles of the Seahorse Key," suggested Mr. Amblen.

"I was just thinking that we had gone as far as it is prudent to go. Do you think you could take the Bronx up to the landing?" added the captain.

"I am very sure that I could, for I have been in many a time on a darker night than this."

"We will not go in to-night, but perhaps we may have occasion to do so to-morrow. We shall know better what to do when we get a report of the state of things in the place," replied the captain, as he gave the word through the speaking tube to stop the steamer.

Christy had been given full powers to make all preparations for the boat expedition, and was allowed ten men to each of the quarter boats. He had selected the ones for his own boat, and had required Flint to pick his own crew for the other. The oars had been carefully muffled by the coxswains, for it was desirable that no alarm should be given in the place. The starboard quarter boat was the first cutter, pulled by six oars, and this was for Christy and Mr. Amblen, with the regular coxswain and three hands in the bow. The second cutter was in charge of Mr. Flint, and followed the other boat, keeping near enough to obtain her course in the twists of the channel.

It was a long pull to the Seahorse Key, and a moderate stroke was taken as well not to tire the men as to avoid all possible noise. When the first cutter was abreast of the Key, the pilot pointed out the dark outline of the peninsula, which was less than a mile distant. No vessel could be seen; but the pilot thought they might be concealed by the railroad buildings on the point. Christy asked where the battery was which the pilot thought he could locate, and the spot was indicated to him. Christy wanted a nearer view of it, and the cutter was headed in that direction.



Chapter XXIII

The Visit To A Shore Battery


The first cutter reached the Seahorse Key closely followed by the second. It was within an hour of high tide, the ordinary rise and fall of which was two and a half feet. On the Key was a light house, and a cottage for the keeper of it; but the former was no longer illuminated, and the house was as dark as the head of the tower. So far as could be discovered there was no one on the Key, though the boats did not stop to investigate this matter. The crews still pulled a moderate stroke with their muffled oars, the men were not allowed to talk, and everything was as silent as the inside of a tomb.

The pilot stood up in the stern sheets of the cutter, gazing intently in the direction of the point nearly a mile ahead. The outlines of the buildings could be discerned, and Amblen soon declared that he could make out the tops of the masts of several vessels to the westward of the point with which the peninsula terminated. This looked hopeful, and indicated that the information upon which the expedition had been sent out was correct. Christy began to think he should have a busy night before him when Amblen said there were at least three vessels at the port.

The battery was first to be visited and cared for if there was one, and it was not probable that a place so open to the operations of the blockading force would be without one, especially if the people were actually engaged in loading cotton, as the masts of the vessels indicated, though the hulls could not yet be seen. As the first cutter approached nearer to the place the outlines became more distinct, and soon embodied themselves into definite objects. Both officers in the stern sheets watched with the most anxious vigilance for any moving object denoting the presence of life and intelligence.

As the boats came nearer to the shore, a breeze sprang up, and cooled the air, for early as it was in the season, the weather was very warm, and it was not uncommon for the thermometer to rise above ninety. These breezes were usually present to cool the nights, and doubtless the inhabitants slept the sounder for the one which had just begun to fan the cheeks of the officers and seamen of the expedition.

"There is a battery there, Mr. Passford," said the pilot in a very low tone. "I can make it out now, and it is just where I supposed it would be."

"I can see something that seems like an earthwork at the right of the buildings," added Christy. "Can you make out anything that looks like a sentinel?"

"I can see nothing that denotes the presence of a man. If there were a sentinel there, he would be on the top of the earthwork, or on the highest ground about it, so that he could see out into the bay, for there can be no danger from the land side of the place," added Amblen.

"I can hardly imagine such a thing as a battery without a sentinel to give warning if anybody should try to carry it off. There must be a sentry somewhere in the vicinity."

"I can't say there isn't, though I can't make out a man, or anything that looks like one," replied the pilot.

"Very likely we shall soon wake him up, Mr. Amblen; and in that case it will be necessary for us to find a safer place than in front of the guns of the battery, for I do not feel at liberty to expose the men to the fire of the works, whatever they are."

"All you have to do is to pull around to the other side of the point into the bay, where the vessels are. I am confident there is no battery on that side, and there can hardly be any need of one, for this one commands the channel, the only approach to the place for a vessel larger than a cutter."

"I fancy this battery does not amount to much, and is probably nothing more than an earthwork, with a few field guns behind it. Suppose we should wake it up, and have to make for the bay, can we get out of it without putting the boats under the guns of the battery?"

"Without any difficulty at all, sir. We have only to pull around the North Key, and pass out to the Gulf, beyond the reach of any field gun that can be brought to bear on us," replied Mr. Amblen.

"If they have one or two field batteries here, they may hitch on the horses, and follow us," suggested Christy, who, in spite of the audacity with which he had been mildly charged, was not inclined to run into any trap from which he could not readily withdraw his force.

"We shall have the short line, and if they pursue us with the guns, we can retire by the way of the channel, which they will leave uncovered."

"We are getting quite near the shore," continued Christy. "How is the water under us?"

"The bottom is sandy, and we shall take the ground before we reach the shore if we don't manage properly. But we can tell something by the mangroves that fringe the land," replied the pilot; "and I will go into the bow of the cutter and look out for them."

Mr. Amblen made his way to the fore sheets, and asked Boxie, who was there, for the boathook, with which he proceeded to sound. When he had done so, he raised both his hands to a level with his shoulders, which was the signal to go ahead, and the men pulled a very slow stroke. He continued to sound, after he had selected the point for landing.

When the first cutter was within three lengths of the shore, he elevated both his hands above his head, which was the signal to cease rowing, though the two bow oarsmen kept their oars in the water instead of boating them as the others did. Mr. Amblen continued to feel the way, and in a few minutes more, aided by the shoving of the two bow oarsmen, he brought the boat to the shore.

Then he gave his attention to the second cutter, bringing it to the land alongside of the first. Stepping out on the sand himself, he was followed by all the crew, with cutlass in hand, and revolvers in readiness for use. The men were placed in order for an advance, and then required to lie down on the sand, so that they could not readily be seen if any stroller appeared on the ground.

Leaving the force in charge of Mr. Flint, Christy and Amblen walked towards the battery, crouching behind such objects as they could find that would conceal them in whole or in part. The earthwork was semicircular in form, and was hardly more than a rifle pit. No sentinel could be discovered, and getting down upon the sand, the two officers crept cautiously towards the heaps of sand which formed the fort.

Christy climbed up the slope with some difficulty, for the dry sand afforded a very weak foothold. On the top of it, which was about six feet wide, they found a solid path which had evidently been a promenade for sentinels or other persons. Behind it, on a wooden platform, were four field guns, with depressions in the earthwork in front of the muzzles.

Christy led the way down the slope on the inside to the pieces, which were twelve-pounders. At a little distance from the platform was a sort of casemate, which might have been constructed for a magazine, or for a place of resort for the gunners if the fort should be bombarded. Not a man could be seen, and if there was any garrison for the place, they were certainly taking things very comfortably, for they must have been asleep at this unseemly hour for any ordinary occupation.

Not far from the battery was a rude structure, hardly better than a shanty, which Christy concluded must be the barracks of the soldiers if there were any there. He walked over to it; but there was not a human being to be seen in the vicinity. It was half past one at night, when honest people ought to be abed and asleep, and the first lieutenant of the Bronx concluded that the garrison, if this shanty was their quarters, must be honest people.

Christy walked very cautiously to the side of the building, for the entrance was at the end nearest to the fort, and found several windows there, from which the sashes seemed to have been removed, if there had ever been any. The bottom of each opening was no higher than his head, and he went to one of them and looked in.

Extending along the middle of the interior was a row of berths. It was very dark inside, and he could not make out whether or not these bunks were occupied. The windows on the other side of the shanty enabled him to see that there were two rows of berths, each backing against the other. There were two in each tier, and he judged that the barrack would accommodate forty-eight men.

He retained his place at the window in order to discover any movement made by a sleeper that would inform him whether or not the berths were occupied. If there were any soldiers there, they were as quiet as statues; but while he was watching for a movement, he heard a decided snore. There was at least one man there, and he continued to hear his sonorous breathing as long as he remained at the window, which was the first on the side of the shanty.

Christy walked the whole length of the shanty.

Christy decided to push the investigation still farther, and he went to a window in the middle of the building. He regarded the berths with attention for a few minutes, but he could perceive no movement. He could hear two snorers who seemed to be competing with each other to see who could make the most noise.

If the berths were all occupied, three snorers were not a very great proportion in forty-eight. He was very anxious to ascertain if this was the number of soldiers in the place, but it was too dark in the shanty for him to determine whether or not the bunks were all in use. It was too many for him to encounter with his force of twenty men and three officers in the open field.

Christy returned to the end of the building, and tried the door. It was not locked, and he decided to make use of a little of the audacity of which he was accused of having a good deal. Taking off his shoes, and passing his sword to Mr. Amblen, he entered the barrack on tiptoe.

The boards of the floor began to creak under his weight; he stooped down and felt till he found the nail holes; then he knew that he was on a timber, and he walked the whole length of the shanty, returning on the opposite side, counting the occupied berths, for he passed within three feet of all of them. The count gave seventeen men as the number of sleepers, though this might not be all the force at the place.

He had ascertained all he wished to know, and he walked back to the shore where the men were concealed. Apart from the men, he had a conference with Flint and Amblen, giving them the details of what he had discovered. Then he stated his plan, and the men were marched silently to the battery, and were posted behind the breastwork. Not a man was allowed to move, and Christy and Flint went to the casemate, which looked like a mound of sand.

It was locked, but taking a bar of iron they found with some tools for digging, they tore off the padlock. A lantern had been brought from the steamer, which was lighted. The structure was found to be for the protection of the artillerists in the first instance; but the apartment was connected with the magazine, the lock of which was removed.

Amblen was sent for ten men, and all the ammunition they could carry was removed. The rest of it was thrown into a pool of water made by recent rains. The powder, solid shot, and shells were carried to the boats. The rest of the men drew the four guns to the shore, where one was placed, with its carriage, in each of the cutters, and the other two put where they could be carried to the Bronx, or thrown overboard in deep water, as occasion might require.

The seventeen soldiers, reinforced by any that might be in the town, were thus deprived of the power to do any mischief except in a hand-to-hand fight. If the place was not actually captured, it was practically lost to the enemy. The next business of the expedition was to examine the bay, and ascertain what vessels were at the landing place. The boats shoved off, and pulled around the point.



Chapter XXIV

Captain Lonley Of The Steamer Havana


The two twelve-pounders in each boat were believed to weigh about six hundred pounds each, while the ordinary bronze boat gun of the same calibre weighs seven hundred and sixty pounds. The four guns, therefore, were rather too heavy a burden for the size of the cutters. But Christy was unwilling to throw the two without carriages overboard, for the water in this locality was so clear that they could have been seen at a depth of two or three fathoms. They were useless for the duty in which the expedition was engaged, and the commander of the expedition decided to land them on the Seahorse Key till he had completed his operations in the bay, when they could be taken off and transported to the Bronx as trophies, if for nothing better.

Mr. Flint was disposed to object to this plan, on account of the time it would require; but he yielded the point when Christy informed him that it was only half past two, as he learned from the repeater he carried for its usefulness on just such duty as the present expedition.

The guns and all that belonged to them were landed on the Key, and the boats shoved off, the lieutenants happy in the thought that they were no longer embarrassed by their weight, while they could not be brought to bear upon them.

The boats had hardly left the little island behind them when the noise of paddle wheels ahead was reported by one of the trio in the bow of the first cutter. Christy listened with all his ears, and immediately heard the peculiar sounds caused by the slapping of the paddle wheels of a steamer upon the water.

"We are in for something," said he to the pilot, as he listened to the sounds. "What might that be?"

"It is a steamer without any doubt coming around the point, and she will be in sight in a moment or two," replied Mr. Amblen. "It may be a river steamer that has brought a load of cotton down the Suwanee, and is going out on this tide."

"Then we may need those guns we have left on the key," suggested Christy.

"If she is a river steamer, there is not much of a force on board of her," replied the pilot.

"We might return to the island, and use the two guns with carriages there."

"If she is a river steamer, we shall not need great guns to capture her."

Christy had ordered the men to cease rowing, and the two cutters lay motionless on the full sea, for the tide was at its height by this time. Even in the darkness they could make out whether the approaching vessel was a river or a sea steamer as soon as she could be seen.

"Whatever she is, we must capture her," said Christy, very decidedly.

"If she is a river steamer, she will be of no use to the government," added Mr. Amblen.

"Of none at all." replied Christy. "In that case I shall burn her, for it would not be safe to send good men in such a craft to a port where she could be condemned. The next question is, shall we take her here, or nearer to the shore."

"The farther from the shore the better, I should say, Mr. Passford. After she passes the Seahorse Key, she will be in deep water for a vessel coming out of that port; and until she gets to the Key, she will move very slowly, and we can board her better than when she is going at full speed," said Mr. Amblen.

"You are doubtless quite right, Mr. Amblen, and I shall adopt your suggestion," replied Christy. "There she comes, and she is no river steamer."

She had not the two tall funnels carried by river steamers, and that point was enough to settle her character. There could be no doubt she would have been a blockade runner, if there had been any blockade to run at the entrance to the port. Christy decided to board the steamer between the two keys, the channel passing between Snake and Seahorse. The first cutter fell back so that Christy could communicate with Mr. Flint, and he instructed him to take a position off the Snake Key, where his boat could not be discovered too soon, and board the steamer on the port side, though he did not expect any resistance. Each cutter took its position and awaited in silence the approach of the blockade runner. The only thing Christy feared was that she would come about and run back to the port, though this could only delay her capture.

The steamer, as well as the officers could judge her in the distance, was hardly larger than the Bronx. They concluded that she must be loaded with cotton, and at this time it was about as valuable a cargo as could be put on board of her. She would be a rich prize, and the masts of the schooners were still to be seen over the tops of the buildings. She must have chosen this hour of the night to go out, not only on account of the tide, but because the darkness would enable her to get off the coast where a blockader occasionally wandered before the blockade was fully established. Her paddle wheels indicated that she had not been built very recently, for very nearly all sea steamers, including those of the United States, were propelled by the screw.

As Mr. Amblen had predicted the steamer moved very slowly, and it was all of a quarter of an hour before she came to the Seahorse Key. At the right time Christy gave the word to the crew to "Give way lively!" and the first cutter shot out from the concealment of the little island, while Flint did the same on the other side of the channel. Almost in the twinkling of an eye the two boats had made fast to her, and seven men from each boat leaped on the deck of the steamer, cutlass in hand. No guns were to be seen, and the watch of not more than half a dozen men were on the forecastle; and perhaps this was the entire force of the sailing department.

"What does all this mean?" demanded a man coming from the after part of the vessel, in a voice which Christy recognized as soon as he had heard half of the sentence.

"Good morning, Captain Lonley," said Christy, in the pleasantest of tones. "You are up early, my friend, but I think we are a little ahead of you on this occasion."

"Who are you, sir?" demanded Lonley; and Christy had at once jumped to the conclusion that he was the captain of the steamer. "I have heard your voice before, but I cannot place you, sir."

"Fortunately for me, it is not necessary that you should place me this time," replied Christy. "It is equally fortunate that I am not compelled to place you again, as I felt obliged to do, on board of the Judith in Mobile Bay."

"Passford!" exclaimed Captain Lonley, stepping back a pace in his astonishment.

"Passford, late of the Bellevite, and now executive officer of the United States steamer Bronx, formerly the Teaser, privateer," answered Christy, in his usual cheerful tones. "May I inquire the name of this steamer?"

"This steamer is the Havana," replied Captain Lonley. "May I ask you, Mr. Passford, in regard to your business on board of her?"

"I have a little affair on board of her, and my duty compels me to demand her surrender as a prize to the Bronx."

"Caught again!" exclaimed Captain Lonley, stamping violently on the deck in his disgust at his misfortune, and it was the third time that Christy had thrown him "out of a job."

"The way of the transgressor is hard, Captain Lonley," added the commander of the expedition.

"Transgressor, sir!" ejaculated the captain of the Havana. "What do you mean by that, Mr. Passford?"

"Well, captain, you are in arms against the best government that the good God ever permitted to exist for eighty odd years; and that is the greatest transgression of which one can be guilty in a patriotic sense."

"I hold no allegiance to that government."

"So much the worse for you, Captain Lonley; but we will not talk politics. Do you surrender?"

"This is not an armed steamer, and I have no force to resist; I am compelled to surrender," replied the captain as he glanced at the cutlasses of the men from the Bronx.

"That is a correct, though not a cheerful view of the question on your part. I am very happy to relieve you from any further care of the Havana, and you may retire to your cabin, where I shall have the honor to wait upon you later."

"One word, Mr. Passford, if you please," said Captain Lonley, taking Christy by the arm and leading him away from the rest of the boarding party. "This steamer and the cotton with which she is loaded are the property of your uncle, Homer Passford."

"Indeed?" was all that Christy thought it necessary to say in reply.

"You have already taken from him one valuable cargo of cotton; and it would be magnanimous in you, as well as very kind of a near relative, to allow me to pass on my way with the property of your uncle."

"Would it have been kind on the part of a near relative to allow his own brother to pass out of Mobile Bay in the Bellevite?"

"That would have been quite another thing, for the Bellevite was intended for the Federal navy," protested the Confederate captain. "It would have been sacrificing his country to his fraternal feelings. This is not a Confederate vessel, and is not intended as a war steamer," argued Lonley.

"Every pound of cotton my uncle sells is so much strength added to the cause he advocates; and I hope, with no unkind thoughts or feelings in regard to him, I shall be able to capture every vessel he sends out. That is my view of the matter, and I am just as strong on my side of the question as Uncle Homer is on his side. I would cut off my right hand before I would allow your vessel or any other to escape, for I have sworn allegiance to my government, and when I fail to do my duty at any sacrifice of personal feeling, it will be when I have lost my mind; and my uncle would do as much for his fractional government. We need not discuss such a subject as you suggest, captain."

Captain Lonley said no more, and retired to his cabin. Christy was ready for the next question in order. Accompanied by Mr. Flint, he looked the steamer over. The mate had lighted his pipe and seated himself on a water cask; and he seemed to be the only officer besides the captain on board. The engineers were next visited. There were two of them, but they were red hot for the Confederacy, and nothing was said to them except to order them on deck, where they were placed with the crew, and a guard of seamen set over them. The firemen were negroes, and they were willing to serve under the new master, and doubtless were pleased with the change. The crew of the Bronx on board of the Havana were canvassed to find a man who had run an engine, but not one of them had any experience.

"That's bad," said Flint, when they had finished the inquiry. "We have not an engineer on board, and we shall have to send off to the Bronx for one."

"Not so bad as that, Mr. Flint," replied Christy. "There is one loyal engineer on board, and I am the one. You will take the deck, and Mr. Amblen will go into the pilot house. I am not quite ready to go off to the Bronx yet, for there are two or three cotton schooners in this port, and we are so fortunate as to have a steamer now to tow them out."

"Very likely those soldiers have waked up by this time," said Flint.

"Let them fire those guns at us, if they can find them," laughed Christy.

Then he took Mr. Amblen into the engine room with him.



Chapter XXV

The New Engineer Of The Prize Steamer


While enthusiastically pursuing his studies as an engineer, Christy had visited a great many steamers with Paul Vapoor for the purpose of examining the engines, so that he could hardly expect to find one with whose construction he was not familiar, whether it was an American or a foreign built machine. At the first glance after he entered the engine room of the Havana, he knew the engine, and was ready to run it without spending any time in studying it. He had brought the pilot with him in order to come to an understanding in regard to the bells, for in the navy the signals differ from those in the commercial marine.

"This steamer is provided with a gong and a jingling bell," said Christy, as he pointed them out to his companion.

"My little steamer on this coast was run with just such bells," replied Mr. Amblen.

"And so was the Bellevite, so that I am quite accustomed to the system of signals; but it is well to be sure that we understand each other perfectly if we expect to get this vessel out of the bay after we go up to the port," added Christy.

"I agree with you entirely, sir. A single strong stroke on the gong is to start or to stop her according to the circumstances," said the pilot.

"Precisely so; and two strokes are to back her," continued Christy. "Going at full speed, the jingler brings the engine down to half speed, or at half speed carries it up to full speed."

"That is my understanding of the matter," replied Mr. Amblen.

"Then we understand each other to a charm," continued the temporary engineer. "Report to Mr. Flint that we are ready to go ahead."

Christy found a colored man who was on duty as an oiler, and four others in the fire room, who seemed to be engaged in an earnest discussion of the situation, for the capture of the Havana was a momentous event to all of them. The oiler was at work, and had thoroughly lubricated the machinery, as though he intended that any failure of the steamer should not be from any fault on his part.

The new official set two of the firemen at work, though the boilers had a good head of steam. The gong bell gave one sharp stroke, and Christy started the engine.

The Havana was headed out to sea when she was captured, and in the slack water she had not drifted at all. He went ahead slowly, and soon had the bell to stop her; but he expected this, for the channel was narrow, and it required considerable manoeuvring to get the steamer about. Then he happened to think of the guns on the Seahorse Key, and through the speaking tube he passed the word to Mr. Flint to have him land there in order to take the guns and ammunition on board.

After a great deal of backing and going ahead, the Havana was headed for the key, where she was stopped as near to it as the depth of water would permit. The guns and other material were brought off, two of the firemen, the oiler, and other colored men of the crew of the Havana assisting in the work. The two guns that were provided with carriages were mounted, and placed on the forecastle. They were loaded and prepared for service by the trained gunners of the crew. Christy had directed all this to be done on account of the delay which had attended the good fortune of the expedition, for he might not get out of the bay before the daylight came to reveal the presence of the force he commanded to the people on the shore.

The gong rang again when all these preparations had been made, and the Havana steamed slowly up the channel towards the bay. The oiler appeared to have finished his work for the present. He was a more intelligent man than the others of his color on board, and seemed to understand his duties. Christy spoke to him, for he said nothing unless he was spoken to, and he had learned that the commander of the expedition was doing duty as engineer in the absence of any other competent person.

"How many schooners are there at the landing place at the keys?" asked Christy.

"Only two schooners, sir," replied the man very respectfully.

"Are they loaded,  -- what is your name?" asked the engineer.

"My name is Dolly, sir."

"Dolly? That is a girl's name."

"My whole name is Adolphus, sir; but everybody calls me Dolly, and I can't help myself," replied the oiler soberly, as though he had a real grievance on account of the femininity of his nickname. "The two schooners are not quite loaded, sir, but they are very nearly full. They had some trouble here, among the hands."

"Had some trouble, did they? I should think there were soldiers enough here to keep everything straight. How many artillerists or soldiers do they keep here?" added Christy.

"They had about forty, but they don't have half that number now."

"What has become of them?"

"They were sent away to look for the hands that took to the woods. One of the officers and about half of the men were sent off yesterday," replied Dolly, who seemed willing to tell all he knew.

"Why did the men run off?" asked Christy curiously.

"They brought about fifty hands, all slaves, down here to load the steamer and the schooners. They set them at work yesterday morning, and they had nearly put all the cotton into the schooners at dinner time. To make the niggers work harder, they gave them apple jack."

"What is that?" asked the engineer, who never heard the name before.

"It is liquor made out of apples, and it is very strong," answered Dolly; and he might have added that it was the vilest intoxicant to be found in the whole world, not even excepting Russian vodka.

"And this liquor made the hands drunk, I suppose."

"They did not give them enough for that, sir; but it made them kind of crazy, and they wanted more of it. That made the trouble; the hands struck for liquor before dinner, and when they didn't get it, they took to the woods, about fifty of them. The soldiers had to get their dinner before they would start out after them; and that is the reason the schooners are not full now, sir, and not a bale had been put into this steamer."

"But she seems to be fully loaded now."

"Yes, sir; Captain Lonley paid the soldiers that were left to load the Havana. They worked till eleven in the evening; they were not used to that kind of work, and they got mighty tired, I can tell you," said Dolly, with the first smile Christy had seen on his yellow face, for he appeared to enjoy the idea of a squad of white men doing niggers' work.

"That was what made them sleep so soundly, and leave the battery on the point to take care of itself," said Christy. "Where were the officers?"

"Two of them have gone on the hunt for the hands, and I reckon the captain is on a visit to a planter who has a daughter, about forty miles from here."

"The soldiers were sleeping very soundly in the barrack about two this morning; and perhaps they were also stimulated with apple jack," added Christy. "Did you drink any of it, Dolly?"

"No, sir, I never drink any liquor, for I am a preacher," replied the oiler, with a very serious and solemn expression on his face.

"How do you happen to be a greaser on a steamer if you are a preacher?"

"I worked on a steamer on the Alabama River before I became a preacher, and I took it up again. I was raised in a preacher's family, and worked in the house."

He talked as though he had been educated, but he could neither read nor write, and had picked up all his learning by the assistance of his ears alone. But Christy had ascertained all he wished to know in regard to the schooners, and he was prepared to carry out his mission in the bay. At the fort it appeared that all the commissioned officers were absent from the post, and the men, after exhausting themselves at work to which they were unaccustomed, had taken to their bunks and were sleeping off the fatigue, and perhaps the effects of the apple jack. While he was thinking of the matter, the gong struck, and Christy stopped the engine.

"Do you know anything about an engine, Dolly?" he asked, turning to the oiler.

"Yes, sir; I run the engine of the Havana over here from Mobile," replied Dolly. "I can do it as well as any one, if they will only trust me."

"Then stand by the machine, and obey the bells if they are struck," added Christy, as he went on deck.

He found the second and third lieutenants standing on the rail engaged in examining the surroundings. The day was just beginning to show itself in the east, though it was not yet light enough to enable them to see clearly on shore. By the side of the railroad building was a pier, at which the two schooners lay. They could hear the sounds of some kind of a stir on shore, but were unable to make out what it meant.

"We are losing time," said Christy, as he took in at a glance all he deemed it necessary to know in regard to the situation.

"I was about to report to you, Mr. Passford; but Mr. Amblen wished to ascertain whether or not there is a battery on this side of the point," said Flint.

"Do you find anything, Mr. Amblen?"

"No, sir; I can see nothing that looks like a battery," replied the pilot.

"Then run in, and we will make fast to these schooners and haul them out," added Christy in hurried tones.

The pilot went to the wheel, and rang one bell on the gong. Dolly started the engine before Christy could reach the machine. He said nothing to the oiler, but seated himself on the sofa, and observed his movements. A few minutes later came the bell to stop her, and then two bells to back her. Dolly managed the machine properly and promptly, and seemed to be at home in the engine room. The color of his skin was a sufficient guaranty of his loyalty, but Christy remained below long enough to satisfy himself that Dolly knew what he was about, and then went on deck.

By this time the noise on shore had become more pronounced, and he saw the dark forms of several persons on the wharf. Flint and Amblen were making fast to the nearest schooner, and a couple of seamen had been sent on shore to cast off the fasts which held her to the wharf. This was the work of but a moment, and the two men returned to the steamer; but they were closely followed by two men, one of whom stepped on the deck of the schooner.

"What are you about here?" demanded the foremost of the men, in a rude and impertinent manner.

"About our business," replied Christy, with cool indifference.

"Who are you, young man?" demanded the one on the deck.

"I am yours truly; who are you?"

"None of your business who I am! I asked you a question, and you will answer it if you know when you are well off," blustered the man, who was rather too fat to be dangerous; and by this time, Christy discovered that he wore something like a uniform.

"I will try to find out when I am well off, and then I will answer you," replied Christy.

"All fast, sir," reported Flint.

The commander of the expedition, turning his back to the fat man, went forward to the pilot house.



Chapter XXVI

The Battle With The Soldiers


Mr. Amblen went to the pilot house, and rang two bells. Dolly responded properly by starting the engine on the reverse, and the schooner alongside began to move away from the wharf, for the stern of the Havana pointed out into the bay.

"Stop, there! What are you about?" shouted the fat man on the deck of the schooner.

"About going," replied Christy.

"These vessels are the property of a citizen of the Confederate States, and I command you to stop," yelled the fat man with all the voice he could muster.

"All right," replied Christy, as the gong sounded to stop her. "Now, Mr. Flint, cast off the fasts, and let the schooner go astern," he added to the second lieutenant.

"All clear, sir," replied Flint a moment later, and after the steamer lost her headway, the vessel continued to back, though the Havana was checked by the engine.

The fat man went adrift in the schooner, but Christy gave no further attention to him. The steamer was started ahead again; her bow was run alongside of the other vessel at the wharf, and Flint proceeded in the same manner as with the first one.

"Orderly!" shouted the fat man, evidently addressing the man who had come to the schooner with him, and had retreated to the wharf when the vessel began to move.

"Captain Rowly!" replied the man, who was doubtless the orderly sergeant of the company.

"Go to the barracks and have the men haul the four field pieces over to the wharf," yelled the fat captain.

"All right, little one! Have them hauled over by all means," said Christy, as the men made fast to the other schooner, and cast off the fasts.

But it was soon evident that the sleepy soldiers had been roused from their slumbers by some other agency than the orderly, though it was not quite possible for them to haul over the four guns, as they happened to be on the forward deck of the Havana. But the men were armed with muskets, and were capable of doing a great deal of mischief with them. Christy hurried up the men at the fasts, but they had about finished their task.

"All clear, Mr. Passford," called Mr. Flint, as the soldiers double-quicked across the railroad to the wharf, upon which there was still a huge pile of bales of cotton.

"Back her, Mr. Amblen," said Christy, as he hastened aft to avoid a collision with the other schooner.

But the tide had begun to recede, and had carried the first vessel to a safe distance from the wharf.

The soldiers reached the edge of the wharf, and were probably under the command of the orderly by this time. At any rate they marched farther down the pier, where they could be nearer to the Havana as she backed away. Then the troops fired a volley at the steamer; but in the darkness they did no serious injury to the party, though two seamen were slightly wounded.

"Cast off the fasts!" shouted Christy, when he realized that some of his men were in a fair way to be shot down before they could get the two schooners alongside and properly secured for the trip to the Bronx, and the order was promptly obeyed. "Now, check her, Mr. Amblen;" and two bells were sounded on the gong, after one to stop her.

The second schooner kept on her course out into the bay to join the first one cast loose; but Christy feared that they might get aground, and give them trouble. The seventeen soldiers whom he had counted in their bunks appeared to have been reinforced either by the return of the absent party, or by the civilians in the place, for they presented a more formidable front than the smaller number could make. Whatever the number of the defenders of the place, they could harass the expedition while the men were preparing for the final departure.

"With what were those two guns charged, Mr. Flint?" asked Christy.

"With solid shot, sir," replied the second lieutenant.

"Open fire on the wharf, and then load with the shrapnel," added Christy.

The two guns, which had been placed in proper position for use on the top-gallant forecastle, were aimed by Flint himself, and discharged. The report shook the steamer, and Christy, who retained his position on the quarter deck, heard a scream of terror, coming from a female, issue from the companion way, at the head of which a seaman had been placed as a sentinel over the officers below.

"What was that, Neal?" asked the commander of the expedition.

"It was the scream of a lady, sir, and that is all I know about it," replied the man. "I haven't seen any lady, sir, and I think she must have been asleep so far. The captain tried to come on deck a while ago, but I sent him back, sir."

By this time the two field pieces had been loaded again, and they were discharged. Christy watched the effect, and he had the pleasure of seeing the whole troop on the wharf retire behind the great pile of bales of cotton. A random fire was kept up from this defence, but the soldiers were safe behind their impenetrable breastwork. Flint continued to fire into it.

At the report of the guns, nearly together, which made the Havana shake, and everything on board of her rattle, for she was not built to carry a battery of guns, another scream came forth from the companion way. A moment later, Christy saw a female form ascending the stairs. The sentinel placed his cutlass across the passage; but the lieutenant told him to let her come on deck if she desired to do so.

It was light enough for the gallant young officer to see that she was young and fair, though she had evidently dressed herself in great haste. She looked around her with astonishment, perhaps to find that the steamer was no longer at the wharf. The guns on the forecastle were again discharged, and she shrunk back at the sound.

"Do not be alarmed, miss," said Christy, in his gentlest tones. "But I must say that you will be safer in the cabin than on deck."

"Will you please to tell me what has happened, sir, or what is going to happen?" asked the lady; and the listener thought he had never heard a sweeter voice, though he might not have thought so if he had heard it at Bonnydale, or anywhere else except in the midst of the din of pealing guns and the rattling of musketry.

"I can tell you what has happened; but as I am not a prophet, I cannot so accurately inform you in regard to what is going to happen," he replied.

"But what has occurred on board of the Havana?" she interposed, rather impatiently.

"The Havana has been captured by an expedition, of which I have the honor to be in command, from the United States gunboat Bronx. Just now we are defending ourselves from an attack of the soldiers in the place. As to the future, miss, I have no reasonable doubt that we shall be able to get the steamer and two schooners we have also captured alongside the Bronx, where all the prizes will be subject to the order of her commander. Permit me to advise you to retire to the cabin, miss, and later, I shall be happy to give you all the information in my power," said Christy, touching his cap to her, and pointing to the companion way.

She accepted the advice, and went down the steps. The young officer had no time then to wonder who and what she was, for he realized that there was little hope of stopping the desultory firing from behind the cotton pile; and perhaps by this time the soldiers realized what had become of their four field pieces, for they knew that the Havana had not been armed when they loaded her with cotton.

Christy went forward to set the officers at work in picking up the two prizes, and as he stopped to look down into the engine room, he felt his cap knocked off his head, and heard the whizzing of a bullet unpleasantly near his ears. He picked up his cap, and found a bullet hole through the top of it. If it had gone an inch or two lower, Mr. Flint would have succeeded to the command of the expedition without any ceremonies. Though there was no reason for it, this incident seemed to provoke him, for it assured him that he could not pick up his prizes without exposing his men to this nasty firing for some time longer.

It was now light enough for him to make out the situation of the breastwork of cotton, and he saw that it was a long and narrow pile, probably near a siding of the railroad where the bales had been unloaded from the cars. Another glance at the surroundings in regard to the point enabled him to make up his mind what to do, and he did not lose a moment in putting his plan into execution. The firing of shot and shrapnel at the cotton pile seemed to produce no adequate effect, and he ordered Flint to cease his operations.

"Back her, Mr. Amblen," he added to the pilot. "Back her at full speed."

The schooners were doing very well; instead of wandering off into the bay, they had fallen into the channel, and were drifting with the tide. Several persons appeared on the deck of each of them, and it was plain that a portion of the crews had been asleep on board of them. While he was observing them, he discovered two boats coming out from behind the point, and making for the two vessels. This movement indicated an attempt to recapture the prizes.

"Port the helm, Mr. Amblen, and circle around till the bow points in the direction of those boats coming out from beyond the point," said Christy. "Mr. Flint, man your guns again at once, and drop some solid shot into those boats."

The Havana continued to back till the guns would bear on the boats, and then Flint delivered his fire. The headmost of the boats was smashed, and was a wreck on the bay. The other hastened to pick up the crew, and then pulled for the shore with all possible speed, though not till two other boats, apparently filled with soldiers, were discovered approaching the retreating boat.

Christy did not wait to dispose of these, but mounted the top-gallant forecastle, and ordered the guns to be loaded with shells. Then he waited till the steamer reached a point off the end of the peninsula, when he gave the order to stop and back her. Sighting the first gun himself, he directed the man at the lockstring to fire. He waited a moment for the smoke to clear away, and then, with his glass, he saw several forms lying on the wharf by the side of the cotton pile. He had fired so as to rake the rear of this breastwork, and before the soldiers there understood what he was doing. Those who had not dropped before the fire were picking up their wounded companions, and retreating with all practicable haste.

It was not necessary to discharge the other gun, and it was swung round and brought to bear on the two boats advancing towards the prizes, the men in which were pulling with the most desperate haste. Flint took careful aim this time, and the gun was discharged. The shrapnel with which it was charged did not knock the boat to pieces as a solid shot might have done, but two of the oars were seen to drop into the water, and both boats began to retreat, which was quite a proper thing for them to do in face of such a destructive fire.

There was nothing more to detain the expedition at the place, and the two prizes were picked up, made fast, one on each side of the Havana, and then the bell to go ahead was sounded. The pilot then informed Christy that he had made out the Bronx approaching at a distance of not more than three miles beyond the Seahorse Key. Probably Captain Blowitt had heard the guns, and was coming in to assist in the fight.



Chapter XXVII

The Innocent Captain Of The Garrison


The firing of the musketry was continued from the end of the point by a small squad of soldiers, though the most of them seemed to have gone over to the other side of the peninsula to take part in the attempt to recapture the schooners with boats, which had utterly failed. It was now fairly light, the battle had been fought, and the boat expedition had done all and more than all it had been expected to accomplish.

Christy had hardly expected to do anything more than obtain information that would enable the Bronx to capture the schooners, and nothing had been said about the steamer that had been found there. It appeared from the statement of Captain Lonley that the Havana was the property of his uncle Homer Passford; and doubtless he had chosen Cedar Keys as a safer place, at this stage of the war, to send out his cotton than the vicinity of his plantation.

Christy certainly had no desire to capture the property of his father's brother rather than that of any other Confederate planter, for he had had no knowledge of his operations in Florida. But he was quite as patriotic on his own side as his uncle was on the other side, and as it was his duty to take or destroy the goods of the enemy, he was not sorry he had been so fortunate, though he did regret that Homer Passford had been the principal sufferer from the visit of the Bronx to this coast.

The planter had now lost three schooners and one steamer loaded with cotton; but Christy was satisfied that this would not abate by one jot or tittle his interest in the cause he had espoused. The young man did not think of such a thing as punishing him for taking part in the rebellion, for he knew that Homer would be all the more earnest in his faith because he had been a financial martyr on account of his devotion to it.

The Havana, with one of the schooners on each side of her, was steaming slowly down the channel, and the Bronx was approaching at a distance of not more than three miles. For the first time since he obtained possession of the prizes, he had an opportunity to look them over, and collect his thoughts. From the very beginning of the enterprise he had been extremely anxious in regard to the result.

His orders had been to obtain all the information he could in regard to the position of the vessels that were reported to be at this port, and to do anything the circumstances would permit without incurring too much risk. The adventure had been full of surprises from first to last. Something new and sometimes something strange had been continually exposed to him, and it looked to him just as though all the preparations to accomplish the result he had achieved had been made for his coming.

Before the boats went around into the bay, he had been satisfied with the finding and carrying off of the twelve-pounders. He had hardly expected to do anything more, and he knew that Captain Blowitt would be amused as well as pleased at this rather singular feat. The removal of the four field pieces had rendered the capture of the schooners possible and even easy, as it would not have been if the order of Captain Rowly to drag them over to the wharf could have been carried out.

The taking of the Havana had been rather a side incident, hardly connected with the rest of the affair. Everything had favored the young commander of the expedition, and he had made good use of his opportunities, though he had embraced some of them blindly, without being able to foresee the consequences of his action at the time it was taken. He had time now to review the events of the morning, and the result was in the highest degree pleasing to him.

On board of the two schooners the crew had put in an appearance; but when he inquired of the negroes he learned that the captains of the vessels were not on board. The mate of each was on deck, and they were the only white men. On the rail of the one on the port side sat the fat captain of the garrison of the place. Thus far he had said nothing, and he appeared to be sitting figuratively on the stool of repentance, for he had not been faithful to the trust reposed in him.

Dolly had said he had gone to visit a planter who had a daughter; but this statement did not appear to be true, for he had put in an appearance early, as the Havana was making fast to the first prize. He had left his men in the barrack to sleep off their fatigue and apple jack after their unaccustomed labor in loading the steamer. He had not so much as posted a sentinel, who might have enabled him to defeat the invaders of the port, even with his diminished force. If Homer Passford had been on the spot, his faith in the Providence that watched over his holy cause might have been shaken.

"Good morning, Captain Rowly," said Christy cheerfully, as he walked up to the disconsolate captain. "I hope you are feeling quite well."

"Not very well; things are mixed," replied the fat officer, looking down upon the planks of the deck.

"Mixed, are they?" added Christy.

"I can't see how it all happened," mused the military gentleman.

"How what happened, Captain Rowly?" inquired Christy.

"All the vessels in the place captured, and carried off!" exclaimed the late commander of the garrison.

"I don't discover the least difficulty in explaining how it all happened. You were so very obliging as to allow your men to go to sleep in the barrack without even posting a sentinel at the battery. That made the whole thing as easy as tumbling off a sawhorse," replied the leader of the expedition, without trying to irritate the repentant captain of the forces.

"And, like an infernal thieving Yankee, you went into the fort and stole the guns!" exclaimed Captain Rowly, beginning to boil with rage as he thought of his misfortune.

"Well, it did not occur to me that I ought to have waked you and told you what I was about before taking the guns."

"It was a nasty Yankee trick!" roared the soldier.

"I suppose it was, captain; but we Yankees cannot very well help what was born in our blood; and I have heard that some of your honest and high-toned people have made bigger steals than this one. While I have carried off only four twelve-pounders, your folks have taken entire forts, including scores of guns of all calibres," replied Christy, amused at the view the fat gentleman took of his operations.

"Our people took nothing that did not belong to them, for the forts were within our territory," retorted the soldier.

Captain Rowly protests.

"That was just my case. I have the honor to be an officer of the United States Navy, and as these guns happened to be within the territory of our government, of course it was all right that I should take them."

"You stole the vessels after I ordered you to stop," muttered Captain Rowly.

"Precisely so; but, being in a hurry just then, I hadn't time to stop," laughed Christy.

"Where are you going now? You knew I was on the deck of this schooner, and you have brought me off here where I didn't want to come. I am not used to the water, and I am afraid I shall get sea-sick," continued the fat officer.

"Perhaps we may be able to provide a nurse for you if you are very sick."

"Why don't you answer my question, and tell me where you are going?" demanded the soldier.

"We are going out here a mile or two farther, just to take the air and get up an appetite for breakfast."

"But I object!"

"Do you indeed?"

"And I protest!"

"Against what?"

"Against being carried off in this way. You knew I was on board of the schooner."

"I confess that I did know you were on board, though I must add that it was your own fault."

"I had a right on board of the vessel."

"I don't deny it. You have a sword at your side; but as you neglected to use it, you will excuse me if I ask you to give it to me," added Christy, reaching out for the weapon.

"Give you my sword!" exclaimed Captain Rowly.

"It is a formality rather insisted upon on such occasions as the present."

"I don't see it."

"You don't? Then I must say that I think you are rather obtuse, Captain Rowly, and I shall be under the painful necessity of helping you to see it. As a prisoner of war -- "

"As what?" demanded the soldier.

"I regard you as a prisoner of war, and I must trouble you to give me your sword in token of your surrender."

"I was not taken in a battle."

"Very true; your men fought the battle after you had left them. I have no more time to argue the question. Will you surrender your sword, or will you have the battle now? Two or three of my men will accommodate you with a fight on a small scale if you insist upon it."

"Don't you intend to send me back to the Keys?" asked the captain, whose military education appeared to have been neglected, so that his ideas of a state of war were very vague.

"I have not the remotest idea of doing anything of the sort. Your sword, if you please."

"This sword was presented to me by the citizens of my town -- "

"Here, Boxie and Lanon, relieve this gentleman of his sword," added Christy, as he saw the young lady coming up the companion way.

"Oh, I will give it up, if you really say so; but this is a queer state of things when my sword, presented to me by my fellow-citizens, is to be taken from me without any warrant of law," said Captain Rowly, as he handed the sword to Christy, who returned it when it had done its duty as a token of submission.

The prisoner was marched to the forecastle of the Havana, and put under guard. Christy walked towards the young lady, who had evidently dressed herself for the occasion. She was not only young, but she was beautiful, and the young commander of the expedition was strongly impressed by her grace and loveliness. He had heard her speak in the gloom of the early morning, and she had a silvery voice. He could not but wonder what she was doing on board of a blockade runner.

"Good morning, Miss  --  --  I have not the pleasure of being able to call you by name," Christy began as he touched his cap to her, and bowed his involuntary homage.

"Miss Pembroke," she added.

"I trust you are as comfortable as the circumstances will permit, Miss Pembroke. I hope you have ceased to be alarmed, as you were when I saw you before."

"I am not alarmed, but I am exceedingly anxious in regard to the future, Mr.  --  -- "

"Mr. Passford."

"I only wish to know what is to become of us, Mr. Passford."

"You speak in the plural, Miss Pembroke, as though you were not alone."

"I am not alone, sir; my father, who is an invalid, is in the cabin. The excitement of this morning has had a bad effect upon him."

"I am sorry to hear it. I suppose you embarked in this steamer with the desire to reach some other place?"

"We reside in the State of New York, and all that remain of our family are on board of this steamer, and all we desire is to get home. We have lived two years in Southern Georgia for my father's health."

Christy thought they would be able to reach New York.



Chapter XXVIII

The Bearer Of Despatches


Christy had assured himself that the father of the beautiful young lady was a loyal citizen, and then he pointed out to her in what manner they might reach their home, which was at Newburgh on the Hudson. Mr. Pembroke was not a wealthy man, though he had the means of supporting what was left of his family comfortably. But Christy had to ask to be excused, as the Bronx was but a short distance from the Havana.

He directed Mr. Amblen to stop her, so as to permit the gunboat to come alongside of her. As the Bronx came within hailing distance of the steamer towing the schooners, a hearty cheer burst from the crew on the forecastle of the former, for the prizes alongside of the Havana indicated the success of the expedition. The sea was smooth, and the naval steamer came alongside of the port schooner, and Christy, who had put himself in position to do so as soon as he understood her intention, sprang lightly on board of her.

Captain Blowitt was on the quarter deck, and the commander of the expedition hastened into his presence. Of course Christy could not help realizing that he had been successful, however the circumstances had aided him, and he felt sure of his welcome.

The commander of the Bronx was a man that weighed two hundred pounds, and his fat cheeks were immediately distended with laughter as soon as he saw his executive officer hastening towards him. He almost doubled himself up in his mirth as he looked into the young man's sober face, for Christy was struggling to appear as dignified as the importance of the occasion seemed to require of him. But the commander restrained himself as much as he could, and extended his hand to the first lieutenant, which the young man accepted, and received a pressure that was almost enough to crush his feebler paw. In spite of himself, he could not help laughing in sympathy with his superior.

"I am sorry you did not bring it all off with you, Mr. Passford," said Captain Blowitt, as soon as he was able to speak, for his risibles seemed to have obtained complete control of him.

"I have brought it all off with me, captain," replied Christy, though he had not yet got at the point of the joke, and spoke at a venture.

"What, the whole State of Florida!" exclaimed the commander.

"No, sir; I did not bring it all off with me, for I did not think it would be quite safe to do this, for it might set the Gulf Stream to running in a new course, and derange navigation by making all our charts useless," replied Christy, smoothing down the muscles of his face so that he looked as sober as before.

"I thought from the appearance that you had brought it all off," added Captain Blowitt. "Did I instruct you to bring it off?"

"No, sir; you were considerate enough to say that you did not expect me to capture the whole State, and therefore I have not done it."

"But we heard heavy guns this morning," continued the commander, putting on his sober face, for he could be as serious as a judge, though his adipose structure compelled him to be a great joker at suitable times. "You had no boat guns."

"No, sir; but we picked up four twelve-pounder field pieces, which you see, two of them on carriages, on the forecastle of that steamer. We found the garrison asleep, and we carried off the four guns with which the battery was mounted. We put them on the Seahorse Key, and went into the bay to see what was there, sir. We found two schooners, and on the way we took the steamer. When we were hauling out the two schooners, the garrison woke up, and attempted to drive us off with musketry. We beat them off and sunk two boats with the field pieces. This is my report in brief."

"And a very good report it is, Mr. Passford. I did not expect you to do anything more than bring off full information in regard to the situation at the port," added Captain Blowitt.

"But you ordered me to do anything I could to prepare the way for a visit from the Bronx," suggested Christy.

"And you have prepared the way by bringing off everything at the port, so that there is nothing for the Bronx to do there," said the commander with a smile.

"When I found that the garrison were all asleep, I thought it was my duty not to lose the opportunity that was thus presented to me. Everything was in our favor, and I was led to do one thing after another till there was nothing more to do. I found that Captain Lonley, the worthy gentleman who had made prisoners of Mr. Flint and myself on Santa Rosa Island, was in command of the steamer. He was not glad to see me; and from him I learned that the Havana, which is her name, belonged to my uncle Homer; and so did the schooners."

"Then your uncle has a heavy charge against you, for you have now taken four of his vessels."

"Possibly the Confederate government is behind him in this operation. I don't know; but I am sure that the loss of every dollar he has in the world would not change his views in regard to the justice of his cause. But, Captain Blowitt, there are on board of the Havana a gentleman and his daughter, who reside in Newburgh. He is an invalid and a loyal citizen," continued Christy, as he happened to see Miss Pembroke on the quarter deck of the steamer.

"They wish to go home, I suppose, and there will soon be an opportunity for them to do so," replied the captain, as he went with his lieutenant to take a look at the prizes.

He gave particular attention to the Havana, which it was said had been built to run between Cedar Keys and the port for which she had been named, in connection with the railroad. She appeared to be a good vessel of about four hundred tons, which was as large as the navigation of the channel to the port would permit. She was not fit for war purposes in her present condition, and Captain Blowitt decided to send her to New York. Most of the hands on board of the three prizes were negroes, who were too happy to go to the North.

"Sail, ho!" shouted the lookout on board of the Bronx, while the commander was still discussing his plans with Christy.

"Where away?" demanded the captain.

"Coming down from the northwest," reported a quartermaster.

Captain Blowitt hastened on board of the Bronx, for it did not yet appear whether the vessel was a friend or an enemy. She was a steamer, and she left a thin streak of black smoke in the sky, which indicated that her coal came from British territory.

The Havana and the schooners were left in charge of Mr. Amblen, after the prisoners had been properly disposed of in safe places. Mr. Spinnet, the second assistant engineer, was sent on board of her, for the commander had not full confidence in Dolly, though he permitted him to remain as assistant. The boats used by the expedition were hoisted up to the davits, and the first and second lieutenants were ordered to return to the Bronx, and only six seamen were left on board to guard the prisoners, of whom Lonley was the only dangerous one, at all likely to make trouble.

The Bronx steamed off at her best speed in the direction of the approaching steamer, which appeared to be fast, and to be of that peculiarly rakish class of vessels of which there were so many engaged in the business of blockade running. She was examined by the officers with their glasses; but they were unable to make her out. Her ensign was set on a stern pole; but they could not see whether it was the American or the Confederate flag.

"What do you make of her, Mr. Passford?" asked the captain, as they watched her advance over the smooth sea.

"She is or has been a blockade runner, and that is all I can make out of her," replied Christy.

"She may have run the blockade, fitted in Mobile or some other port as a cruiser, and come out to do what mischief she can. We may have to fight for our prizes, but the splinters will fly before she gets them away from us," said Captain Blowitt, who watched the steamer with an anxious look on his face, resolute as he was in the discharge of his duty. "She is considerably larger than the Bronx."

"As I make her out, she looks something like the Ocklockonee and the Escambia, which we sent to New York, though they had but one smokestack each while this one has two. They were about five hundred tons; and I should think this vessel was of very nearly the same size," added Christy.

"Flies the American flag, sir," reported a quartermaster who had been sent into the main rigging to observe her.

"That may be a trick," said the captain, "though I hardly think it is, for she is larger than the Bronx, and need not resort to tricks."

A little later, she began to hoist her signals on the foremast where they could be plainly seen. Mr. Flint made them out to the effect that the steamer had orders for the Bronx. This settled the question, and there was no more anxiety in regard to her, and there was to be no sea fight for the possession of the prizes.

In less than half an hour the two steamers were within hailing distance of each other, and the stranger sent off a boat with an officer as soon as both vessels had stopped their screws and lost their headway. As Christy watched the approaching boat, he recognized the chief engineer of the Bellevite in the stern sheets. It was Paul Vapoor, his old friend and crony, who waved his cap as soon as he discovered the first lieutenant. The boat came to the side, and Paul mounted the accommodation ladder. He was a demonstrative young man, and he embraced Christy as though he had been a Frenchman, as soon as he reached the deck. He touched his cap to Captain Blowitt, and then delivered several huge envelopes to him, and also a despatch bag.

"Bearer of despatches, sir," said the chief engineer of the Bellevite.

"I see you are, Mr. Vapoor. If you will make yourself at home on board of the Bronx, I will read these papers in my cabin," said the captain, as he went below.

"I think Mr. Passford and I shall not waste any time while you are engaged, captain," replied Mr. Vapoor.

Certain personal and social matters had to be spoken of, and Paul had to ask about Florry Passford first, and Christy's father and mother afterwards, though there was no news to tell.

"What are those vessels off there, Christy?" asked Paul, pointing to the Havana and the schooners.

"They are our prizes," replied the first lieutenant.

"Did you have to fight for them?"

"A little, not much. What steamer is that in which you came, Paul?"

"Our prize," replied Paul, with a smile as though he knew more than he was permitted to tell. "We had an awful fight to get her; but we got her all the same. Poor Mr. Dashington was badly wounded, and he may not get over it."

"I am sorry to hear that. Where was the fight?" asked Christy.

"About a hundred miles off the entrance to Mobile Bay. We were sent to look out for her on account of our speed. She came out, and seemed to think she was going to have her own way. We overhauled her, and captured her by boarding."

"Captain Blowitt wishes to see Lieutenant Passford and Mr. Vapoor in his cabin," said Dave, coming up to them at this moment; and both of them hastened to obey the summons.

"Take seats, gentlemen," said the commander, as he pointed to chairs at the table at which he was seated. "I am ordered back to the Bellevite as first lieutenant, for poor Dashington has been seriously wounded. Mr. Passford is ordered to New York in the Vixen, which brings these despatches, for she must be condemned. Mr. Flint is ordered to the temporary command of the Bronx, though I am unable to understand why it is made temporary. You are to convoy several vessels at Key West in the Vixen, which is fully armed, and has a sufficient crew."

Christy was never more astonished in all his life.



Chapter XXIX

The New Commander Of The Vixen


"Have I done anything to offend the flag-officer, or has he no confidence in me?" asked Christy, who heard in utter surprise that he was ordered to New York in command of the Vixen.

"Certainly not, Mr. Passford," replied Captain Blowitt, with a deprecatory smile which was almost enough to satisfy the young officer. "What could have put such an idea as that into your head?"

"It looked to me just as though I was sent away simply as a prize-master because my services were not needed down here where there is fighting, and is likely to be a great deal more of it," added Christy, not yet quite satisfied. "Perhaps I am banished for the crime of audacity."

"That is a little too bad, Christy," said the commander, shaking his head. "I promised not to use that word again, and you ought not to twit me for it, for it was only a pleasantry on my part."

"It was the farthest thing in the world from my mind to twit you for the word; I was only afraid that they considered me an imprudent officer on board of the flagship. I beg your pardon, Captain Blowitt, and I will never again remind you of the conversation we had on the subject of audacity," answered Christy, rising from his chair and taking the commander by the hand.

"It is all right, Christy, my dear fellow," replied the captain, coming down from the dignified manner of the navy. "I think we understand each other perfectly, and I don't wish to part with the shadow of a shadow between us. We have sailed together too long to be anything but the best of friends; and the fate of poor Dashington reminds me that we may never meet again in this world."

"Whatever you say and whatever you do, Captain Blowitt, we can never be anything but the best of friends, and, so far as you are concerned, I never had an instant of doubt or suspicion."

"Now, Christy," interposed Paul Vapoor, "you entirely mistake the motive which has led to your appointment to the Vixen, for I happen to know something about it. You are not sent simply as a prize-master to New York, but you are put in temporary command of the Vixen because an able, vigilant, courageous officer was required."

"Then I wonder all the more that I was selected," added Christy.

"You wonder!" exclaimed Paul, looking intently into the brown face of the young officer, apparently to discover if there was not some affectation in this manifestation of modesty.

There was nothing like affectation in the composition of Christy Passford, and whatever he had done to distinguish himself, he had done strictly in the line of his duty, and from the purest of patriotic motives. It was the most difficult thing in the world to make him believe that he had done "a big thing," though all others on board of his ship believed it with all their might. Paul Vapoor knew what everybody thought of his friend, and he was surprised that he should be so innocent and ignorant of the great reputation he had won.

"I do wonder," replied Christy, earnestly and honestly. "I believe I am about the youngest officer in the fleet, and if this service requires an able officer, it seems very strange to me that I should have been selected."

"Captain Breaker was consulted in regard to you, though he was not asked to name a commander, for the flag-officer had thought of you himself, and no doubt he had just been reading your report of your voyage to the Gulf in the Bronx," said Paul, laughing. "I don't see how he could do otherwise than select you, Christy."

"You are chaffing me, Paul, as you do sometimes," said Christy with a smile.

"Then the expression of my honest opinion, which is also the opinion of every other officer in the ship, is chaffing you," retorted the engineer.

"I am satisfied; and I am sorry I said a word," added the subject of all these remarks.

"It is a very important and responsible situation to which you are ordered, Mr. Passford," said Captain Blowitt, putting on his dignity again. "Not a few steamers fitted up in part for service as Confederate men-of-war, in spite of neutrality treaties, are expected on the coast. You have diminished the number by two, and I hope you will be able to make a still further reduction of that fleet. We have three vessels to send on for condemnation, and your orders will inform you that there are several others, including another steamer, at Key West; and a Confederate armed steamer could easily recapture the whole of them. You will have to protect a fleet of at least seven vessels; and this command ought to satisfy your ambition. You will also have charge of a despatch bag, to be forwarded to Washington at once; and this must not fall into the hands of the enemy. Sink or burn it if you are captured."

"I don't intend to be captured," added Christy with a smile.

"I remember that you were taken by the enemy on one occasion, and misfortunes may come to the best of officers. You must get ready to sail at once; but you must write your report of your expedition before you leave," added Captain Blowitt, as he rose from his chair, and the trio left the cabin.

Christy gaped several times during the latter part of the interview, for he had not slept a wink during the preceding night. He went to the ward room and began to write his report, while the Bronx and the Vixen proceeded towards the three vessels which had been captured. It was well that they did so, for as they approached the Havana and her consorts they discovered quite a fleet of boats coming out from behind the Seahorse Key, evidently intending to recapture the prizes in the absence of the gunboat. They retired at once as she approached.

Christy was a rapid writer, and his report was soon finished, for the subject was still very fresh in his mind, and he never attempted to do any "fine writing." He had packed his valises, and he took an affectionate farewell of the captain, Flint, and Sampson, as well as the ship's company in a more general way, though he said he expected to be back again in a few weeks. The Vixen's boat was waiting for him, and he embarked in it with Paul Vapoor. In a few minutes he ascended to the deck of the steamer, and the side was manned at his appearance. He was presented to the officers of the ship by the engineer, and all three of them were older men than Christy, though he was their senior in rank, for his commission had been dated back to his enlistment in the navy.

Every one of the officers was a stranger to Christy, though there were a few men who had served in the Bellevite, but not in her original crew. With the customary proceedings he took command of the Vixen, and he found from sundry remarks made to him or dropped in his hearing that his reputation was already established on board. He directed the executive officer to follow the Bronx. In a short time the screw was stopped in the vicinity of the prizes. The Bronx reclaimed the men left on board of the Havana, and Captain Lonley was sent on board of the Vixen.

Christy had been down into his cabin, and taken a hasty glance at the ward room. In addition to his own apartments like those on board of the Bronx, though they were larger, he found a state room opening from the foot of the companion way, and another from the passage way leading to his principal cabin. These two rooms he appropriated to the use of Mr. Pembroke and his daughter, though they were very well provided for on board of the Havana. They were invited on board, and gratefully accepted the accommodations tendered to them.

Mr. Amblen was to retain the place assigned to him as prize-master, and two competent men were found to take charge of the schooners. All the arrangements were completed in a couple of hours, and the prizes of the Bronx were started at once. The negroes were employed in transferring the deckload of the Havana to the holds of the schooners, which were not quite full.

The engineer of the Bellevite was to return to her in the Bronx, and he shook hands at parting with Christy, giving him a letter to Miss Florry Passford; and even her brother could not help seeing that he was greatly interested in her. Three rousing cheers went up from the Bronx as the screw of the Vixen began to turn, and she started on her voyage.

The new commander, though he was very sleepy, gave his first moments to an examination of the vessel. The carpenter and his gang were still engaged in repairing the damage done to her in the engagement with the Bellevite. She was about the size of the two steamers captured by the Bronx, and coming out of the small steamer, she seemed quite large. She carried a midship gun of heavy calibre, and four broadside pieces. She had a crew of sixty men, besides those employed in the engineer's department, selected from the fleet, for the mission of the steamer was regarded as a very important one.

"Your machine looks well, Mr. Caulbolt," said Christy, as he went to the engine room in making his round with the executive officer.

"I fancy it is as good as can be built on the other side of the water," replied the chief engineer.

"Do you know anything in regard to the speed of the Vixen, for that may be a very important matter with us?" asked the commander.

"I do not know very much yet, sir, but I think she is a fast steamer. Mr. Vapoor told me that the Bellevite made twenty-two knots in chasing her, and that no other vessel in the navy could have overhauled her. He gave me the figures," added Mr. Caulbolt, taking a paper from his pocket. "I think she is good for eighteen knots when driven hard."

"I dare say that will do," replied Christy, finishing his examination and retiring to his cabin.

He found Mr. Pembroke and his daughter there. The young lady presented him to her father, who appeared to be about fifty years of age. He was very gentlemanly in his manners, and thanked the captain heartily for the courtesy and kindness with which he had been treated. Later in the voyage he learned that Mr. Pembroke's wife and son had been killed some years before in a railroad accident, and that the money recovered from the corporation was about his only fortune. Miss Bertha, as her father called her, had been educated to become a teacher, but when his health failed, she had devoted herself wholly to him. They had gone to Georgia just before the war, and had lived in the pine woods nearly two years.

"My health is very much improved, and the genial climate just suited my case; but in the present situation, I had rather die at home than live in the South," said the invalid in conclusion.

"Father is ever so much better than when we came to Georgia," added Bertha.

Christy looked at her, and he had never seen a young lady before who made such a decided impression upon him. Of course the reason for this was that she was so dutiful and devoted to her sick father, for not every young and beautiful maiden would have been so entirely unselfish as she was. The commander could not help looking at her till he made her blush by the intensity of his gaze, and after all, it is possible that Christy was as human as other young men of his age. He had never been so affected before, and he hardly knew what to make of it; but he concluded that it was not because she was so pretty, but because she was so good, and so devoted to her father.

In due time the Vixen and her convoy reached Key West. He found only two schooners and a steamer, all loaded with cotton, awaiting his coming, for two others had been sent with another steamer. Christy went on board of them, and as the sea was smooth, he arranged them as he had the others, though tow lines were ready in case of need, and the fleet sailed for the North.



Chapter XXX

The Action With A Privateer Steamer


Christy had made up his lost sleep. On the first day out he had taken Captain Lonley's word that he would not interfere with anything on board, and had then given him a berth in the ward room, where he messed with the officers. Captain Rowly had also been taken on board, and as he was a captain in the Confederate army, innocent as he was, he demanded similar accommodations. His request was granted, but Christy decided to leave him at Key West, for the ward room was full.

The fleet continued on its voyage after the call at the Florida port, and was soon in the Gulf Stream. It was an exceedingly quiet time in the little fleet of vessels, though the drill on board of the Vixen was closely followed up. On the second day they had a mild gale, and the schooners were cast off, and towed astern, one behind the other.

Then the weather was fine again, though the sea was still too rough for the Havana and the Aleppo to tow the prizes alongside. Christy observed the drill a great deal of the time, and Bertha Pembroke was often his companion. He told her all about vessels in the navy, explained actions at sea, but hoped she would not be permitted to see one.

Then he related to her the experience of the Bellevite as a yacht and as a naval vessel, and no one ever had a more attentive listener. He could not conceal it from himself that he was deeply interested in the young lady, and observers would have said that she was not less interested in him. On the fifth day out from Key West, while they were thus agreeably occupied, there was a hail from the fore rigging.

"Sail, ho!" shouted the lookout on the fore crosstrees, where the prudence of the commander required a hand to be stationed at all times, day and night.

"Where away?" called Scopfield, the third lieutenant, who was the officer of the deck.

"Broad on the starboard bow," replied the lookout.

"Can you make it out?"

"A steamer, sir; black smoke behind her," responded the lookout.

Mr. Fillbrook had joined the third lieutenant by this time, and the former reported to the captain. Christy had heard all that had passed, and he immediately began to feel a heavy anxiety in regard to the sail.

"What do you think of her, Mr. Fillbrook?" he asked, after the executive officer had reported to him.

"There are so many steamers coming over from British ports about this time, bound to Confederate ports, that it is not very difficult to guess what she is," replied the first lieutenant. "She is either a blockade runner, or a steamer fitted out to prey upon the commerce of the United States."

"That seems to be plain enough; and from the position in which we find her, she has come out of the Bermudas, or is bound there," added the commander. "Bring my glass from my state room," he continued to his cabin steward, who was sunning himself on the deck.

When it was brought, the captain and the executive officer went forward and mounted the top-gallant forecastle. Mr. Fillbrook procured a glass from the pilot house, and both of them looked long and earnestly at the speck in the distance. The steamer was hull down, and they soon agreed that she was bound to the eastward.

"We have no business with her at present," said Christy, as he shut up his glass.

"But I have no doubt she has already run the blockade, and came out of Wilmington or Savannah. If that is the case, she must be loaded with cotton, which contains a fortune at the present time within a small compass," replied Mr. Fillbrook, who had not been as fortunate as some others in the matter of prizes.

"Very likely," replied Christy, rather coldly, his companion thought. "I do not think I should be justified in giving chase to her, which could only be done by abandoning the convoy."

"Could we not pick up the convoy after we had captured the steamer?" asked the first lieutenant.

"Yes, if some Confederate cruiser does not pick it up in our absence," replied Christy, with a significant smile.

Mr. Fillbrook was evidently very much disappointed, not to say disgusted, with the decision of Captain Passford; but he was too good an officer to make a complaint, or utter a comment. The ship's company had become somewhat excited when it was announced that a sail, with black smoke painting a long streak on the blue sky, was made out. If it was a blockade runner, with a cargo of cotton, it meant a small fortune to each officer, seaman, and others on board.

The new commander had a reputation as a daring leader, and the hopes of the officers and men ran high. They waited eagerly to have the steamer headed to the eastward; but no such order was given, and the chins of all hands began to drop down.

Christy had no interest in the money value of a prize, and yet he could understand the feeling of his ship's company. He was an heir of a millionaire, and he had no occasion to trouble his head about the profits of a capture. He looked at the question from a purely patriotic point of view, and every prize secured was so much taken from the resources of the enemy.

He saw the disappointment painted on the face of the first lieutenant, and he went to his cabin to consider his duty again, and review the reasoning that had influenced him; but he came to the conclusion he had reached in the beginning. He was in charge of six vessels loaded with cotton, and the ship's company of the Bronx and other vessels had an interest in their cargoes. The Vixen was less than a hundred and fifty miles from the coast, and a tug boat, with a bow gun and a crew of twenty-five, could come out and capture the whole fleet without the least difficulty. The risk was too great, and the commander was as firm as a rock.

The next morning, before it was daylight, Mr. Bangs the second lieutenant, who had the mid watch, sent a messenger to the commander to inform him that a sail was made out, which appeared to be a steamer, on the starboard bow, very broad, nearly on the beam. Christy dressed himself in a great hurry, and hastened on deck. It was beginning to be a little light, and the steamer appeared to be about five miles to the eastward of the Vixen, and was headed towards her.

Christy at once concluded that the vessel meant mischief, and he promptly gave the order to beat to quarters. He thought it must be the steamer seen the day before, as she could hardly be a blockade runner for the reason that she was headed towards the fleet. If she desired to break through the blockading squadron, she would be likely to keep as far as possible from anything that might be an armed vessel.

Christy went to his state room to write an order for Mr. Amblen in the Havana, which was hardly a cable's length from the Vixen on the port side, the Aleppo being ahead of her. He had already given his general orders to the prize masters, but this was a special one. In the cabin he found Bertha, who had been awakened by the tramping of the men on deck.

"Pray what is the matter, Captain Passford?" she asked, evidently somewhat alarmed.

"Nothing is the matter yet, Miss Pembroke, but something may be the matter within an hour or two, for there is a sail making for us," replied Christy with the smile he always wore when she spoke to him, or he to her. "In other words there may be an action, for I must defend my convoy."

"Is there any danger?" she inquired.

"Of course there is, for a shot may come through the side of the ship anywhere and at any time. But I have thought of this matter, and I propose to put you and your father on board of the Havana until after the danger is passed. Be kind enough to get ready as soon as possible."

Christy wrote his order, and hastened on deck with it. Hailing the Havana, he ordered the prize-master to send a boat on board. When it came the two passengers were embarked in it and the order sent. The commander did not wait a moment to watch the receding form of the maiden, but immediately directed his attention to the steamer approaching the Vixen.

"Run for that steamer, Mr. Fillbrook," said he, after his first glance.

"Make the course east by north, Mr. Bangs," added the first lieutenant.

"East by north," repeated the quartermaster at the wheel when the order reached him.

"I have just been aloft, and she flies the Confederate flag, Captain Passford," said Mr. Fillbrook. "She is a large steamer, and she is by no means as jaunty as the Vixen."

Both steamers were going at full speed, and it required but a short time to bring them near enough together for something to happen. She was well down in the water, and appeared as though she might be loaded with something besides the appliances of a man-of-war. She looked as though she might be twice as large as the Vixen, and it was soon evident that her speed was nothing to boast of. She certainly was not one of the high-flyer yachts which had been bought up for service in the Confederate navy.

When the two vessels were not more than a mile apart, a column of smoke rose from her waist, as she swung around so that her great gun could be brought to bear, and a shot dropped into the water at least an eighth of a mile short of the Vixen.

"Thank you, sir!" exclaimed Christy. "Half speed, if you please, Mr. Fillbrook."

The commander went to the long English gun in the waist, to which he had already given a great deal of study, and sighted along the heavy piece. He had not forgotten when he pointed the gun on board of the Bellevite, the shot from which had disabled the Vampire, and he had some confidence in his ability to put a shot where he wished it to go, for he had brought all his mathematics and all his physics to bear on the matter, though the best gunners must sometimes fail. When he was ready he gave the word to fire. The ship was shaken by the heavy report, and every one waited with peculiar interest for the smoke to clear away, because the captain had pointed the gun.

Christy had ordered the screw to be stopped, and had waited till the steamer lost her headway. She rolled but slightly, and he had allowed for everything. Glasses were in demand, and a moment later there was a shout went up from the men at the gun, followed by another from the rest of the crew. The shot had upset the great gun on the deck of the enemy. She was swinging round, and beginning to fire her broadside guns, but the shots came nowhere near the Vixen. Christy did not believe there was any naval officer on board of that steamer.

"Keep up the fire with the long gun, Mr. Fillbrook," said the commander, in a low tone, and with no excitement apparent in his manner, for he always studied and labored to appear cool and self-possessed, whether he was so or not, and there was nothing in the present situation to try him in the least.

For a full hour the long gun of the Vixen continued to pelt the enemy with solid shot, about every one of them hulling her or carrying away some of her spars. Her mainmast had gone by the board, and the resistance she was making was becoming very feeble.

"She is full of men, Captain Passford," said Mr. Fillbrook, when the steamer seemed to be almost a wreck.

"I observed that she had a large crew some time ago, and it is better to knock her to pieces than to board her," replied Christy. "Keep her as far off as she is now."

The enemy tried to get nearer to the Vixen, but failed to do so.



Chapter XXXI

A Short Visit To Bonnydale


The firing was continued from the long gun, though only at intervals that would permit any signals to be seen on board of the enemy. When it looked as though there would soon be nothing left of her, she hauled down the Confederate flag at her fore, where she had hoisted it when the mainmast went over. The order to go ahead was given, and in a short time the Vixen was alongside of her.

"Do you surrender?" asked Christy, mounting the rail of his ship.

"We do; there is not much left of the steamer, and I am not justified in throwing away the lives of my men," replied a very spruce-looking officer.

"You will board her, Mr. Fillbrook, with the first division, and take possession of her," said Christy, when he had received the captain's answer. "Ascertain her condition as soon as possible."

The steamer proved to be the Pedee, formerly the Carnfield, Captain Linden. She had run the blockade with a valuable cargo, which more than paid the cost of the vessel, and was then loaded with cotton, and armed for her own protection, as well as to capture anything that fell in her way. She had a crew of eighty men to do her fighting, and the commander confidently expected to pick up a better steamer than the Pedee, to which the greater portion of the ship's company were to be transferred.

"I saw your steamer yesterday afternoon," said the captain; "but she had several other vessels near her, and I thought she might have a whole blockading squadron with her. I kept off, and put about in the night. When I saw the Vixen early this morning, I thought she would just answer my purpose, and I wanted her. A nearer view of her assures me she is exactly the steamer I needed."

"For your sake, captain, I am sorry I cannot accommodate you," replied Christy, laughing at the cheerful expressions of Captain Linden. "I presume you are an officer of the Confederate Navy?"

"No, sir; I am not; but I am a Confederate to the backbone. It was my intention to set up a navy on my own hook. The Pedee was the first vessel, and I intended that the Vixen should be the second, and become my flag-ship."

"Then you came out as a privateer?"

"That's just the color of it. If you hadn't unhorsed my big gun I should have been as polite to you about this time as you are to me. The fact of it is, Captain Passford, you did not manage your ship just right."

"Indeed? In what respect?" asked Christy.

"Well, you see, you knocked my big gun all to pieces, and then, instead of running down and boarding the Pedee, you stood off out of range of my side guns, and knocked the starch all out of us. If you had only boarded us, I could have whipped you out of your boots, for I have got the greatest crowd of fighting dogs that was ever hitched up together."

"Of course I was not aware of your views in regard to the manner in which I ought to have managed the affair on my own part, and therefore I could not handle my ship just as you desired," replied Christy. "As it is, I am afraid you will have to start your navy over again."

Mr. Fillbrook had by this time driven the "fighting dogs" forward, and taken full possession of the prize. On examination, Christy found that, though the Pedee had been terribly battered in her upper works, she was not materially injured below the water line. He sent for Mr. Caulbolt, and required him to inspect the engine, which was not injured in any important part.

Captain Linden had three times attempted to get nearer to the Vixen with the intention of boarding her, but Christy preferred to fight the battle at long range under the circumstances, and he had preserved his distance from the enemy. He had discovered that she had a large crew, and he was vastly more prudent than most of his critics gave him the credit of being. He was surprised, after examining the Pedee, that the captain had hauled down his flag, for the steamer could have stood a good deal more pounding without being used up. He concluded that Captain Linden was full of fight, but, for the want of a naval education, he had not fully comprehended his situation.

It was deemed advisable to transfer one half of the Pedee's crew of "fighting dogs" to the Vixen, as she was not encumbered with any prisoners to speak of, and this was effected without any delay. Mr. Scopfield, the third lieutenant, was appointed prize-master, and instructed to keep as near as practicable to the Vixen on the voyage. Captain Linden and his principal officers were allowed to remain on board. An assistant engineer and two first-class firemen, on their way to New York for examination and promotion, were sent on board of the prize. The two steamers were soon under way, and then it was ascertained that the Pedee's ordinary rate of sailing did not exceed ten knots, and it was not probable that she would be bought into the navy.

The fleet of prize vessels had continued on its course to the north, and was soon overhauled by the Vixen and her capture. The progress of the fleet was very slow, for the Aleppo, which was said to have a speed of ten knots, did very badly towing two steamers. Mr. Pembroke and Bertha were sent on board of the Vixen, and the young lady blushed beautifully when Christy welcomed her return.

Possibly she had feared he might be killed in the action, and had worried about him till his return in safety, with the prize alongside his ship. Her father was very cordial in his congratulations to the young commander, and even said that he and his daughter had prayed that he might not be killed or injured in the conflict; and Bertha blushed all the more when he said it.

Mr. Scopfield was instructed to take one of the schooners of the Aleppo in tow. Five men had been killed on board of the Pedee, and her surgeon had more than he could do with at least twenty wounded men. Dr. Appleton was sent on board of her to assist him. The fleet thus reorganized got under way, and it was found that the log gave better results after the change. Fortunately no enemy interfered with its progress, for Christy felt that his hands were already full.

In the early days of the month of May, he sailed into New York harbor with his fleet of eight vessels, though only three of them were the prizes of the Bronx. He had been absent hardly a month; though he had something to show for the time he had been employed. The vessels were delivered over to the authorities, and the young commander obtained leave of absence to visit his mother and sister at Bonnydale, for his father came on board of the Vixen as soon as he heard the news of her arrival in command of his son.

Captain Passford, Senior, was conducted to the cabin of Captain Passford, Junior, and the meeting of father and son was very affectionate and very demonstrative. Mr. Pembroke and his daughter were presented to the commander's father, and after they had talked over the incidents of the return voyage, the former owner of the Bellevite suspected that relations were altogether pleasant between Christy and Bertha.

He was greatly pleased with the young lady, and whatever else he thought, he could not very well help indorsing his son's good taste. In the course of the subsequent conversation it appeared that Mr. Pembroke owned a small house at Newburgh, but that the occupant of it had a three-years' lease of the premises. Captain Passford immediately extended an invitation to the invalid and his daughter to visit Bonnydale, which became so pressing that it was finally accepted. In the afternoon the entire party took the train for the home of the captain.

Christy's welcome was as hearty as though he had come home a commodore. The visitors were received with a sincere greeting, and Bertha and Florry were soon fast friends. Even if Christy's father had not dropped a hint to Mrs. Passford in regard to the fact that his son was at least tenderly inclined towards the lovely maiden from the South she could not have failed to notice his attentions to her. Later at night his father and mother had a long talk over the matter.

"Christy, I have a couple of envelopes for you," said Captain Passford, as the party seated themselves in the drawing-room after supper.

"Envelopes, father?" asked the young officer curiously. "Base ball or boat-club business?"

"I should say neither; decidedly not," replied his father, taking the documents from his pocket, and handing them to him. "They have an official look, and bear the imprint of the Navy Department."

"What business can the Navy Department have with me now? I have the honor to be the executive officer of the gunboat Bronx, with the rank of master, on detached duty as prize-master," added Christy, as he looked at the ponderous envelopes.

"You can easily answer that question by reading the papers," replied his father.

"A commission!" exclaimed Christy, as he opened the first one. "I am promoted to the rank of lieutenant!"

"And, though you are my son, I must say that you deserve the promotion," added Captain Passford. "I have read your report of the capture of the Ocklockonee and the Escambia, and you have won your spurs, my son. I did not ask for this promotion, or even suggest it to any one."

"Well, I am astonished, confounded, overwhelmed!" exclaimed the young lieutenant, as we are now permitted to call him. "And the commission is dated back far enough to put me over the heads of not a few others of the same rank."

"Perhaps it will please you quite as much when I inform you that the officers you recommended for appointment as masters have been promoted to that rank," added the captain.

"I am even more pleased at their promotion than at my own," replied Christy, opening the other envelope, in which he was addressed as "Lieutenant Christopher Passford." "Ah, ha!" he exclaimed, leaping out of his chair in his excitement, to which he gave way on such an occasion as the present.

"What in the world is the matter with you, Christy?" demanded his mother, astonished at such an unusual demonstration on the part of her son.

"I am appointed to the command of the Bronx, in place of Lieutenant Blowitt, transferred to the Bellevite!" almost shouted the young officer. "If I could have selected a position for myself, this is the very one I should have chosen."

"I heard you say as much as that when you were appointed to the temporary command of the Bronx, and I shall plead guilty of having inserted a hint where it would do the most good," added Captain Passford.

"I am much obliged to you, father; for I don't object to that kind of influence, though I could have commanded the Bronx just as well as a master, which is the rank of her present temporary commander, Mr. Flint. I desire to win my own rank, and not get it by influence. I am ordered to proceed to the Gulf as soon as possible."

In three days he obtained passage in a store-ship steamer; and he spent all this time at home, as perhaps he would not have done if Bertha Pembroke had not been there. Before he reported on board of the store-ship, he visited the Vixen, which was undergoing alterations and repairs, and took leave of his officers. Before dark he was on board of the vessel and on his voyage to the scene of his future operations, where we hope to find him again, doing his best for his whole country, and true to his motto from the beginning, "STAND BY THE UNION."

<eob>

The Adventures Of A Three-Guinea Watch

By

Talbot Baines Reed



Chapter One.

My Infancy And Education -- How I Was Sold And Who Bought Me.

"Then you can guarantee it to be a good one to go?"

"You couldn't have a better, sir."

"And it will stand a little roughish wear, you think?"

"I'm sure of it, sir; it's an uncommon strong watch."

"Then I'll take it."

These few sentences determined my destiny, and from that moment my career may be said to have begun.

I am old, and run down, and good for nothing now; but many a time do I find my thoughts wandering back to this far-off day; and remembering all that has befallen me since that eventful moment, I humbly hope my life has not been one to disgrace the good character with which I went out into the world.

I was young at the time, very young -- scarcely a month old. Watches however, as every one knows, are a good deal more precocious in their infancy than human beings. They generally settle down to business as soon as they are born, without having to spend much of their time either in the nursery or the schoolroom.

Indeed, after my face and hands had once been well cleaned, and a brand - new shiny coat had been put on my back, it was years before I found myself again called upon to submit to that operation which is such a terror to all mortal children.

As to my education, it lasted just a week; and although I am bound to say, while it lasted, it was both carefully and skilfully managed, I did not at all fancy the discipline I was subjected to in the process. I used to be handed over to a creature who took me up and examined me (as if he were a policeman and a magistrate combined), and according as I answered his questions he exclaimed, "You're going too fast," or "You're going too slow," and with that he set himself to "regulate" me, as he called it. I was ordered to turn round, take off my coat, and submit my poor shoulders to his instrument of correction. But why need I describe this experience to boys? They know what "regulating" means as well as I do!

Well in due time I profited by the instructions received, and one day my tutor, after the usual examination, grumpily told me, "You're right at last; you can go." And I did go, and I've been going ever since.

The troubles of my infancy however were not all over. I discovered at a very early age that the one thing a watch is never allowed to do is to go to sleep. They'd as soon think of leaving an infant to starve as of letting a watch go to sleep.

But to my story. Ever since I had left school -- or, in other words, gone through my due course of regulation -- I had remained shut up under a glass-case, lying comfortably upon a bed of purple velvet, and decorated with a little white label bearing the mysterious inscription, "Only Three Guineas." From this stately repose I was only once a day disturbed in order to be kept from sleeping, and had all the rest of my time to look about me and observe what went on in the world in which I found myself.

It was not a big world indeed, but I could see I was not the only inhabitant. All around me were watches like myself, some of a golden complexion, and some -- of which I was one -- of a silvery. Some were big, and made an awful noise, and some were tiny, and just whispered what they had to say. Some were very proud, and showed off their jewels and chains in a way which made me blush for the vanity of my fellow - creatures -- "dear" watches, the ladies called these, and others were as plain as plain could be.

Every now and then our case would be opened, and one of my neighbours taken out and never put back. Then we knew he had been sold, and we who were left spent our time in gossiping about what had become of him, and speculating whose turn would come next. A gold repeater near me was very confident the turn would be his, and so impressed us with the sense of his "striking" importance and claims, that when the next time our glass house was entered, and a hand came groping in our direction, I at once concluded it was his summons into publicity and honour. Imagine my astonishment, then, when the hand, instead of reaching my gold neighbour, took hold of me and cautiously drew me out of the case! My heart leaped to my mouth -- or whatever part of a watch's anatomy corresponds with that organ -- and I was ready to faint with excitement. I had always imagined I was to lie in that case for years, but now, when I was barely a month old, here was I going out into the world.

It made me quite bashful to listen to all the flattering things my master said of me. I was worth twice the price he was selling me at, he said; in fact, if trade had been good he would not have parted with me under three times that price. It was a relief to think the repeater could not overhear this, or he would have sneered in a way to extinguish me altogether. As it was, no other watch was by, so that I was not very much embarrassed.

After turning me over, and feeling my pulse, and listening to the beating of my heart, and taking off my coat and waistcoat to inspect my muscle, my master's customer at last laid me down on the counter and pronounced the sentences with which I have begun my story.

"Then I'll take it," he said, and pulled out his purse. "Stop a bit, though!" exclaimed he; "I'd better have a chain too, my little chap will think more of that than the watch. Let me see some silver chains, will you?"

So my master went and fetched a tray containing a large number of tempting-looking chains.

While he was gone my new owner took me up again in his hand and turned me over and put me to his ear; then as he laid me down again he smiled to himself and murmured.

"Bless his little heart! how proud he'll be!"

I was quite taken aback. Who was this taking upon himself to bless my little heart and prophesy that I should be proud? Then all of a sudden it occurred to me this remark may have been intended to refer not to me, but to the "little chap" the gentleman had just now spoken of. So I recovered my composure, especially when I saw what a kind, gentle face my purchaser had.

He chose a neat, strong silver chain which was forthwith, in accordance with the barbarous practice of the age, fixed to my poor neck. I could not help sighing as I felt for the first time the burden of bondage.

What had I done to be thus chained like a Roman captive, like a dog, like a parrot? But it was no use being in a rage. I swallowed my indignation as well as I could, and consoled myself with the reflection that every watch, even gold repeaters themselves, are subject to the same hardship.

Ah! I was young then, and my knowledge of the world was small. Many a time since I have blessed the chain that held me, just as the ship, could it speak, would bless the cable that saved it from the rocks. Take the advice of an old ticker, you young watches, and instead of rebelling against your chains, rather hope they may be strong and sound in every link!

"That will be just five pounds, won't it?" said my purchaser. "Here is a bank note. Never mind about doing it up, I'll just slip it into my pocket. Good-morning."

And with that I was conscious of being lowered into a dark, deep pit, and without time to bid my comrades good-bye, or to take a last look at my old master, I felt myself hurried away I knew not whither.

This, then, was my first step into the world.

I lay untouched and apparently forgotten for several hours. Gradually getting my eyes accustomed to the darkness, and looking about me as far as I was able, I heard a ticking going on in a pocket not very far from the one I was in, which I at once concluded to proceed from the watch of my new master. Thinking I might be able to gain some information from him, I groped about till I found a small hole in my lodgings through which I was able to peep, and call.

"Tick!" said I, as loud as I could, to secure the attention of my fellow-watch.

"Who's that?" at once exclaimed the other.

"I'm a new watch, bought to-day."

"Humph! How much?"

"Three guineas."

"Chain and all?"

"No; five pounds with the chain."

"Humph, I cost thirty guineas. Never mind, you're for the boy."

"What boy?"

"The governor's. I heard him say he was going to get him one. That boy will be spoiled, as sure as I go on springs; he's made such a lot of. Have you been regulated?"

"I should think I have!" exclaimed I, in indignant recollection of my education.

"All right; keep your temper. What time are you?"

"Seven minutes to six."

"Wrong! It's seven and three-quarters!"

"How do you know?"

"Because that's what I make it."

"How do you know you are right?" I asked, wondering at my own impudence in thus questioning an old ticker.

"Look here, young fellow," said the other in an awful voice; "you don't seem to know you are addressing a gold watch that has neither gained nor lost a minute for five years! There! You may think yourself clever; but you're too fast."

"I'm sure I beg your -- "

"That'll do!" said the offended veteran. "I want no more words."

I was completely shut up at this, and retired back to my pocket very crestfallen.

Presently I began to feel drowsy; my nerves seemed to get unstrung, and my circulation flagged. It was long after the time I had generally been in the habit of being wound up; and I began to be afraid I was really going to be left to go to sleep. That, by this time, I knew would be nothing short of a calamity. I therefore gave a slight tug at my chain.

"What's the matter?" it said, looking down.

"I've not been wound up."

"I can't help that," said the chain.

"Can't you let him know somehow?" I gasped, faintly.

"How can I? He's busy packing up books."

"Couldn't you catch yourself in his fingers or something? I'm in a bad way."

"I'll see," said the chain.

Presently I felt an awful tug at my neck, and I knew the chain had managed to entangle itself somehow with his fingers.

"Hullo!" I heard my master exclaim, "I mustn't smash Charlie's chain before I give it to him. I'd better put it and the watch away in my drawer till the morning. Heigho! it'll be a sad day for me to-morrow!"

As he spoke he drew me from the pocket, and, disengaging the chain from his button-hole, he laid us both in a drawer and shut it up. I was in despair, and already was nearly swooning from weakness.

He had shut the drawer, and his hand was still on the knob, when all of a sudden he exclaimed, -- 

"By the way, I must wind it up, or it'll stop!"

With what joy and relief I saw the drawer again opened, and felt myself taken out and wound up! Instantly new life seemed to infuse itself through my frame; my circulation revived, my nerves were strung again, and my drooping heart resumed its usual healthy throb. Little did my master think of the difference this winding up made to my health and comfort.

"Now you're happy!" said the chain, as we found ourselves once more in the drawer.

"Yes; I'm all right now, I'm glad to say," said I. "What's going to happen to us to-morrow?" I asked presently.

"We're going to be given to the boy, and he's going to school;" so the silver chain told me. "Nice time we shall have of it, I expect."

After that he went to sleep, and I fell to counting the seconds, and wondering what sort of life I was destined to lead.

About an hour after I heard two voices talking in the room.

"Well," said one, and I recognised it at once as my master's, "the packing's all finished at last."

"Ah, Charles," said the other, and it seemed to be a woman's voice speaking amid tears, "I never thought it would be so hard to part with him."

"Tut, tut!" said the first, "you mustn't give way, Mary. You women are so ready to break down. He'll soon be back;" but before my master had got to the end of his sentence he too had broken down.

For a long time they talked about their boy, their fine boy who had never before left his parents' roof, and was about now to step out into the treacherous world. How they trembled for him, yet how proudly and confidently they spoke of his prospects; how lovingly they recalled all their life together, from the days when he could first toddle about, down to the present.

Many tears were mingled with their talk, and many a smothered sob bespoke a desperate effort to subdue their common sorrow. At last they became quieter, then I heard my master say, -- 

"I positively have never shown you the watch I got for him," and with that he opened the drawer and produced me.

"Oh, Charles," cried the mother, "how delighted he will be, and what a capital watch it is!"

And she looked at me affectionately for a long time, for her son's sake, smiling through her tears, and then put me back.

Need I say that as these two knelt together that night, their only son was not forgotten in their prayers?

So ended the first day of my adventures.



Chapter Two.

How I Was Presented To A Boy, And Of A Certain Journey We Took Together.

Very early next morning, when my hands scarcely pointed to five o'clock, the little household was astir. There was a noise of hurried going and coming, and of trunks being carried down stairs, and for the first time I heard mingled with the sedate voices of my master and his wife, another voice, cheery and musical, which I at once guessed to belong to my future lord and master.

It was not till after this bustle had been going on for a good while that I was taken out of the drawer and put back into the pocket in which I had spent so many anxious hours the day before. But here I was destined not to remain long, as will be seen.

Breakfast was a sad meal to that little family. Even the gay, high - spirited boy was sobered in anticipation of the coming parting, and as to his parents, they dared not open their lips for fear of breaking down.

Then there was a rumbling of wheels in the street, and a banging about of boxes at the hall door; then a last long embrace between mother and son. She no longer resisted her grief, and he for the time forgot everything but her he was leaving; then father and son stepped into the cab and drove away.

I felt the father's heart beating quicker and his chest heaving deeper as we proceeded. Presently his hand stole to the pocket where I lay hid, and he said -- 

"Charlie, boy, I've said all I have to say to you. You will remember our talk last night, I am sure, and I shall remember it too. I have no greater wish than to see my boy brave and honest and true to himself. Remember always I am your father, and never hesitate to tell me whenever you are in trouble, or danger, or -- and I hope this won't often be -- in disgrace. See here," said he, drawing me forth, "this is a watch which your mother and I have got for you. Think of us when you use it; and mind this, Charlie, make the best use of time, or time will become your enemy."

The poor man faltered out these words with a half-broken heart, as he handed me to his son.

The boy's eyes brightened and his face became radiant at the sight of his unexpected treasure. What boy does not covet a watch of his own at some time or other?

"Oh, father!" he cried, "how good and kind of you! What a beauty!"

The father smiled to see his son's delight, and helped to fasten the chain to his button-hole.

"You and mother are bricks!" exclaimed Charlie, feasting his eyes upon me, and half wild with delight. "How did you know I was longing to have one?"

"Were you?" inquired the father.

"Of course I was, and you knew it. What a swell I shall be! And it will always be sure to remind me of home."

While this talk was going on I had leisure to examine my new owner. Picture to yourselves a curly-haired, bright-eyed boy of thirteen with honest, open face, good features, and winning smile. He is big for his age, and strongly built. At present his form is arrayed in a brand-new suit of grey; his collar is new and his tie is new, his boots are new and his socks are new; everything is new about him, down to the very guard of his hat, and he himself is the newest and purest of all. Was ever such a radiant young hero turned loose into the world?

And now, over and above his other glories, he had me to crown all. The graceful curve of my chain on his waistcoat gave that garment quite a distinguished appearance, and the consciousness of a silver watch in his pocket made him hold his head even higher than usual.

"He is a beauty!" again he broke out, "exactly the kind I like most. I'll take ever such a lot of care of him." And so saying, he began to swing me at the end of the chain, till I suddenly came sharply into collision with the door of the cab.

"Hullo," exclaimed my young master, "that won't do. I'll put him away now. It was good of you, father."

With that we reached the railway station, and in the bustle that ensued I was for the time forgotten.

Charlie's trunks were duly labelled for Randlebury, and then came the hardest moment of all, when father and son must part.

"I wonder if you'll be altered, Charlie, when I see you again."

"Not for the worse I hope, anyhow," replied the boy, laughing.

"Tickets, please!" demanded the guard.

"There goes the bell," said Charlie, pulling me out of his pocket. "They're very punctual. Hullo, we're off! Good-bye, father."

"Good-bye, boy, and God bless you."

And there was a close grasp of the hand, a last smile, a hasty wave from the window; and then we were off.

How many grown-up men are there who cannot recall at some time or other this crisis in their lives, this first good-bye from the home of their childhood, this stepping forth into the world with all that is familiar and dear at their backs, and all that is strange and unknown and wonderful stretching away like a vast landscape before them? How many are there who would not give much to be back once more at that threshold of their career; and to have the chance of living over again the life they began there with such bright hopes and such careless confidence? Ah, if some of them could have seen whither that flower-strewn path was to lead them, would they not rather have chosen even to die on the threshold, than take so much as the first step forth from the innocent home of childhood!

But I am wandering from my story. For half an hour after that last good-bye Charlie leaned back in the corner of his carriage and gave himself up to his loneliness, and I could feel his chest heaving to keep down the tears that would every now and then rise unbidden to his eyes.

But what boy of thirteen can be in the dumps for long? Especially if he has a new watch in his pocket. Charlie was himself again before we had well got clear of London, and his reviving spirits gradually recalled to his memory his father's parting gift, which had for a while been half forgotten amid other cares.

Now again I was produced, I was turned over and over, was listened to, was peeped into, was flourished about, was taken off my chain, and put on again with the supremest satisfaction. At every station we came to, out I came from his pocket, to be compared with the railway time. By the clock at Batfield I was a minute slow -- a discrepancy which was no sooner discovered than I felt my glass face opened, and a fat finger and thumb putting forward my hand to the required time. At Norbely I was two minutes fast by the clock, and then (oh, horrors!) I found myself put back in the same rough-and-ready way. At Maltby I was full half a minute behind the great clock, and on I went again. At the next station the clock and I both gave the same time to a second, and then what must he do but begin to regulate me! After a minute calculation he made the astounding discovery that I had lost a minute and a quarter in four hours, and that in order to compensate for this shortcoming it would be necessary for him to move my regulator forward the two hundred and fortieth part of an inch. This feat he set himself to accomplish with the point of his scarf-pin while the train was jolting forward at the rate of thirty miles an hour!

I began to grow nervous. If this was a sample of what I was to expect, I had indeed need be the healthy, hardy watch I was represented to be by my maker.

And yet I could not be angry with my brave, honest little tormentor.

It was a sight to see him during that long journey, in all the glory of a new suit, with a high hat on his head for the first time, and a watch in his pocket. In his pocket, did I say? I was hardly ever so lucky. Every five minutes he whipped me out to see how the time was going. If he polished me up once with his handkerchief, he did it twenty times, and each time with such vigour that I was nearly red-hot under the operation. And no sooner was he tired of polishing me, than he took to paying his hat the same attention, till that wretched article of decoration must have trembled for its nap. Then he would take to whistling and singing (what boy can help doing one or the other in a train?) and as I heard all his little artless songs and gay chirping, I thought it the pleasantest music one could possibly listen to. And, not to let his hands be less busy than his throat, he would bring out the wonderful six-bladed knife his uncle had given him, and exploring all its wonders, and opening all its blades at the same time, together with the corkscrew, the gimlet, the pincers, and the button-hook, at different angles, would terrify the lives out of his fellow-passengers by twirling the awful bristling weapon in his fingers within a foot or so of their faces.

"Mind, dear," said an old lady on the seat opposite, "you'll cut your fingers off, I'm certain."

"Oh, no, I won't," exclaimed he, taking out his handkerchief, and beginning to polish the blades one after another.

The old lady trembled as she watched him, and sighed with relief when the operation was over.

Presently, having nothing particular to do, he stared at her. "Would you like to know the time, ma'am?" he inquired.

"If you please," replied the good old soul.

"Well, it's just seventeen minutes and nineteen seconds past three by my watch. Would you like to see for yourself, ma'am?"

And, pleased to have a confidant of his possessions, he loosed my chain, and flourished me bodily before the eyes of his new friend.

She took me kindly, and said, "What a fine watch you've got, dear?"

"Yes," replied he, with lofty condescension; "like to see his works?"

"You should be careful, you know," she said, "watches so easily get out of order."

"Oh, I won't hurt it," said he, proceeding to take off my coat and waistcoat. "There! there are his works. Don't breathe hard, or you'll damp them."

So the old lady held her breath and peeped in, much to my young master's gratification.

"And so you're going to school, my man?" said she presently.

"Yes; who told you! Did my father tell you?"

"No, I guessed."

"Did you though? Can you guess what the name of the school is?"

"No, I can't do that."

"Have a try."

"Well, then, I guess Randlebury, because my boy is there, and it's the only one I can think of."

The boy stared at her. "How ever did you know that?"

"What!" she exclaimed, "you don't mean to tell me you are going to Randlebury?"

"I am, though."

"Well, I never," cried the good old soul, "who would have believed it! Think of your going to the same school as my Tom."

"Is Tom your boy's name?"

"Yes."

"Is he a nice boy?"

Such a question to ask any one's mother!

The old lady burst into tears instead of answering -- a proceeding which greatly alarmed and disconcerted my master.

"Don't cry," he said excitedly. "Look here! I didn't mean -- oh, don't! Look here, shall I tell you the time? It's -- it's sixteen minutes to four -- I didn't mean, you know. Of course he's a nice boy -- oh, don't cry!"

And he got into such a state that the old lady dried her eyes at once.

"Never mind me, dear," said she, "it wasn't you made me cry: it was thinking of my Tom. You'll be a good friend to him, won't you, dear?"

"Perhaps he won't like me."

"Now I'm sure he will," exclaimed the lady warmly; so warmly that I quite loved her for my little master's sake. Both were silent for some time, and then Charlie asked, -- 

"I say, has he got a watch?"

"No."

"Oh, never mind," said he, in a tone of evident relief, "I can tell him the time, you know, whenever he wants to know."

"To be sure you can."

Then Charlie took to polishing me and the chain up again, an occupation which lasted until we arrived at Gunborough Junction, where passengers changed for Randlebury.

"Good-bye, dear," said the old lady, as Charlie proceeded to get together his things.

"Good-bye," said he. "Would you like to know the time before I go? It's eight past five. Good-bye."

"May I give you a kiss?" said she.

Charlie blushed, but offered his cheek hurriedly.

"And you promise to be a good friend to Tom," said she, kissing him, "won't you?"

"All right," said the boy, jumping out on to the platform, and running to see after his luggage.

In a moment however he returned to the window and put his head in.

"I say," said he, "what's his name -- Tom what?"

"Drift," said the old lady, "Tom Drift!"

"Oh!" replied my master, "all right, good-bye;" and next minute the train went on, and he was left standing surrounded by his luggage in the middle of the platform, like a lighthouse in the middle of an island.



Chapter Three.

How My Master And I Reach Randlebury In State, And Of A Great Calamity.

My master and I had nearly an hour to wait on the platform at Gunborough before the Randlebury train came up. Part of this interval Charlie, for fear he might forget to do it at night, devoted to winding me up; an experiment which nearly closed my career for ever, for he first began to turn the key the wrong way; then, when he had discovered his mistake, he started in the other direction with a sudden dash, and finally overwound me to such an extent that I expected every second to hear my heart break with the strain.

Then he sat on his boxes, whistling to himself and drumming his heels on the platform. The train came up at last, and in he jumped, finding himself and a grave elderly gentleman in joint possession of the carriage.

Charlie was too busy staring out of the window, whistling, and brushing the dust off his new hat, to take much notice of his companion until the train was fairly started; then, observing the gentleman look at his watch, the boy at once recognised a bond of sympathy and pulled out me.

"I wonder if I'm the same as you?" he said eagerly.

"I hope you are not," said the gentleman, "for I'm a quarter of an hour fast."

"Are you though?" said the boy, in astonishment.

"Why don't you put it right? I would."

"It's a bad thing to put a watch back, my boy; besides, I rather like keeping mine a little fast."

"Do you? I say, do you think my watch is a good one?" said Charlie, thrusting me into the hands of his astonished travelling companion.

"I can't say, my boy. I know nothing about watches. It looks a nice one."

"Yes, father gave it me. I say, are you going to Randlebury?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the school? I'm going there."

"Oh, yes; I know the school. And you are going there, are you?" inquired the gentleman, with interest.

"Yes, I'm a new boy, you know."

"And how do you like going to school?"

"Oh, all right; only I don't know what it'll be like. Eat I say, I don't suppose there's many of the boys my age have got watches, do you?"

The gentleman laughed. "I dare say not," he said. Charlie was silent for a time, and then asked, -- 

"I say, what sort of fellow's the head master; do you know?"

"I've seen him now and then," said the gentleman.

"Is he awfully stuck-up and strict?" asked the boy anxiously.

"I really don't know," said the gentleman, biting his lips; "I hope not."

"So do I. I wish my father was the head master," said Charlie, the tears for a moment starting to his eyes at the bare thought of such happiness.

The gentleman looked at him very kindly, and said, -- 

"Cheer up, my little man; perhaps it won't be so bad after all."

Charlie smiled again as he said, -- 

"Oh, yes, I've got to be brave, you know, because I promised father. But I say, if you ever come to the school, ask for me -- my name's Charlie Newcome -- will you? because I don't know any of the fellows; and besides," added he, brightening at the idea, "we can see if our watches are going the same, you know."

The gentleman promised, and soon after this the train arrived at Randlebury. The boy bid his companion farewell, and went off as before to look after his belongings.

As he was standing surrounded by his baggage, a man in the dress of a coachman came up to him and said, -- 

"Are you the young party from London for the school?"

"Yes," replied the boy.

"It's all right," said the man; "give us hold of these things, and jump inside my trap."

"How far is it?" he asked of the man.

"Better of three miles."

"Is it, though? I say, can't you put the things inside, and then I can ride on the box?"

"All square," said the man; "hop up, my young bantam."

The young bantam did hop up, and they were soon on their way to the school.

I need hardly say it was not long before Charlie and the driver were on confidential terms. The boy duly produced first me and then his six - bladed knife to the admiring eyes of his new companion, insisting on his taking both into his hands, and demanding his candid opinion on their merits.

Presently a wholly new idea seemed to strike him.

"I say, driver, what's your name?"

"Jim, if you want to know," replied that public servant.

"Well, Jim, I wish you'd just get inside and look after the luggage, and let me drive; will you?"

The man opened his eyes and his mouth at the proposition, and then bursting out laughing.

"Hark at him!" he exclaimed; "did you ever hear the like? Me get inside and let a young shaver like him drive me -- ho! ho!"

"Come along, Jim; I know the way; and it would be a lark. Come on, dear Jim."

And the boy got quite affectionate in his eagerness.

"Dear Jim," who was one of those easy-going men who don't take much persuading when they're approached the right way, at length consented to hand over the reins to Charlie; and after waiting some time to see for himself that the boy could really manage, after a fashion, to drive the horse, he further gratified him by descending from the box, and leaving him in sole possession of the coveted position.

"Get inside, Jim," cried the boy, with beaming face.

Jim, his face all one grin, obeyed, saying, as he did so, -- 

"Well, if you ain't a queer one! That's the house there, on the top of that hill. Mind how you go, now."

"All right; you get inside. And I say, Jim," added the boy, leaning down from his perch, "make yourself comfortable, you know, and don't bother about me. I want to drive all by myself, and you aren't to help me a bit, mind."

So the driver got inside, and seating himself among the luggage, proceeded to make himself "comfortable," as instructed.

Meanwhile my master, as proud as an emperor, lashed his steed into a canter, and rattled off in the direction of the school.

"That'll astonish some of them caps and gowns, I reckon," I heard cabby say to himself. "You see, if he don't drive us right up to the front door, as comfortable as if we was the sheriff of the county."

You may imagine what was the astonishment of the grave and reverend authorities at Randlebury School when they perceived, coming up the carriage drive, a cab with a boy of thirteen perched on the box, tugging at the reins, hallooing to the horse, and making his whip crack like so many fireworks; while inside, comfortably lounging amid a pile of luggage, reclined cabby at his ease, grinning from ear to ear.

The young Jehu, perfectly innocent of the sensation he was making, pursued his triumphant career at full speed up to the very hall door, pulling up his steed with such a sudden jerk as almost to bring him into a sitting position, while the piled-up luggage inside fell all about the cab with the shock, to the imminent risk of cabby's life.

"Well, if that ain't one way of doing it, I don't know what is!" exclaimed that astonished charioteer, emerging from his precarious quarters. "Down you jump, young un."

Charlie descended, all jubilant with triumph, and pulling out me, exclaimed, "We did that three miles in half an hour -- not bad, was it?"

In his excitement he had not observed that the door of the house had opened, and that these words, instead of being addressed to the cabby, had been spoken to a stately female who stood in the portal before him.

Now however he caught sight of her, and not knowing exactly what was the proper thing to do under the circumstances, stared at her.

"What do you say, young man?" inquired she, in a solemn voice.

"Oh," said the boy, "I didn't know it was you. I was telling Jim we had come from the station in half an hour. You know we started at 6.2 by my watch, and it's just 6.33 now. Would you like to see for yourself, marm?" added he, preparing to unfasten the chain.

"I know what the time is, young man," replied she sternly; "and pray, who is Jim?" she asked, looking down in solemn perplexity at this queer boy.

"Oh, he's the driver is Jim, and he got inside, you know, and I've driven nearly all the way up by myself; haven't I, Jim?"

"Come inside, sir," said the matron hurriedly, "and don't stand talking to vulgar cabmen and calling them by their Christian names. Your name is Charles Newcome, I suppose? Come this way."

Charlie followed her in, his enthusiasm rather damped at this somewhat frigid greeting, and sorry in his heart he had not been allowed an opportunity of bidding farewell to his friend the driver.

And now I could hear the little fellow's heart begin to beat quicker as he found himself at length for the first time in his life inside a public school. The rows of caps in the corridors, the distant hum of voices through half-opened doors, the occasional shout from the playground, and the fleeting vision of a master in cap and gown, all had for him the deepest and most mysterious interest. As he sat waiting in the matron's room while that worthy lady went to superintend the bringing in of his luggage, his mind became full of wonderings and misgivings. I who lay so near the seat of his emotions could tell what was going on in his breast. He wondered if the pair of socks lying on the table with a hole in each heel, which appeared to be waiting their turn for mending, belonged to the son of the old lady he had met in the train. He wondered if the footsteps in the passage belonged to the head master, and whether that awful being was being fetched to punish him for his crime of driving the cab. He wondered who the boy was who put his head in at the door and drew it back again. With what reverential eyes he followed that hero's retreating form, and how he hung on his whistling.

When would he, he wondered, be sufficiently hardy to whistle within those awful walls? Then he wondered if he was the only new boy, and if so, whether every one would stare at him and laugh at his new coat. He wished he'd got his old one on, then he wouldn't have felt so brand-new. And then -- and then...

But here, tired-out with his long journey and the excitement of the day, a drowsy fit came over him, and without another thought he dropped off to sleep, where he sat. In this attitude the housekeeper found him when she returned.

She could not help feeling rather more than a common interest in this curly-haired, tired-out little fellow, as he sat there in his new clothes, huddled up, with his little hat slipping from his head, and his hand clasping his precious six-bladed knife. Accustomed as she was to boys and their rude ways, this matron had a good deal of softness left in her heart, and I dare say she thought as she watched Charlie that afternoon that if she had ever had a son of her own she would have liked a boy something like the little fellow before her. She went softly up to him, took his hat from its perilous situation, and, lifting him in her strong arms so gently as not to wake him, laid him on her own sofa, and left him there to enjoy his well-merited sleep, while she busied herself about making tea.

It was at this moment that a calamity befell me, which, in my inexperience of the ways and natures of watches, I imagined to be nothing short of fatal. The excitement through which I had passed, and the rough-and-ready usage to which I had been subjected during the day, seemed all of a sudden to overpower me. In some unaccountable way I found my hands caught together in a manner I had never known them to be before; no effort of mine could disengage them, and the exertion thus required, added to the fatigues of the day, produced a sort of paralysis of my whole system without quite losing consciousness. I could feel my circulation become slower and finally stop; my nerves and energies became suspended, and my hands grew numb and powerless. Even my heart ceased to beat, and the little cry of alarm which I gave just before my powers left me failed to bring me any help. I was ill, very ill indeed; to me it seemed as if my last moment had come, and I could not bear the thought of thus early being taken from my young master, whom already I had learned to love as my best, though my roughest friend.

How long I lay thus, speechless and helpless, I cannot say. Once I was just conscious of a slight jerk from my chain as he peeped in and whispered, -- 

"What are you so quiet about down there?"

Of course I could not answer.

"Do you hear? What are you so quiet about?"

It only added to my misery to know that there was a fellow-being so close at hand, and yet that I was powerless to make him aware of my condition. My silence offended him, for he turned away, muttering to himself, -- 

"Sulky humbug! I declare some people haven't so much as the manners of a kitchen clock."

After that I was left to myself, in agony and suspense, to wait the moment of my dissolution.

A long time passed before my master stirred, and when he did the housekeeper's tea was cold. She bustled about to make him some more, and was so kind in buttering his toast and hunting for some jam, that the drooping spirits of the tired-out boy revived wonderfully. Indeed, as the meal proceeded he became on friendly and confidential terms even with so awful a personage as Mrs Packer.

"Would you like to see my knife, ma'am?" he asked.

"Bless me, what a knife it is," cried the lady. "You'll go doing yourself some harm with it."

"That's what the other old lady in the train said," replied Charlie, unconscious of wounding the feelings of his hostess, who fondly imagined she was not more than middle-aged; "but then, you know, she thought it was a fine knife, and I think so too, don't you? I say, marm, do you know Tom Drift?"

The change of subject was so sudden that Mrs Packer stared at the boy, half wondering whether he was not talking in his sleep.

"What about him?" she inquired.

"Oh, only the old lady was his mother, and I promised her -- at least she said -- do you know Tom Drift, ma'am?"

"To be sure; he's one of the boys here."

"Yes -- I say, ma'am, might I see Tom Drift, do you think? I've got something to say to him."

Mrs Packer, wholly at a loss to understand her youthful guest, but at the same time disposed to be indulgent to his little whims, said Tom would be at lessons now, and she didn't think he would be able to come.

"Wouldn't it do in the morning?"

"Oh no," said Charlie, with the gravest face. "I must see him to-night, please, if you don't mind."

The housekeeper concluded that Charlie had some important message from the mother to her son, and therefore rang for a servant, whom she despatched with a message to Master Drift that some one wanted to see him.

In a very little time that hero made his appearance; and as he was the first Randlebury boy Charlie had set eyes on, he appeared for a moment a very awful and a very sublime personage in that little new boy's eyes. But Charlie was too intent on his mission to allow himself to be quite overawed.

"Here's a new boy, Master Drift, wants to speak to you."

"What do you want, young un -- eh?"

"Oh, it's all right, Tom Drift; only I saw your mother, you know, in the train, and she said you were a nice boy, and she sent her love, and I told her I'd let you know the time whenever you wanted, because you ain't got a watch, you know, and I have. I say, would you like to know the time now, Tom Drift?"

All this was rattled out with such eager volubility, that Tom Drift, hero as he was, was fairly taken aback, and looked quite sheepish, as the beaming boy proceeded to pull me out of his pocket.

"Well, it's just -- hullo!"

He saw in an instant something was wrong.

"Why, it says only half-past six -- that must be wrong!"

"It's eight o'clock by the hall clock," said Mrs Packer; "it's just now struck."

Charlie looked at me, opened me, held me to his ear, and then exclaimed, -- 

"Oh! my watch has stopped! My watch has stopped! What shall I do?" and the poor boy, overwhelmed with his misfortune, held me out appealingly, and scarcely restrained the tears which started to his eyes.



Chapter Four.

How I Was Cured Of My Ailments, And How My Master Began Life At Randlebury.

All this while Tom Drift had said nothing, but had stood regarding first my master, and then me, with mingled amusement, pity, and astonishment. At last, when poor Charlie fairly thrust me into his hands, that he might see with his own eyes the calamity which had befallen the watch that had been destined to minister such consolation to his time - inquiring mind, he took me gingerly, and stared at me as if I had been a toad or a dead rat.

"Can't you make it go, Tom Drift? Please do."

"How can I make him go? I don't know what's the row."

"Do you think it would be a good thing to wind it up?" asked Charlie.

"Don't know; you might try."

Charlie did wind me up; but that was not what I wanted. Already I had had that done while waiting at Gunborough Junction.

"What do you say to shaking him?" asked Tom Drift presently. Most people spoke of me as "it," but Tom Drift always called me "him."

"I hardly like," said Charlie; "you try."

Tom took me and solemnly shook me; it was no use. I still remained speechless and helpless.

"Suppose we shove his wheels on?" next suggested that sage philosopher.

Charlie demurred a little at this; it seemed almost too bold a remedy, even for him; however he yielded to Tom's superior judgment.

The heir of the house of Drift accordingly took a pin from the lining of his jacket, and, taking off my coat and waistcoat, proceeded first to prod one of my wheels and then another, but in vain. They just moved for an instant but then halted again, as stiff end lifeless as ever.

For a moment the profound Tom seemed baffled, and then at last a brilliant idea occurred to him.

"I tell you what, I expect he's got damp, or cold, or something. We'd better warm him!"

And the two boys knelt before the fire with me between them, turning me at the end of my chain so as to get the warmth on all sides, like a leg of mutton on a spit.

Of course that had no effect. What was to be done? No winding up, no shaking, no irritation of my wheels with a pin, no warming of me at the fire, could avail anything. They were ready to give me up. Suddenly, however, Tom, who had been examining my face minutely, burst into a loud laugh.

"What a young donkey you are!" he cried. "Don't you see his hands are caught? That's what's the matter. The minute-hand's got bent, and can't get over the hour hand. You're a nice chap to have a watch!"

It might have occurred to Charlie (as it did to me) that whatever sort of watch-owner the former might be, a boy who successively shook, tickled, and roasted me to get me to go, was hardly the one to lecture him on his failings; but my master was too delighted at the prospect of having his treasure cured to be very critical of the physician. And this time, at last, Tom Drift had found the real cause of my indisposition. In endeavouring to pass one another at half-past six, my two hands had become entangled, and refusing to proceed in company, had stopped where they were stopping my circulation and indeed my animation at the same time.

Once more the astute Tom produced his pin; and sticking it under the end of my minute-hand, disengaged it from its fellow and bent it back into its proper position. Instantly, as if by magic, the life rushed back into my body; my circulation started afresh, and my heart beat its old beat. Charlie set up a shout of jubilation, and almost hugged Tom in his gratitude. The latter looked very wise and very condescending -- as had he not a right? -- and, handing me back to my master, said, with the air of a physician prescribing a course of treatment for a convalescent patient, -- 

"You'd better shove him on to the right time, and then keep him quiet, young un."

This Charlie did, and it would be hard to say which of us two was the happier at that moment.

I had scarcely been deposited once more into my accustomed pocket, when a loud bell sounded down the corridors, and made Tom Drift jump as if he had been shot.

"I say, that's the prayer-bell! Come on! unless you want to get into a jolly row."

And without further words he seized the astonished Charlie by the arm, and ran with him at full speed along one or two empty passages, dashing at last in through a big door, which was in the very act of closing as the two reached it.

Charlie was so confused, and so out of breath with this astonishing and frantic race, that for a minute he did not know whether he was standing on his head or his heels.

There was, however, no time for solving the problem just then, for Tom Drift, still retaining his grasp on his arm, dragged him forward, whispering, -- 

"This way; wasn't that a close shave? Get in here, and don't make a noise."

Charlie obeyed, and found himself in a pew, one of a congregation of some two hundred boys, assembled in the school chapel for evening prayers. At the far end of the chapel he could hear a man's voice, reading; but what it said it was impossible for him to make out, owing to the talking that was going on around him.

He looked eagerly and curiously down the long rows of his new schoolfellows, feeling half afraid at the sight of so many new faces, and half proud of being a Randlebury boy, with a right to a seat in the chapel. And as he looked he saw some faces he thought he should like, and some that he thought he would dislike; there were merry, bright-eyed boys, like himself, and there were ill-tempered, sullen-looking boys; there were boys haggard with hard-reading, and boys who looked as if their heads were altogether empty.

But what puzzled and troubled Charlie not a little was to notice, that though the school was supposed to be at prayers, and though most of them must have been within hearing of the reader's voice, a considerable proportion of the boys before him were neither listening nor evincing in their behaviour the slightest sign of reverence for the service in which they were engaged.

He was sorry to see that Tom Drift was laughing and whispering with his companions; entertaining them with an account of the way in which he had set the new "young un's" watch to rights, and what a shave they had from being shut out from prayers. (Charlie wondered, as he noticed all this, whether, after all, he would have lost much good if that misfortune had happened.) And one or two boys were chewing toffee; at least, Charlie thought it must be toffee, their mouths were so brown, and they made such a noise over the process of mastication; some, with their hands in their pockets, were listlessly staring up at the roof; and some were reading books, anything but prayer-books, under the desk.

Charlie did his best to attend to what the invisible and inarticulate voice was saying, and tried to recall what his father had told him about not letting new scenes and new companions tempt him to forget of neglect the lessons of duty and religion which he had learned at his parents' home; but it was not easy work, and to him it was a relief when all was over, and the boys proceeded to file out of the chapel.

"Where are they all going?" he inquired, turning round to where Tom Drift had been standing.

That young man, however, was no longer there. He had gone off to enjoy the questionable luxury of roast potatoes in a friend's study, entirely forgetting his young and forlorn charge.

Charlie was puzzled. He was sure he could never find his way back to Mrs Packer's through such a maze of passages, and he knew not where else to go.

As he stood watching in despair the last remnant of his fellow - worshippers passing out, and wondering what was to become of him, he became aware of two big boys stopping in front of him and looking at him.

"That's him!" said one, whose grammar was perhaps not his strongest point at this moment.

"Why, he's only a kid!" said the other, who, being sixteen, felt fully justified in so designating my young master.

"I can't help that, I know it's him," said the first.

"I say, you fellow," added he, addressing Charlie, "wasn't it you drove up to the front door in a cab this afternoon?"

Charlie trembled in his shoes. More than once had his heart misgiven him, he had committed an unpardonable offence in the mode of his advent to Randlebury; and now, with these two awful accusers before him, he felt as if his doom was come.

"I'm very sorry," he began; "yes, it was -- I didn't mean, I'm sure."

"What did you do it for, if you didn't mean, you young muff? -- why don't you go off to bed?"

"Because I don't know where to go, and Tom Drift -- "

"Do you know Tom Drift?"

"Yes -- that is, I met his mother," stammered Charlie, becoming more and more embarrassed.

Both the big boys burst out laughing. "What a treat for his mother!" said one. "I suppose she told you Tom was a real nice boy?"

"Yes."

"I thought so; so he is, isn't he, Joe?" and both boys laughed again.

"And she gave you a kiss to take to him?"

"No," said Charlie, blushing scarlet; "she did give me a kiss, but not for him."

It was a hard effort for the poor boy to come out with this admission, but candour compelled it.

"Oh, she gave you one for yourself, did she?" and again they laughed. "What a dear old noodle she must be!"

"She was very kind to me," said Charlie, not liking to hear his friend made fun of.

Just then a master came by.

"What are you three boys doing here?" he asked.

"Please, sir, this is a new boy," replied he who had been called Joe, "and he doesn't know where to go."

"Hum!" said the master, "I thought Mrs Packer would have seen after that. Let me see. You had better take him to your dormitory to-night, Halliday; there's a vacant bed there. Bring him to the doctor's room after breakfast to-morrow," and he passed on.

"Here's a treat!" exclaimed Joe, with a not ill-natured grin. "This comes of stopping and talking to young scarecrows. Come along, youngster; think yourself lucky you've been handed over to me. I wear patent leather boots, and they don't need as much blacking as some of the fellows'."

Charlie was at a loss to understand what the material of Master Halliday's boots had to do with his own alleged good fortune in falling into the hands of such a guardian; but he said nothing, and, reassured by the good-humoured face of his conductor, followed him cheerfully from the chapel.

"Hullo, Joe! got a donkey at last?" cried some one, as the two wended their way up the stairs leading to the dormitories.

"Looks like it," was Joe's reply.

It was not very long before Charlie learned that the four-footed beast thus vaguely referred to was a polite term which the big boys at Randlebury used to designate their fags.

"Come in here," said his conductor, turning in at a small door.

Charlie found himself inside a small apartment, measuring about ten feet square, lighted by a small window, warmed by a small fire, decorated with a small bookcase, and furnished with a small table, two small chairs, and a small cupboard.

"This is my den; and mind when you clean the window you don't crack that pane more than it is; and when you brush my things, you know, see the shelf isn't dirty, because I sometimes keep my worms there -- do you hear? And now come along to bed; they put out lights at half-past nine."

The mention of the time recalled me instinctively to Charlie's thoughts. He could not resist the temptation, suggested half by anxiety and half by vanity, of taking me out and looking at me.

"Hullo! What, have you got a watch?"

"Yes," said Charlie meekly, not exactly knowing whether his companion would be admiring or indignant with him.

"More than I have," was all Joe's rejoinder.

Charlie's generosity was at once touched.

"Oh, never mind, we can go shares sometimes, if you like, you know," said he, not without an effort.

"I don't want your watch," was Master Halliday's somewhat ungracious reply. "Let's have a look at it, will you?"

He took me, and examined me; and evidently would not have objected to be the possessor of a watch himself, though he tried to make it appear it was a matter of indifference to him.

"Why don't you get your father to give you one?" asked Charlie innocently.

"Because I haven't got a father."

"Not got a father! Oh, I am sorry!" and the starting tears in the little fellow's eyes testified only too truly to his sincerity. "Look here," he added, "do take the watch, please; perhaps you would like it, and my father would give me another."

Joe Halliday gazed at his young fag in amazement.

"Why, you are a queer chap," he said. "I wouldn't take your watch for anything; but I tell you what, I'll ask you the time whenever I want to know."

"Will you really?" cried the delighted Charlie. "How jolly!"

"And look here," continued Halliday, "take my advice, and don't go offering your watch to everybody who hasn't got a father, or some of them might take you at your word, and then you'd look foolish. Come along now."

And he led the boy into the dormitory, where there were about twenty beds, most of them already occupied by boys, and the rest waiting for occupants, who were rapidly undressing in different parts of the room.

"Look sharp and tumble in," said Joe, pointing out the bed Charlie was to have. "There's only five minutes more."

Charlie, with all the naturalness of innocence, knelt, as he was always used to do, and said his prayers, adding a special petition for his dear absent parents, and another for the poor boy who hadn't got a father.

He was wholly unaware of the curiosity he had excited by his entrance into the dormitory, still less did he imagine the sensation which his simple act of devotion was creating. Twenty pairs of eyes stared at the unwonted spectacle of a boy saying his prayers, and many were the whispered comments which passed from lip to lip. No one however (had any been so inclined) stirred either to disturb or molest him -- an immunity secured to him as much perhaps by the fact of his being under the protection of so redoubtable a champion as Halliday as by any special feeling of sympathy for his act.

The good example was not, however, wholly lost, for that same night, after the lights were out, and when silence reigned in the room, more than one boy covered his head with his sheet and tried to recall one of the early prayers of his childhood.

As for Charlie, with me and the knife under his pillow, he slept the sleep of the just, and dreamt of home; and I can answer for it his weary head never turned once the livelong night.



Chapter Five.

How My Master Entered And Quitted The Head Master's Study Twice In One Morning.

Charlie's first care in the morning was, as I need hardly say, to pull me out from under his pillow, and consult me as to the time. None of his companions were astir, so that, not having anything particular to do, he lay still, and abandoned himself to the luxury of an idle half - hour in bed.

His spirits were so greatly revived by his night's rest that he forgot both the novelty and the loneliness of his position, and fell to polishing first his knife and then me as merrily as if he were at home. What a difference a sound sleep often makes in the aspect of our affairs! Twelve hours ago he had felt as if he could never be sufficiently bold as to whistle within the walls of Randlebury, and now the first sight and sound which greeted Halliday's returning senses, as he sat up and rubbed his eyes, was his young protege whistling to himself like a lark, and brightening me up with all his might with the corner of his blanket till I glowed again at nearly a red heat.

"Who's that kicking up that row whistling?" growled a voice from the far end of the room; "because I'd like to shy a boot at his head."

At this Charlie subsided, not desiring to gratify his unknown auditor in his benevolent desire, and very soon after jumped up and dressed himself.

"Look here, youngster," said Joe, "you'd better do my study now, as you mayn't have time after breakfast to-day. You know which room it is -- the sixth on your right when you get downstairs. Cut along, look sharp, you've a good half-hour."

Charlie made his way down to the lion's den, meeting on his way several other discontented fags, bound on similar errands. He set himself to clean the window, tidy the cupboard, and generally put things square, and had succeeded fairly well in this endeavour by the time his patron made his appearance.

"What's the time?" inquired that lord of creation, running his eye rapidly round the room at the same time, to notice how his fag had done his duty.

"It's five minutes to eight," replied Charlie, after consulting me, and highly delighted to be thus appealed to.

"Come along to breakfast, then. You'll have to sit at a different table from me; but mind and wait for me afterwards, for I've got to take you to the doctor."

So Charlie was conducted down to the hall to breakfast, and provided with a humble seat at the foot of the lowest table, while Joe Halliday made his way with all the dignity that became his years to a distinguished place at the highest.

My master found himself among a set of noisy little boys, who amused themselves during the greater part of the meal by interchanging volleys of bread pellets, which much oftener missed their marks than reached them, in consequence of which he himself came in for the brunt of the cannonade. Once he ventured to return one of the random shots which had found its way to his fingers. Fortune favoured his aim, and his shaft hit the boy it was intended for full in the eye.

"Who did that?" cried the wounded hero sharply.

"I did," replied Charlie, quite proud of his achievement.

"All right, I'll punch your head for it when we get outside."

This was by no means what Charlie had expected. He had imagined the wound would be received in the same spirit of jest in which it was aimed.

"It was only in fun," he explained; "did it hurt you?"

"Of course it did," exclaimed the injured youth, who till Charlie's arrival had been the junior pupil of the school, and was now delighted to find some one below himself in the scale of seniority. "Of course it did, and you'll catch it."

All the other boys laughed, and Charlie, who could not find it in him to be overawed by even so majestic a hero as little Master Johnny Walker, made the best of his position.

"Look here," he said, "I'll give you three shots at my mouth, and if you -- "

"There's too much talking at table six!" exclaimed an awful voice, and instantly every voice was hushed, including Charlie's, who blushed to the roots of his hair, and felt as if he had been singled out before the whole school as a rioter. He gulped down his breakfast without further argument with Master Walker, and was relieved, when the meal was over, to find that that doughty warrior appeared to have altered his mind about punching his youthful head.

After some time he saw Halliday beckoning to him from the other side of the room.

"Now you've got to go to the doctor," said he; "come along."

This was the first time my master had fully realised the solemn nature of the approaching interview, and I felt his heart flutter as he inquired, -- 

"I say, what will he say to me?"

"Oh, all sorts of things; you'd better mind what you're up to, I can tell you," was the reassuring reply.

"Do you think I shall get in a row for driving the cab yesterday?" faltered Charlie.

"Shouldn't wonder," was the reply.

"Oh, dear! And do you think he saw me hit Johnny Walker in the eye at breakfast?"

"What, were you the boy who was kicking up all that row? My eye! you're in for it! Here you are; I'll knock for you."

And giving the poor trembling boy not so much as an instant in which to collect his flurried ideas, Joe gave a rap at the door, which was answered at once by a sharp "Come in!" from within.

"Now then," said Halliday, "in you go."

Charlie's knees shook under him, and he hung back from that awful door in mute terror.

"Come in!" again cried the voice.

"Do you hear, you young muff?" exclaimed Halliday. "Won't you catch it! Go in, will you?"

And opening the door himself he fairly pushed my poor master into the head master's study.

Fancy the agony of the poor boy, fully believing himself a doomed miscreant, entering for the first time the awful presence of the head master of Randlebury School.

He stood there with downcast eyes, not daring to speak, and rooted to the spot.

"Why, what's the matter, my boy?"

At the words Charlie started like one electrified. He had surely heard that voice before somewhere! He looked up, and what was his astonishment to find in his dreaded principal no other than the gentleman with whom he had yesterday spent such a friendly hour in the train between Gunborough and Randlebury!

And his face was as kind as ever, and his voice encouraging, as he repeated, -- 

"What's the matter, my man? has the watch stopped."

"Oh, sir," said Charlie, running up to him, "I am glad it's you, and I'm so sorry I drove the cab, and hit Walker in the eye. I'll never do it again!"

"Tut, tut," said the head master; "if you never do any worse than that, you won't go far wrong. I didn't tell you who I was yesterday, because I wanted you to manage for yourself, and fight your own battle on first arriving. Now tell me how you have got on."

And Charlie faithfully recounted to him everything, including my sudden indisposition, and my cure by Tom Drift.

Dr Weldon (for that was his name) listened to his story, and then said, -- 

"Well, you've made a pretty good beginning. Now try to remember this: your father has sent you here for two reasons; one is that your head may be furnished, and the other is that your character may be trained. I and your teachers can undertake the first; but it depends chiefly on you how the second succeeds. You will constantly be having to choose for yourself between what is right and what is wrong, and between what is true and what is false. Take the advice of one who has passed through all the temptations you are likely to meet here -- rely always on a wisdom that is better than your own, and when once you see which way duty calls, follow that way as if your life depended on it. Do this, and you'll turn out a far better man than the man who is talking to you. Whenever you are in trouble come to me, I shall always be glad to see you. I promised you, you know, I would ask for you occasionally, didn't I? And now let's see what you've got in your head."

And then followed a brief examination, conducted in a way which put Charlie quite at his ease, and so enabled him to acquit himself with a fair amount of credit and win from his master a commendation, which he prized not a little, for it was that his father's efforts had not been wasted on him.

"You will be put in the second-form," said the doctor, "and if you work hard, I see no reason why you should not get up into the third next midsummer. Now, good-bye. I hope you won't find the head master of Randlebury is as 'stiff and stuck-up a fellow' as you dreaded, and I trust I shall find you as honest and brave a fellow as I hoped you would turn out the first time I saw you. Good-bye."

Charlie rose to leave with overflowing heart. He even forgot in the midst of his pleasant emotion to inquire, as he had fully intended to do, after the doctor's watch, and if it was still a quarter of an hour fast.

As he left the room he could not help contrasting with thankfulness his present state of mind with that in which he had entered it an hour ago. He laughed at himself for all his foolish fears then, and as for the future, that seemed now ever so much easier and brighter.

Outside the door he found Tom Drift passing along the corridor in a state of great excitement.

"The very chap, I declare," cried he. "I say, lend us your watch, young un, will you?"

"What for?" asked Charlie.

"Only a time race. Tom Shadbolt says he can run a mile in 4.40. I say he can't do it under 4.50, and we've got a bet of half-a-crown a side upon it. So lend us your watch to time him by."

Charlie hesitated, and a pang passed through his breast. He knew that one of the things which he had promised his father was that he would have nothing to do with betting or gambling in any form, and how could he obey in this respect if he now lent me for the purpose for which I was required? And yet he owed Tom Drift no common gratitude for the good service he had done in setting me right yesterday, and surely if any one had a right to borrow me it was he. The struggle was a sore one, but soon decided.

"I can't lend it you, Tom Drift."

"Why ever not?" asked Tom sharply.

"I'm very sorry; if it had been anything else -- but I promised father I would not gamble."

"Young ass! who wants you to gamble? I only want you to lend us your watch."

"You are gambling, though," said Charlie timidly.

"And what's that got to do with you, you young idiot," exclaimed Drift, fairly losing his temper, "if I am?"

"I'm very sorry," said Charlie, "especially as you put it all right. If it was anything else; but I can't for this."

"Look here," said Drift in a fury, "we've had fooling enough. Hand me the watch this moment, or I'll take it and smash it, and you into the bargain!"

"Oh, Tom Drift, don't do that. I would so gladly for anything else, but I promised father -- "

"Once more, will you, or will you not?"

"I can't."

"Then take that!" and next moment Charlie received a blow full on the chest, which sent him staggering back against the wall.

Oh, how he wished that moment he had never owned me!

Tom came upon him with an angry oath, and seized him by the throat.

"Will you give it up?"

"No," replied Charlie.

He was fairly roused now; no boy -- certainly no boy of his sort -- can stand quietly by and receive undeserved blows. Tom tightened his grip on the boy's throat, and strove to snatch me from his pocket.

Quick as thought Charlie threw his arms round him, and, though the smaller boy of the two, extricated himself from the clutch of the bully, and sent him in turn staggering back. Livid with rage, Tom rushed at him; but Charlie eluded him, and left him to overbalance himself and fall sprawling on the paved floor. At this instant the doctor's door opened, and the head master stood gazing on the scene.

Poor Charlie! five minutes ago so full of bright hopes and brave resolutions, and now, under the eyes of the very man who had inspired in him those hopes and resolutions, engaged in a common fight with a schoolfellow!

"What is all this?" asked the doctor sternly. "Come in here, you two."

Charlie, with sinking heart, entered again that solemn room, and Drift followed, sulky, and with a black bruise on his forehead.

Charlie left his antagonist to tell his story after his own fashion, and was too dispirited either to contradict him or seek to justify himself. He felt ashamed of himself, and in his self-humiliation saw neither defence nor extenuation for his conduct.

Drift was dismissed with a few sharp words of reproof and warning. Charlie remained longer.

What the doctor said to him, and what he said to the doctor, I need not here repeat. Suffice it to say, the former was able to form a fairer estimate of my master's conduct than he himself was. He did not blame him; he even told him that no boy could expect to get through his school days without some blows, and advised him to see they were always on the right side. He talked to him long and seriously about home, and so comforted him in prospect of future difficulties and temptations, that when he left that study the second time, it was as a wiser, though perhaps a sadder boy than before.



Chapter Six.

How My Master Had Both His Friends And His Enemies At Randlebury.

The events of Charlie's first day at Randlebury had at least taught him one salutary lesson, and that was, to moderate his enthusiasm with regard to me, and consequently for the next few weeks I had a quiet time of it. True enough, my master would occasionally produce me in confidence to a select and admiring audience, and would ever and again proffer the use of me to his protector, Joe Halliday, but he gave up flourishing me in the face of every passer-by, and took to buttoning his jacket over the chain, I found my health all the better for this gentler usage, and showed my gratitude by keeping perfect time from one week's end to the other.

It is hardly necessary for me to say that Charlie was not long in making friends at Randlebury. Indeed some of his acquaintance looked upon this exceeding friendliness in the boy's disposition as one of his weak points.

"I do believe," said Walcot, who was only four from the head of the school, to his friend, Joe Halliday, one day, about a month after my master's arrival at Randlebury -- "I do believe that young fag of yours would chum up to the poker and tongs if there were no fellows here."

"Shouldn't wonder," said Joe. "He's a sociable young beggar, and keeps my den uncommon tidy. Why, only the other day, when I was in no end of a vicious temper about being rowed about my Greek accents, you know, and when I should have been really grateful to the young scamp if he'd given me an excuse for kicking him, what should he do but lay wait for me in my den with a letter from his father, which he insisted on reading aloud to me. What do you think it was about?"

"I couldn't guess," said Walcot.

"Well, you must know he's lately chummed up very thick with my young brother Jim in the second, and -- would you believe it? -- he took it into his head to sit down and write to his governor to ask him if he would give Jim and me each a watch like the one he's got himself. What do you think of that?"

"Did he, though?" exclaimed Walcot, laughing. "I say, old boy, you'll make your fortune out of that youngster; and what did his father say?"

"Oh, he was most polite, of course; his boy's friends were his friends, and all that, and he finished up by saying he hoped we should both come and spend Christmas there."

"Ha! ha! and did he send the watches?"

"No; I suppose he wants to spy out the land first."

"Well," said Walcot, "the boy's all right with you, but he'll go making a fool of himself some day if he makes up to everybody he meets."

My master, in fact, was already a popular boy with his fellows. He had a select band of admirers among the youth of the Second-Form, who cackled round him like hens round a bantam. Together they groaned over their Latin exercises and wrestled with their decimals; together they heard the dreaded summons to the master's desk; and side by side, I am sorry to say, they held out their open palms to receive his cane. If a slate bearing on its surface an outline effigy of the gentleman who presided over the lessons of the class was brought to light, and the names of its perpetrators demanded, Charlie's hand would be seen among a forest of other upraised, ink-stained hands, and he would confess with contrition to having contributed the left eye of the unlucky portrait. And if, amid the solemn silence which attended a moral discourse from the master on the evils of gluttony, a sudden cataract of nuts, apples, turnips, and jam sandwiches on to the floor should drown the good man's voice, Charlie would be one of the ill-starred wights who owned to a partnership in the bag of good things which had thus miserably burst, and would proceed with shame first to crawl and grope on the dusty floor to collect his contraband possessions, and then solemnly to deposit the same jam, turnips, and all, on the desk of the offended dominie as a confiscated forfeit.

By these and many other like experiences Charlie identified himself with his comrades, and established many and memorable bonds of sympathy. He took the allegiance of his followers and the penalties of his masters in equal good part. He was not the boy to glory in his scrapes, but he was the boy to get into them, and once in, no fear of punishment could make a tell-tale, a cheat, or a coward of him.

With the elder boys he was also a favourite, for what big boy does not take pride in patronising a plucky, frank youngster? Patronising with Charlie did not mean humiliation. It is true he would quake at times in the majestic company of the heroes of the Sixth Form, but without hanging his head or toadying. It is one thing to reverence a fellow - being, and another to kneel and lick his boots.

Altogether Charlie had what is called "fallen on his feet" at Randlebury. By the end of two months he was as much at home there as if he had strutted its halls for two years. His whistle was as shrill as any in the lobbies, and Mrs Packer stuck her fingers in her ears when he burst into her parlour to demand a clean collar. He had already signalised himself too on the cricket field, having scored one run (by a leg-bye) in the never-to-be-forgotten match of First Form, First Eleven, against Second-Form, Second Eleven; and he had annihilated the redoubtable Alfred Redhead in the hundred yards hopping match, accomplishing that distance in the wonderfully short time of forty-five seconds!

But the dearest of all his friends was Jim Halliday, his lord and master's young brother. To Jim, Charlie opened his own soul, and me, and the knife; with Jim he laid his schemes for the future, and arranged, when he was Governor-General of India and Jim was Prime Minister, he would swop a couple of elephants for one of Ash and Tackle's best twenty-foot fishing-rods, with a book of flies complete. With Jim, Charlie talked about home and his father, and the coming holidays, till his face shone with the brightness of the prospect. Nor was the faithful Jim less communicative. He told Charlie all about his sisters down at Dullfield, where his father had once been clergyman, and gave it as his opinion that Jenny was the one Charlie had better marry; and to Charlie he imparted, as an awful secret not to be so much as whispered to any one, that he (Jim) was going to array his imposing figure for the first time in a tail-coat at Christmas.

With two friends on such a footing of confidence, is it a wonder they clave one to the other in mute admiration and affection? Many a sumptuous supper, provided at the imminent peril of embargo by the authorities on the one hand, and capture by hungry pirates on the other, did they smuggle into port and enjoy in company; on many a half-holiday did they fish for hours in the same pool, or climb the same tree for the same nest; what book of Jim's was there (schoolbooks excepted) that Charlie had not dog's-eared; and was not Charlie's little library annotated in every page by Jim's elegant thumbs? In short, these two were as one. David and Jonathan were nothing to them.

But in the midst of all his comfort and happiness one continually recurring thought troubled Charlie, that was about Tom Drift. He had promised the mother to be a friend to her son, and although he owned to himself he neither liked nor admired Tom, he could not be easy with this broken promise on his mind.

One day, about a month after the quarrel outside the head master's study, my master, after a hard inward struggle, conceived the desperate resolve of going himself to the lion in his den and seeking a reconciliation.

He walked quickly to Tom's study, for fear his resolution might fail him, and knocked as boldly as he could at the door.

"Come in!" cried Tom inside.

Charlie entered, and found his late antagonist sprawling on two chairs, reading a yellow-backed novel.

At the sight of Charlie he scowled, and looked anything but conciliatory.

"What do you want?" he said angrily.

"Oh, Tom Drift!" cried Charlie, plunging at once into his subject, "I do wish you'd be friends; I am so sorry I hurt you."

This last was an ill-judged reference; Tom was vicious enough about that bruise on his forehead not to need any reminder of the injuries he had sustained in that memorable scuffle.

"Get off with you, you little beast!" he cried. "What do you mean by coming here?"

"I know I've no business, Tom Drift; but I do so want to be friends, because -- because I promised your mother, you know."

"What do I care what you promised my mother? I don't want you. Come, off you go, or I'll show you the way."

Charlie turned to go, yet still lingered. A desperate struggle was taking place, I could feel, within him, and then he stammered out, "I say, Tom Drift, if you'll only be friends I'll give you my watch."

Poor boy! Who knows what that offer cost him? it was indeed the dearest bribe he had to give.

Tom laughed sneeringly. "Who wants your watch, young ass? -- a miserable, second-hand, tin ticker; I'd be ashamed to be seen with it. Come, once more, get out of here or I'll kick you out!"

Charlie obeyed, miserable and disappointed.

He could stand being spoken roughly to, he could bear his disappointment, but to hear his father's precious gift spoken of as a "miserable, second-hand tin ticker," was more than he could endure, and he made his way back to his room conscious of having lost more than he had gained by this thankless effort at reconciliation.

"What are you in the sulks about?" inquired Halliday that evening, as Charlie was putting away his lord and master's jam in the cupboard.

"I don't want to be sulky," Charlie said, "but I wish I could make it up with Tom Drift."

"With who?" exclaimed Joe, who, as we have before observed, was subject to occasional lapses of grammar.

"Tom Drift, you know; we had a row the first day."

"I know," replied Joe; "about that everlasting watch of yours, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Charlie, "I didn't like to lend it him, because -- "

"I know all about that," said Halliday. "You were squeamish about something or other he wanted it for. Well, the watch belonged to you, I suppose, and you aren't obliged to lend it to anybody. What on earth do you want to go worrying about the thing any more for?"

"I'm not; only I wanted to be friends with Tom Drift."

"What for?" demanded Joe.

"Oh, because -- because I promised his mother I would be," pleaded Charlie.

"All I can say is, you had no business to promise any one to be friends with a fellow you never saw."

"But she said he was a nice fellow; and besides he made my watch go when it had stopped," added Charlie, as a great argument.

"Why, Charlie, you are a greater little noodle than I took you for. Every one who calls that precious watch a good name is your master, and you're his slave."

"Not so bad as that, Joe," said Charlie; "but I say, isn't Tom Drift a nice boy, then?"

"Isn't he? that's all," replied the other. "I'm not going to abuse him behind his back, but take my advice, young un. You are better off as Tom's enemy than his friend, and don't you try to make up to him any more."

"Why not?" asked Charlie in bewilderment.

"Never you mind," was all Joe's reply; "and now hand me down my Liddell and Scott and make yourself scarce."

Charlie, sorely puzzled, did as he was bid.

He certainly was not in love with Tom Drift; but it was not easy for him to give up, without an effort, his promise to be his friend.

Tom, however, was by no means in need of friends. Not many weeks after the day when Charlie had left his study, disappointed and miserable, he might have been seen entertaining company of quite a different sort.

The supper party over which Tom presided consisted of four boys, including himself. One was Shadbolt, on whose account, it will be remembered, Tom had desired to borrow Charlie's watch. Shadbolt was an unwholesome-looking fellow of fifteen, with coarse features and eyes that could not look you straight in the face if they had tried. He was accompanied by his chum Margetson, who certainly had the advantage of his friend in looks, as well as in intellect. The quartet was completed by Gus Burke, one of the smallest and most vicious boys at Randlebury. He was the son of a country squire, who had the unenviable reputation of being one of the hardest drinkers and fastest riders in his county; and the boy had already shown himself only too apt a pupil in the lessons in the midst of which his childhood had been passed. He had at his tongue's tip all the slang of the stables and all the blackguardisms of the betting-ring; and boy -- almost child -- as he was, he affected the swagger and habits of a "fast man," like a true son of his father.

At Randlebury he had wrought incredible mischief. Tom Drift was not the only soft-minded vain boy whom he had infected by his pernicious example. Like all reckless swaggerers, he had his band of admirers, who marked every action and drank in every word that fell from their hero's lips.

It was just with such boys as Drift that his influence was most telling; for Tom was a boy not without aptitude to note and emulate a powerful example, whether it were good or bad, while his vanity rendered him as pliant as wax to the hand of the flatterer.

Such was the party which assembled surreptitiously in Tom's study that evening and partook of the smuggled supper.

Tom had had hard work to provide for his guests, and had succeeded only at the risk of grave penalties if detected.

"I say, Tom, old horse, this is a prime spread!" said Gus; "where did you get it?"

"Oh!" said Tom, "I had a new hat coming from Tiler's, so I got old Tripes (the butcher) to make a neat brown-paper parcel of the kidneys, and got them up in my gossamer. The old donkey might have done the thing better though, for the juice squeezed through, and the inside of my hat looks as if I had lately been scalped."

"Hard lines! But never mind, perhaps they'll put it down to the crack you got on your forehead."

Tom flushed scarlet; any reference to his inglorious scuffle with Charlie Newcome was odious to him, as Gus and the others knew well enough. He said nothing, however, only scowled angrily.

"What!" said Gus, "does it hurt you still then? Never mind, it was a good shot, and I wouldn't be ashamed of having floored you myself."

"He didn't floor me; I fell!" cried Tom indignantly.

"Did you? Rather a way fellows have when they get knocked down!"

"I was not knocked down, Gus, I tell you; and you'd better shut up!"

"All right, old horse! you mustn't mind a bit of chaff. I'm sure you've taken it all very well."

"Yes," said Margetson, "everybody thinks you must take after your mother; you're such a sweet-tempered chap."

"What do you know about my mother?" snarled Tom.

"Only what your young friend tells everybody about her."

"What business has he to go talking all over the school about my affairs?" exclaimed Tom furiously. "What's my mother to do with him?"

"A great deal, it seems," replied Margetson, "for he promised her, on the strength of her assertion that you were a nice boy, to be your friend, and now he's awfully hurt you won't let him."

"I thought it was Tom who was awfully hurt," put in Gus, by way of parenthesis.

"I tell you what it is, you fellows," said Tom, "it may be all very funny for you, but I've had quite enough of it. Ever since that young canting humbug came here I've led the life of a dog. If, instead of making a fool of me, you'd tell me how I can pay him out, I should be better pleased."

"All very fine," said Margetson; "why don't you pay your own bills?"

"If you want some one to punch his head," said Shadbolt the ugly, "I don't mind trying; my life is insured."

"Suppose we make him stupid," suggested Gus, "with milk punch, and shove him inside the doctor's study."

"Couldn't you get hold of his watch and boil it?" said Margetson, who had heard of the experiments practised on me in Mrs Packer's parlour.

"If I got hold of it I'd smash it into fifty pieces!" growled Tom between his teeth.

"Look here, you fellows, I've got a glorious plan!" exclaimed Gus suddenly.

"What is it?" they all cried.

But Gus's plan requires a new chapter.



Chapter Seven.

How A Pleasant Treat In Store Was Prepared For My Master.

Gus proceeded then to divulge his plan for giving Tom Drift his revenge on my master.

"Let's take him to Gurley races on Saturday," said he. "You know it's a holiday, and if we can only get him with us, well astonish his sanctimonious young soul. What do you say?"

"You'll never get him to come," said Margetson.

"Won't we? Well see about that," replied Gus, "he needn't know where he's going."

"But even so," said Drift, "you won't get him; he's not in love with me, and I don't fancy any of you are much in his line."

"Oh, you'll have to manage that part, Tom. You know how the young idiot's pining to make it up with you, for your dear old mother's sake!"

"Now you needn't start that nonsense again," put in Tom sulkily.

"All right; but don't you see, if you were to take a forgiving fit and make up to him, and talk about the old lady and his watch, and all that, he'd be out of his wits with joy? and then if you asked him to come for a day's fishing on Saturday, we could meet you somewhere on the road, and then he'd have to come whether he liked or not; and won't we astonish him!"

Tom mused a little.

"It's not a bad idea," said he presently, "if it would only work. But I can't make up to the young puppy as you think. Ten to one I should stop short in the middle and kick him."

"That would spoil all the fun. Try it on, any way, it'll be a nice little excitement to have young Innocent with us. And now, Tom, where are blacks and reds; I'm just in the humour for a rubber, aren't you?"

The host produced from a locked desk a dirty and much-worn pack of cards, and the party sat down to play.

They played for penny points, and as Gus and Margetson were partners, it is hardly necessary to say that Drift and his ill-looking friend lost every game.

Before this amiable and congenial quartet separated, Gus had referred again to the scheme of getting Charlie to Gurley races, and got Drift to promise he would secure his victim next day.

Next day, accordingly, as Charlie was in the midst of a desperate game of fives with his friend Jim, a small boy came to him and said that Tom Drift wanted him.

"What for?" demanded Charlie, who, since his talk with the elder Halliday, had felt somewhat "shy" about Tom.

"I don't know," said the boy.

"Your turn, Charlie," called out Jim from the end of the court.

Charlie took his turn while he was revolving on his answer to this mysterious summons.

"What does that child want?" inquired Jim, with all the loftiness of a second-form boy speaking of a first.

"He says Tom Drift wants me."

"Whew!" whistled Jim, who of course knew the whole mystery of the affair between his chum and Tom; "tell him to go to Jericho! Look out for yourself!"

And so saying, he took his turn with the ball.

"That wouldn't do," said Charlie; "I don't want to rile him."

"I'd like to have a chance," retorted the implacable Jim. "Well, then, tell him you can't come. Here, young un, tell Tom Drift Charlie can't come. Do you hear? Cut your sticks!"

But Charlie called the messenger back. "I could, go if I wanted, Jim. Better tell him I'd rather not come. Say that, youngster -- I'd rather not."

So off the youngster ran, and Charlie and Jim finished their game. Of coarse, the youthful messenger gave Tom a full, true, and particular account of this conversation in all its details, which rendered that young gentleman rather less eager than ever for his enterprise. However, he had the fear of Gus before his eyes, and strolled out into the playground on the chance of coming across Charlie.

And he did come across him, arm-in-arm with the faithful Jim. Tom worked his face into the ghastly similitude of a friendly smile as he approached, and said, in as genial a voice as he could pretend, "I'm glad I met you, Newcome, because I want to speak to you, if you don't mind taking a turn round the playground."

Charlie, of course, was astonished; he had expected at the very least to be kicked over the wall when he saw Tom approach, and he was utterly at a loss to understand this not unfriendly greeting. Innocent boy! it never occurred to him the demonstration could be anything but real. Jim would have been a tougher subject to deal with. Indeed, as he let go Charlie's arm, and saw him walk off with Tom, he muttered to himself, not caring particularly whether the latter heard him or not.

"Gammon! that's what it is."

Charlie had not long to wait before his companion began the conversation.

"I suppose you wonder why I want you, Newcome?" said he. "The fact is, I've been thinking I wasn't altogether right in being down on you the other day about lending me that watch, especially as you were a new boy; and I'm sorry if I hurt you."

Charlie sprung towards him and caught his arm.

"Oh, Tom Drift, don't say that, please! It was my fault -- all my fault, and I have been so sorry ever since. And you will be friends now, won't you? I do so want to be, because I promised your mother -- "

Tom gave a quick gesture of impatience, which, if Charlie had understood, he would have known how near receiving a kick he was at that moment.

Tom, however, restrained himself, and said, -- 

"Oh, yes, for her sake I'd like to be friends, of course, and I hope you'll forget all about that wretched quarrel."

"Indeed I will," cried Charlie; "and don't let us say any more about it. I am ever so much happier now, and it was so good of you to come to me and make it up."

"Well," said Tom loftily, "you know it's no use for two fellows to be at loggerheads when it can be helped, and I dare say we shall get on all the better now. How are you going on in the second?"

Whereupon Charlie launched into a lengthy and animated account of his experiences, to which Tom pretended to listen, but scarcely heard a word.

"So you are fond of fishing?" he said, casually, after the boy had mentioned something on that subject.

"Ain't I, though?" cried Charlie, now quite happy, and his old self again. "I say, Tom Drift, would you like to see the new lance-wood top I've got to my rod? It's a stunner, I can tell you. I'll lend it you, you know, any time you like."

"Have you caught much since you were here!" asked Tom, anxious to get this hateful business over.

"No. You know the brook here isn't a good one for fish, and I don't know anywhere else near."

"Well, I'll tell you what," said Tom, as if the idea had then for the first time occurred to him. "Suppose we go off for a regular good day on Saturday? It's a holiday, you know, and we could go and try up the Sharle, near Gurley. There's lots of trout there, and we are certain to have a good day."

"How jolly!" exclaimed Charlie. "It would be grand. But I say, Tom Drift, are you sure you wouldn't mind coming? It wouldn't be a bother to you, would it?"

"Not a bit. I like a good day's fishing. But, I say, young un, you'd better not say anything about it to any one, or we shall have a swarm of fellows come too, and that will spoil all the sport."

"All right," said Charlie. "I say what a day we shall have! I'll bring my watch and knife, you know, and some grub, and we can picnic there, eh?"

"That'll be splendid. Well, I must go in now, so good-bye, Newcome, and shake hands."

What a grip was that! on one side all trust and fervour, and on the other all fraud and malice!

Tom Drift was not yet utterly bad. Would that he had allowed his conscience to speak and his better self prevail! Half a dozen times in the course of his walk from the playground to the school he repented of the wicked part he was playing in the scheme to injure Charlie. But half a dozen times the thought of Gus and his taunts, and the recollection of his own bruised forehead came to drive out all passing sentiments of pity or remorse.

Charlie rejoined his chum with a beaming face.

"Well," asked Jim, "what has he been saying to humbug you this time?"

"Nothing very particular; and I won't let you call him a humbug. I say, Jim, old boy, he's made it up at last, and we're friends, Tom Drift and I! Hurrah! I was never so glad, isn't it jolly?"

Jim by no means shared his friend's enthusiasm. Like his elder brother, he instinctively disliked Tom Drift, without exactly being able to give a reason.

His reserve, however, had no effect on Charlie's high spirits. At last the wish of his heart had been gained! No longer did he walk with the burden of a broken promise weighting his neck; no longer did the consciousness of having an enemy oppress him.

"Simpleton!" many of my readers will exclaim. Perhaps he was; but even if you laugh at him, I think you will hardly despise him for his simple - mindedness, for who would not rather be such a one than the tempter, Tom Drift?

All that week he was jubilant. Boys looked round in astonishment at the shrillness of his whistle and the ring of his laughter. His corner of the class room was a simple Babel, and the number of apples he bestowed in charity was prodigious.

Something, every one could see, had happened to make him happier than ever. Few knew what that something was, and fewer still knew what it meant.

"What are you up to to-morrow?" asked the elder Halliday of his fag on the Friday evening.

"Fishing," briskly replied the boy.

"You're for ever fishing," said Joe. "I suppose that young brother of mine is going with you?"

"No; Jim's going to play in the match against the Badgers."

The "Badgers," let me explain, was the name of a scratch cricket eleven made up of boys in the first, second and third forms.

"Are you going alone, then?"

Charlie felt uncomfortable as he answered, -- 

"No."

"Whom are you going with?" pursued the inquiring Joe.

"A fellow in the fifth who asked me to come."

"What's his name?"

Charlie had no help for it now.

"Tom Drift," he faltered.

"Tom Drift! I thought you and he were at loggerheads."

"Oh, don't you know we've made it up? He was awfully kind about it, and said he was sorry, when it was really my fault, and we shook hands, and to-morrow we are going to fish in a place he knows where there's no end of trout."

"Where's that?"

"He didn't want me to tell, for fear everybody should come and spoil the sport; but I suppose I can tell you, though; it's up the Sharle, near Gurley."

"Humph! I've fished there before now. Not such a wonderful lot of fish, either."

"I suppose you won't be there to-morrow?" asked Charlie nervously, afraid of losing the confidence of Tom Drift by attracting strangers to his waters.

"Not if I know it," replied Joe. "I say, youngster, I thought you had given up the notion of making up to that fellow?"

"I didn't make up to him, only I can't be sorry to be friends with him -- "

"Well, I hope you won't be sorry now you've done it. Take care what you're about, that's all."

Charlie was again perplexed to understand why Halliday seemed to have such a dislike to poor Tom.

Just as he was going off to bed Joe stopped him and asked, -- 

"By the way, shall you be using your watch to-morrow?"

"Well, I promised I'd take it, to see how the time went; but I dare say we could do without it, and I would like to lend it to you, Halliday."

"Not a bit of it," replied the other. "I can do without it as well as you. I am going to walk over to Whitstone Woods and back."

"Hullo, that's a long trot," said Charlie. "It must be nearly thirty miles."

"Something like that," said Joe. "Walcot and I are going to make a day of it."

"Which way do you go?"

"Through Gurley, and then over Rushton Common and past Slingcomb."

"Never! I wish I could do thirty miles at a stretch."

"So you will some day. Good-night."

And Charlie went to bed, to dream of the lance-wood top of his rod and the trout in the Sharle.

In the meanwhile the conspirators had had another meeting in Drift's den.

"Well, have you hooked him?" asked Gus.

"Yes; it's all right. He took it all in like a lamb."

"And all the school," said Margetson, "is talking of the great reconciliation, and the gratification which that event will undoubtedly afford to your venerable mother."

"Shut up, will you, Margetson? I've had quite enough of that chaff."

"But I do assure you, Tom -- "

"That'll do," said Tom, snappishly; and Margetson did not go the length of saying what it was he was so ready to assure him of.

"Well," said Gus, "we'll meet you and the young cub at the cross roads by Sharle Bridge. The races don't begin till twelve, so we shall have lots of time. I mean to see if we can't get a trap at Gurley, and do the thing in style. What do you say? We could get one for about ten bob."

"All serene," said Margetson. "I'll fork out my share."

"You'll pay for me, Tom," said Shadbolt, "won't you?"

"I'll see," said Tom.

"All right, that's settled; and you are seeing about grub, Tom, aren't you? Don't forget the etceteras. What time have you told young mooney - face?"

"Nine. He's sure to be in time."

"Well, we'll start a little before, you know, and meet you quite by accident, and the young beggar won't smell a rat till we are safe in Gurley."

"And if he turns cantankerous?"

"Then we can put Shaddy to look after him."

"Who's going to win the Gulley Plate, Gus?"

And then the party fell to canvassing the entries for the morrow's races, and making their bets, in which, of course, Tom stood almost bound to lose, whichever horse won.

Long ere they had parted company Charlie was sound asleep and dreaming, with me under his pillow.



Chapter Eight.

How My Master Did Not Catch The Fish He Expected.

About ten years before the time of my story it had happened that in a famous battle fought between her Majesty's troops and those of a hostile and savage king, the colours of the 300th Regiment were noticed to be in imminent peril of capture. The ensign who carried them was wounded, and already a score of the enemy were rushing forward to seize the prize and carry it off in triumph to their king. Suddenly, however, there dashed up to the spot a young cornet of dragoons, who, seeing the peril of his fellow-officer and the colours he carried, dragged him, flag and all, up nearly into his own saddle, and started off with his precious burden towards a place of shelter from the fire and spears of the savages. Before, however, he had gone twenty yards the poor ensign tumbled to the ground, shot through the heart, yielding with his dying hands his colours to the dragoon. That plucky young soldier, wrapping the torn and stained flag round his body, set his teeth, stooped forward in his saddle, and, digging his spurs into his horse, galloped for his life. He had a terrific gauntlet to run, and grandly he ran it. The friendly trench was in sight, the cheers of his comrades fell like music on his ears, a vision of glory and honour flashed through his mind, and then suddenly he reeled forward in his seat -- a malignant shot had found him out at last, and, with the colours round him, he dropped from his horse into his comrades' arms a dead man.

This hero was an old Randlebury boy; and ever since that day, on every anniversary of his glorious death, Randlebury kept, and still keeps, holiday.

All this Charlie was informed of by his faithful chum, Jim Halliday, as the former was dressing himself on the morning of the eventful holiday in question.

What possessed him to get up at six, when he was not to start till nine, I cannot say. He even routed me from under his pillow at five, so fidgety was he, and as soon as ever I pointed to six he bounced out of bed as if he was shot.

"What are you up to, getting up at this time?" growled Jim, who, much to the mutual delight of the boys, slept in the same room with Charlie.

"Oh, you know; I don't want to be behindhand," replied Charlie.

"Behindhand! Why, do you know it's only just six?"

"I know that, and I mean to make the most of my holiday. I say, Jim, what do they want to give us a holiday for, do you know?"

"They don't want to at all; they've got to."

"Got to? What do you mean?" inquired Charlie, dragging on his boots.

And then Jim, with many yawns and growls, told him the story; and, without waiting for his comments thereon, rolled over and went off to sleep again.

Charlie spent his early hour in polishing up things generally. When he had polished up his rod with the lance-wood top, he polished up his green can and his hooks. Then he warmed me up with a piece of wash - leather, and then his many-fanged knife.

By the time these little jobs were accomplished, and Joe's study put in order, the breakfast bell sounded, and he went down with a mouth sore with whistling.

He caught sight of Tom Drift at another table, and nodded and waved his green can to him; he informed every boy within hearing distance that it was certain to be a fine day, whatever it looked like now; and he made the wildest and most indiscriminate promises to entertain his whole acquaintance at no end of a trout supper on the spoils of that day's sport. Twenty times during breakfast did he pull me out and look impatiently at my minute-hand slowly making its way from eight to nine; and as soon as ever the meal was over he rushed upstairs like mad for his rod and bag, and then tore down again four steps at a time, nearly knocking the head master over at the bottom.

"Gently, my man," said that gentleman, recognising in this cannon-ball of a young fellow his little travelling companion. "Why, what's the matter?"

"I beg your pardon, doctor," said Charlie; "did I hurt you?"

"Not a bit. So you are going to fish to-day?"

"Yes, sir," said the beaming Charlie. "I say, sir, do you think it'll be a fine day?"

"I hope so -- good-bye. I suppose this can will be full when you come back?"

"Good-bye, sir," said Charlie, secretly resolving that if fortune favoured him he would present the two finest of his trout to the doctor.

He found Drift ready for him when he reached that young gentleman's study.

Besides his rod, Tom had a somewhat cumbersome bag, which, as it carried most of the provisions for the whole party, he was not a little surly about being burdened with.

Charlie, of course, thought it was his and Tom's dinner.

"Is that the grub?" he cried. "Why, Tom Drift, you have been laying in a spread! What a brick you are! Look here, I'd carry it -- isn't it a weight, though! If we get all this inside us two we shan't starve!"

And so they started, Charlie lugging along the bag and whistling like a lark.

"Looks cloudy," said Tom, who felt he must say something or other.

"Never mind, all the better for the trout, you know. I say, I wish I had my fly on the water this minute."

As Tom was silent, Charlie kept up the conversation by himself.

"I say, Tom Drift," said he, "if your mother could only see us two chaps going off for a day's fishing she -- "

"Look here, draw it mild about my mother, young un. She can take care of herself well enough."

Charlie blushed to the roots of his hair at this rebuke, and for some time the flow of his conversation was arrested.

It was a good four miles from Randlebury to Sharle Bridge; and long ere they reached it Charlie's arm ached with the ponderous bag he was carrying. He did not, however, like to say anything, still less to ask Tom to take a turn at carrying it; so he plodded on, changing hands every few minutes, and buoying himself up with the prospect of the river and the trout.

Presently they came within sight of the signpost which marks the junction of the Gurley and Sharle Bridge roads.

"Here we are at last!" cried Charlie, panting and puffing. "I say, Tom Drift, I don't believe I could have carried this bag any farther if I'd tried."

"It'll be lighter when we go home. Hullo! who are these three?" for at this moment Gus, Margetson, and Shadbolt made their appearance.

"They look like Randlebury fellows by their caps. Oh, I know who one of them is," added Charlie --  "Margetson, in the fourth; don't you know him?"

"Rather!" replied Tom; "and the other two are Shaddy and Gus. Who'd have thought of meeting them!" and he gave a whistle, which succeeded in attracting the attention of the worthy trio.

Of course their surprise at meeting Tom and his companion was no less great -- in fact, they had to inquire who the youngster was.

"Where are you off to?" demanded Gus.

"We're going to try our luck up the Sharle," said Tom.

"You'll be sold if you do," said Gus. "We were down looking at it, and a pretty state it's in. Old Skinner at the Tannery took it into his head to leave his gates up last night, and his muck has got into the river and poisoned every fish in it -- hasn't it, Shad?"

"Rather!" replied Shad. "I was glad enough to get my nose away from the place."

"Here's a go, Charlie!" said Tom, turning to his young companion.

During this short conversation Charlie had passed through all the anguish of a bitter disappointment. It is no light thing to have the hope of days snuffed out all in a moment, and he was ready to cry with vexation. However it couldn't be helped, and he had learned before now how to take a disappointment like a man. So when Tom appealed to him he put a good face on it, and said, -- 

"Awful hard lines. Never mind, let's go back and see the match with the Badgers, Tom."

"Why don't you come with us?" asked Gus. "We are going to Gurley; have you ever been to Gurley, young un?"

"No," said Charlie.

"Come along, then, we'll show it you. It's a prime town, isn't it, Margetson?"

"Don't ask me," said Margetson; "I'd sooner see about Gurley than catch a seven-pounder, any day."

"And besides," said Tom, "isn't there some good fishing above the lock! Come along, Charlie; we shall not be baulked of our day's sport after all."

Charlie joined the party, although he did not conceive any great admiration for Tom's three friends. His anxiety not to offend his now reconciled enemy, and the possibility of fishing after all, overruled him; and still dragging the bag, he trudged along with the others towards Gurley.

As they approached the town he could not help noticing the number of holiday-makers and vehicles that passed them. There were drags full of gaily-dressed ladies; and gentlemen who wore veils; and there were light jaunty dog-carts with spruce young white-hatted gentlemen perched in them; there were vans in which corks were popping like musketry fires and parties on foot like themselves, hurrying forward with loud laughter and coarse music.

"Surely," thought he, "there's something on at Gurley."

Presently a waggonette, driven by a very loud youth in a check suit, and with an enormous cigar in his mouth, pulled up in passing, and its driver addressed Gus.

"So you've found your way here, have you, my young bantam? Catch you being out of a good thing. Are you going on the grand stand?"

"Don't know," said Gus grandly. "We may pick up a trap in the town."

"Ho, ho! going to do it flash, are you? Well, there's one of you could do with a little spice," added he, glancing at Charlie. "I suppose my trap's not grand enough for you."

"Can you give us a lift, then, Bill?" asked Gus, charmed at the idea.

"Yes, to be sure; I've no company to-day. There's just room. Hop in. I may as well turn an honest penny as not. Here, you young sinner, jump up beside me on the box." And before Charlie knew where he was or whither he was going he found himself on the box of the waggonette beside the flash youth, and his four friends behind him inside.

"Who's your friend, Gus?" he heard Margetson ask.

"Son of Belsham, who keeps the 'Green Tiger' at Randlebury. We're in luck, I can tell you, you fellows."

As Charlie gradually recovered from his bewilderment he felt himself extremely uncomfortable and ill at ease. From what had been said he had gathered that the object of the boys in going to Gurley was something more than to see the town; and he by no means liked Gus's new friend, or approved of his easy familiarity with a low publican's son. It was not long before his dawning suspicions were fully confirmed.

"So you're going to see the races?" asked Mr Belsham.

"No, I'm not," replied Charlie, as curtly as he could, for he had no desire to encourage the conversation of this objectionable person.

"Ain't you? And what are you going to do, then, my young lamb?" And in the course of this brief sentence Mr Belsham succeeded in interjecting at least three oaths.

"I shan't speak to you if you swear," said Charlie; "it's wrong to swear."

"No! is it? Who says that?"

"My father says so," blurted out Charlie, fully satisfied that no better reason could be demanded.

Belsham laughed, and turning to the four inside, said, -- 

"I say, young gentlemen, this young pippin tells me he's got a father who says it's wrong to swear. What do you think of that?"

"His father must be an amusing man," replied Gus.

"Wait till we get on to the course," said Margetson; "he'll hear something to astonish him there, young prig!"

"I'm not going to the races!" cried my master, starting from his seat, and now fully alive to the fraud of which he had been made the victim. "How could you do this, Tom Drift! Let me down, will you!" and he struggled so desperately with Belsham that that gentleman was obliged to let go the reins in order to hold him.

Of course it was no use his resisting. Amid the shouts and jeers of his schoolfellows he was held on to the box. In vain he pleaded, besought, struggled, threatened; there he was compelled to stay, all through Gurley and out to the racecourse. Here he found himself in the midst of a yelling, blaspheming, drunken multitude, from the sight of whose faces and the sound of whose words his soul revolted so vehemently that it lent new vigour to his exhausted frame, and urged him to one last desperate struggle to free himself and escape from his tormentors.

"Look here," said Belsham to Gus; "if you suppose I'm going to have all my fun spoiled by looking after this cub of yours while you're enjoying yourselves there inside, you're mistaken; here, look after him yourselves."

So saying, he dragged Charlie from his seat and swung him down into the waggonette with such force that he lay there half stunned and incapable of further resistance, and so for the time being saved his persecutors a good deal of trouble.

And indeed had it been otherwise it is hardly likely they would have just then been able to pay him much attention, for at that moment the horses were all drawn up at the starting-post, waiting for the signal to go.

That was a feverish moment for Tom Drift. He had bet all his money on one horse, and if that horse did not win, he would lose every penny of it.

As usual, he had repented a hundred times of that day's business, and the last brutal outrage on poor Charlie had called up even in his seared breast a fleeting feeling of indescribable shame. It was, alas! only fleeting.

Next moment he forgot all but the horses. There they stood in a long restless line. A shout! and they were off. In the first wild scramble he could catch a sight of the colours on which his hopes depended near the front. On they came like the wind. A man near shouted the name of Tom's horse -- "It's winning," and Tom's head swam at the sound. On still nearer, and now they have passed. In the retreating, straggling crowd he can see his horse still, but it seems to be going back instead of forward. Like a torrent the others overhaul and pass it. Then a louder shout than usual proclaims the race over, and the favourite beaten, and Tom staggers down to his seat sick and half stupid.

"Never mind, old man," he heard Gus say, "luck's against you this time; you'll have your turn some day. Take some of this, man, and never say die."

And Tom, reckless in his misery, took the proffered bottle, and drank deeply.

It was late in the afternoon before Belsham thought of turning his horse's head homeward, and by that time Charlie, on the floor of the waggonette, was slowly beginning to recover consciousness.



Chapter Nine.

How My Master And I Had Quite As Much Excitement In One Afternoon As Was Good For Us.

Just as they were turning to go, a sudden shout and rush of people arrested them. The crowd on the course had been immense, and of the roughest and lowest description: sharpers, thieves, and roughs were there by the hundred, attracted from the neighbouring villages by the opportunity of plunder and riot which Gurley races always afforded. As soon as the serious business of the racing was over, this low mob naturally sought excitement of their own making, and increasing in disorder and intemperance as the day wore on, had become beyond control just about the time when Mr Belsham, junior, took it into his muddled head to make a start in the direction of home. The shout which kept him where he was, was occasioned by that spectacle dear to the eyes of all blackguards, a fight. Round the two blood and dust-stained combatants, the mob surged and yelled. Every moment it grew denser and wilder; and every moment it swayed nearer and nearer to the spot where the Randlebury boys stood in their waggonette; and before they could move or get clear, they found themselves in the very centre of the mob. Shouts, shrieks, and wild laughter rose on every side of them; some of the crowd scrambled up onto their wheels to get a glimpse of the pugilists; some abused and swore at them for getting in the way; some tried to invade their waggonette, and struck at them when they resisted.

In the midst of all, Belsham's horse took fright. There was a wild plunge, a shriek from the crowd in front, and next moment the five boys were thrown down among the crowd, while the horse, with the shattered and overturned vehicle behind him, forced for himself a ghastly lane through the mob.

Of Gus and his three friends, Charlie, whom the shock roused to sudden consciousness, could see nothing. He tried to rise, but the crowd pressed too wildly to give him the chance. For some moments he lay among a host of crowding, struggling feet, expecting every moment to be stunned, if not killed. But by a wonderful providence he escaped the peril. The crowd gave a sudden swing in a new direction, and he was left unhurt, though stupefied and almost unable to stir.

Presently he was conscious of a man standing in front of him.

"Oh, help me!" gasped my poor master.

The man seized him roughly by the arm and raised him to his feet.

"That's worth a tip," he growled; "come, hand over."

Charlie put his hand in his pocket and drew out a shilling.

The man scowled.

"Do you suppose I'll take a dirty shilling? Come, young swell, empty out them pockets. Look sharp, I've no time to waste on the like of you."

Tremblingly Charlie obeyed, and gave the man all the little stock of money he possessed.

But he was not yet to escape. From under his jacket the greedy eye of the thief had caught a glimpse of a chain. With a rough hand he tore open the coat. "What, a ticker? Here's luck; out with it, come."

"Oh," cried Charlie, "take anything but that! Take my chain and my knife, but not my watch?"

Hardly and brutally laughed the man as he snatched me out of the poor boy's hand, and administering a parting cuff on the head of his victim, turned to walk off with me in the recesses of one of his filthy pockets.

Scarcely, however, had he turned, when three men appeared in front of him, coming in the direction of Charlie. The boy saw them, and imagine his joy when in one of the party he recognised his old acquaintance, the cabman Jim! With a sudden bound and cry of delight he rushed towards him, shouting and pointing to the robber. "Oh, Jim, he's taken my watch; get my watch back, Jim."

Jim took in the state of affairs in an instant, and calling on his two companions to follow him, rushed upon and secured the thief before the latter was even aware of their intention. It was vain for one man to resist three. He was forced to disgorge first me, then the knife, and then the money. Charlie indeed pleaded that they should leave him the money, or some of it, but this proposal Jim scouted, and in his zeal relieved the robber of a good deal more than he had stolen from Charlie. Then with kicks and blows they drove the wretch away as fast as his legs could carry him.

This done, Jim the cabman had an opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with my master.

"Well," said he, "who'd have thought of seeing you here? And what a nice mess you're in. You look as if -- "

"Oh, don't," cried Charlie, holding him by the arm; "it's bad enough as it is, without you thinking ill of me."

And then he told him as well as he could how he had been decoyed to these vile races; how he had been kept there by main force; how he had been made senseless by their rough treatment, and how, but for Jim's timely help, he would now have been robbed and helpless.

Jim listened in astonishment, not unmingled with many an ejaculation of indignation at the poor boy's persecutors.

"And where are they now?" he asked, when Charlie had done.

"I don't know. We were all thrown out, you know, among the crowd. I only hope they've not been killed."

"Well, if I was you," said the downright cabman, "I wouldn't break my heart over them. I know I'd like to have a chance of a quiet talk with the young swells; I'd give them something to take home with them, I would."

Charlie said nothing, but gratefully put himself under the protection of his deliverer, who, making a considerable round to avoid the crush, led him safely to Gurley.

"There's no trap to be got for love or money, so you'll just have to walk if you want to get back to Randlebury to-night."

Anything to get away from that odious crowd. If the distance had been twice as far, Charlie would have undertaken it.

It was long enough, however, before they got away from the crowd. The road from Gurley to Sharle Bridge was alive for a mile and more with vehicles, drunken men and women, beggars and pickpockets. On either side of the road were jugglers, and thimble-riggers, and card-sharpers, who each attracted their crowd of simpletons. Many were the fights and riots that attended these eager assemblages. As they passed one booth, the headquarters of a blustering card-sharper, a sudden disturbance arose which threatened to block the entire road. The man had offered a sovereign to any one of his audience who could tell which of three cards he held uppermost in his hand. One voice called out a number. The man shuffled his cards, and by some slip on his part the guess of the speculator turned out correct. Instantly that youth demanded his sovereign, which the man refused, vowing and calling others to witness that another number had been guessed.

"I'll bring the police," cried the voice, and instantly there was a movement in the group as of some one endeavouring to force his way out.

"Knock him over!" some one cried; "he's only one of them donkey schoolboys. What business have they here at all?" And at the signal two or three of the juggler's accomplices made a dash at the retreating youth and seized him.

"Souse him in the river!" cried somebody else.

"Sit on him!" shouted a third.

In the midst of these contradictory advices the roughs lifted their struggling victim from his feet, and proceeded to carry him in the direction of the bridge.

In the momentary glimpse which Charlie got of the wretched object of this persecution, he recognised, to his horror and astonishment, Tom Drift, livid with terror, frantic with rage, and yelling with pain.

"Jim," cried Charlie, "that's Tom Drift! Oh! can't we help him? Will you try, Jim! Poor Tom!"

"Is he one of them four as brought you here?" asked Jim, not offering to move.

"Yes; but never mind that; they will drown him; see how furious they are! Will you help him, Jim?"

"Not a bit of me," replied the stubborn Jim, who was well content to see the tables turned on one who had so brutally ill-treated his young companion.

"Then I must try myself;" and so saying, the boy of thirteen rushed in among the crowd, and wildly tried to make his way to where his schoolfellow was being dragged by his persecutors.

Of course Jim had nothing for it but to back him up, and in a moment he was beside my young master.

"Let the boy be!" he shouted to those who carried Drift, in a voice so loud that for a moment the rabble stood quiet to hear.

In the midst of this silence Charlie shouted, -- 

"Hold on, Tom Drift, we'll help you if we can."

Instantly the crowd took up the name.

"Tom Drift! Yah! Souse Tom Drift! Roll Tom Drift in the mud! Yah! Tom Drift!"

And sure enough Tom Drift would have suffered the penalty prepared for him, despite Charlie's attempt at rescue, had not help come at that moment from a most unexpected quarter.

It will be remembered that Joe Halliday and his friend Walcot had planned a long walk on this holiday to Whitstone Woods, some ten miles beyond Gurley.

This plan they had duly carried out, and were now making the best of their way back to Randlebury along the crowded highway, when the sudden cry of a schoolfellow's name startled them.

"Tom Drift! Yah! Beggarly schoolboy!"

"I say, Joe, that's one of our fellows! What's happening?"

Joe accosted a passer-by.

"What's going on?" he inquired.

"They're only going to souse a young chap in the river."

"What for?"

"I don't know; 'cause he don't think the same as old Shuffle, the three - card chap."

"We must do something, Joe," said Walcot.

"I wish it were any other chap; but come on, we're in for it now," said Joe.

And with that these two broad-shouldered, tall fellows dashed into the thick of the fray.

Tom's bearers were now at the bridge, which was a low one, and were turning down towards the water's edge, when a new cry arrested them.

"Now, Randlebury! Put it on, Randlebury! Who backs up Randlebury?"

It was the old familiar cry of the football field, and at the sound of the well-known voices, Charlie's heart leapt for joy.

"I do!" he shouted, with all his might. "Here you are, Randlebury!"

And Jim's gruff voice took up the cry too.

A panic set in among the blackguards. To them it seemed that the school was come in force to rescue their comrade, for on either side the cry rose, and fighting towards them they could, see at any rate two stalwart figures, who, they concluded, were but the leaders of following force. One of the men was hardy enough to turn at bay at the moment Walcot had cleared his way at last up to the front. Big bully though he was, he was no match for the well-conditioned, active athlete who faced him, and Walcot punished him in a manner that made him glad enough to take to his heels as fast as he could.

This exploit turned the day. Dropping Tom -- how and where they did not stay to consider -- they followed their retreating companion with all the speed they were capable of, and left the enemy without another blow masters of the situation.

But if, as a victory, this charge of the Randlebury boys had been successful, as a rescue it had failed; for Tom Drift, being literally dropped from the shoulders of his executioners, had fallen first on to the parapet of the bridge, and then with a heavy shock into the stony stream beneath. When Walcot, Joe, Charlie, and Jim among them, went to pull him out, he was senseless. At first they thought him merely stunned by the fall (the stream was only a few inches deep), but presently when they began to lift him, they found that his right arm, on which he had fallen, was broken.

Bandaging the limb as well as they could, and bathing his forehead with water, they succeeded in restoring Tom to consciousness, and then, between them, carried him as gently as possible to the nearest house, when they managed, with some difficulty, to get a vehicle to convey them the rest of their journey. It was a sad, silent journey. To Tom, the pain caused by every jolt was excruciating. They did their best to ease him, holding him lying across their knees, while Jim drove along the level footpath; but by the time the school was reached the sufferer was again insensible, and so he remained till the surgeon had set his arm.

Thus ended the eventful holiday.

Before Charlie went to bed, the doctor sent for him to his study, and there required to know the true history of that day's doings. And Charlie told him all. I need hardly say that, according to his version, the case against the four culprits was far lighter than had their impeachment been in other hands. He took to himself whatever blame he could, and dwelt as little as possible on the plot that had been laid to get him to Gurley, and on the means which had been used to keep him when once there. He finished up with a very warm and pathetic appeal for Tom Drift.

"Don't, please, expel Tom Drift," he said, in all the boldness of generosity; "he was led on by the others, sir, and he's punished badly enough as it is. Oh! sir, if you'd seen his mother cry, when she only spoke of him, you couldn't do it."

"You must leave that to me," said the doctor sternly, "I hope I shall do nothing that is unjust or unkind. And now go to bed, and thank God for the care He has taken of you to-day."

And Charlie went.

Tom Drift was not expelled. For weeks he lay ill, and during that time no nurse was more devoted, and no companion more constant, than Charlie Newcome. A friendship sprang up between the two, strangely in contrast with the old footing on which they had stood. No longer was Tom the vain, hectoring patron, but the docile penitent, over whose spirit Charlie's character began from that time to exercise an influence which, if in the time to come it could always have worked as it did now, would have gone far to save Tom Drift from many a bitter fall and experience.

When Tom, a week before the Christmas holidays, left the sick-room and took his place once more in his class, Gus, Margetson, and Shadbolt were no longer inmates of Randlebury School.



Chapter Ten.

How I Changed Hands And Quitted Randlebury.

And now, dear reader, we must take a leap together of three years. For remember, I am not setting myself to record the life of any one person, or the events which happened at any one place. I am writing my own life -- or those parts of it which are most memorable -- and therefore it behoves me not to dwell unduly on times and scenes in which I was not personally interested.

I had a very close connection with the events that rendered Charlie's first term at school so exciting, but after that, for three years, I pursued the even tenor of my way, performing some twenty-six thousand two hundred and eighty revolutions, unmarked by any incident, either in my own life or that of my master worthy of notice.

By the end of those three years, however, things were greatly changed at Randlebury. Charlie, not far from his sixteenth birthday, was now a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, lording it in the Upper Fifth, and the hero of the cricket field of which he himself had once been a cadet. In face he was not greatly altered. Still the old curly head and bright eyes. He was noticed occasionally to stroke his chin abstractedly; and some envious detractors went so far as to rumour that, in the lowest recesses of his trunk he had a razor, wherewith on divers occasions, in dread secret, he operated with slashing effect. Be this as it might, Charlie was growing up. He had a fag of his own, who alternately quaked and rejoiced beneath his eye; he wore a fearful and wonderful stick-up collar on Sundays, and, above all, he treated me with a careless indifference which contrasted wonderfully with his former enthusiasm, and betokened only too significantly the advance of years on his young head.

True, he wound me up regularly; but he often left me half the day under his pillow; and though once in a fit of artistic zeal he set himself to hew out a C.N. in startling characters on my back, with the point of a bodkin, he never polished me now as he was once wont to do.

All this was painful to me, especially the operation with the bodkin, but I still rejoiced to call him master, and to know that though years had changed his looks, and sobered his childish exuberance, the same true heart still beat close to mine, and remained still as warm and guileless as when little Charlie Newcome, with me in his pocket, first put his foot forth into the world.

There were two besides myself who could bear witness at the end of these three years that time had not changed the boy's heart. These two, I need hardly say, were Tom Drift and Jim Halliday.

To Tom, Charlie had become increasingly a friend of the true kind. Ever since the day at Gurley races, the influence of the younger boy had grown and overshadowed the elder, confirming his unstable resolutions, animating his sluggish mind with worthy ambitions, and giving to his pliant character a tone coloured by his own honesty and uprightness. Just as a pilot will safely steer the ship amid shoals and rocks out into the deeper waters, so Charlie, by his quiet influence, had given Tom's life a new direction towards honour and usefulness.

Once, and once only, during those three years had he shown a disposition to hark back on his old discreditable ways, and that was the result of a casual meeting with Gus one summer during the holidays, with whom, he afterwards confessed to Charlie, he was induced to forget for a time his better resolutions in the snares of a billiard-room. But the backsliding was repented of almost as soon as committed, and, to Charlie's anxious eyes, appeared to leave behind no bad result.

Jim was the same downright outspoken boy as ever. He had yielded, surlily at first, to the admission of Tom Drift into the confidence and friendship of himself and his chum, but by degrees, moved by Charlie's example, he had become more hearty, and now these three boys were the firmest friends in Randlebury.

One day, as Charlie was sitting in his study attempting, with many groans, to make sense out of a very obscure passage in Cicero, his fag entered and said, -- 

"Newcome, there's a parcel for you down at Trotter's."

"Why didn't you bring it up, you young muff?" inquired his lord.

"Because it's got to be signed for, and he wouldn't let me do that for you."

"Like your cheek to think of such a thing. What's it like?"

"Oh, it's in a little box. I say, Newcome, shall we go and get it?"

"I can't go at present; it'll wait, I suppose," said Charlie, with the air of a man who was daily in the habit of receiving little boxes by the carrier.

But for all that he could not wholly conceal his curiosity.

"What size box?" he asked presently.

"About the size of a good big pill-box."

"All that? I dare say I can fetch that up by myself," said Charlie.

Size of a large pill-box! It could not be anything so very important after all. So he turned again to his Cicero, and sent the fag about his business.

Presently, however, that youth returned with a letter for Charlie. It ran thus:

"Dear Young Scamp,

"People always say bachelor uncles are fools, and I think they are right. I've sent you a proof of my folly in a little box, which ought to reach you about the same time as this letter. You've done nothing to deserve a present from me, and a box on the ears would be much better bestowed. Never mind. Take care of this little gift for me, in memory of the jolly Christmas you and I last spent together, and when you are not kicking up a row with your cronies at Randlebury or have nothing better to do, think of your affectionate

"Uncle Ralph."

Much to the fag's astonishment, Charlie, having perused this letter, slammed up Cicero, and seizing the cap from off his (the fag's) head, as being most ready to hand, dashed out of school in the direction of the village.

"Trot!" he exclaimed, as he reached the establishment of that familiar merchant, "hand up that little box, you old villain! Do you hear?"

The long-suffering Trotter, to whom this address was comparatively polite in its phraseology, was not long in producing the parcel, in acknowledgment of which Charlie gave his sign manual in lordly characters upon the receipt; and then, burning with impatience, yet trying hard to appear unconcerned, walked swiftly back to the school.

The fag was hanging about his study, scarcely less curious than himself.

"Hook it!" cried his master, putting the parcel down on the table and taking out his penknife to cut the string.

Still the inquisitive fag lingered. Whereupon Charlie, taking him kindly yet firmly by the collar of his coat, conveyed him to the open window, whence he gently dropped him a distance of six feet to the earth.

Privacy being thus secured, he turned again to his parcel and opened it. Imagine his delight and my agony when there came to light a splendid gold watch and chain! I turned faint with jealousy, and when a second glance showed me that the interloper was no other than the identical gold repeater whom I had known and dreaded in my infancy, I was ready to break my mainspring with vexation. To me the surprise had brought nothing but foreboding and despair, and already I felt myself discarded for my rival; but to Charlie it brought a rapture of delight which expressed itself in a whoop which could be heard half over the school.

"What on earth's the row?" said a head looking in at the door; "caught cold, or what?"

"Come here, Jim, this moment; look at this!"

And Jim came and looked, and as he looked his eyes sparkled with admiration.

"My eye, Charlie, what a beauty!" said he, taking up the treasure in his hand. His thumb happened to touch the spring on the handle, and instantly there came a low melodious note from inside the repeater -- One, two, three, and then a double tinkle twice repeated.

"That's striking," observed Jim, who was occasionally guilty of a pun. "Why, it's a repeater!"

"So it is! Did you ever know such a brick as that uncle of mine?"

"It's a pity your people can't think of anything else but watches for presents. Why, what a donkey you made of yourself about that silver turnip when you first had it! Don't you remember? What's to become of it, by the by?"

"How do I know? I say, Jim, this one wasn't got for nothing." And then the boys together investigated the wonders of the new watch, peeping at its works and making it strike, till I was quite sick of hearing it. But then I was jealous. There was no more Cicero for Charlie that day. He was almost as ridiculous, though not so rough, with his new treasure as he had been with me. He turned me out of my pocket to make room for it; and then half a dozen times a minute pulled it out and gloated over it. At night he put us both under his pillow, little dreaming of the sorrow and disappointment that filled my breast.

Where were all the old days now? Who would admire or value me, a poor, commonplace silver drudge, now that this grand, showy rival had come and taken my place? In my anger and excitement my heart beat fast and loud, so loud that presently I heard a voice beside me saying, -- 

"Gently, there, if you please; no one can hear himself speak with that noise."

"I've more right to be here than you," I growled.

"That is as our mutual master decides; but surely I have heard your voice before! Let me look at you."

And he edged himself up, so as to get a peep at my shabby face.

"To be sure -- my young friend the three-guinea silver watch? How do you do, my little man?"

This patronage was intolerable, and I had no words to reply.

"Ah! you find it difficult to converse. You must indeed be almost worn out after the work you have had. I am indeed astonished to see you alive at all. I am sure, in my master's name, I may be allowed to thank you for your praiseworthy exertions in his service. We are both much obliged to you, and hope we shall show ourselves not unmindful of your -- "

"Brute!" was all I could shriek, so mad was I, Whether my rival would have pursued his discourse I cannot say, but at that instant a hand came fumbling under the pillow. It passed me by, and sought the repeater, and next moment the tinkling chimes sounded half-past eleven.

It was as much as I could endure to be thus slighted and triumphed over.

"Contemptible creature!" I exclaimed; "you may think you've a fine voice, but, like a simpering schoolgirl, you can't sing till you're pressed!" I had him there, surely!

"Better that than having no voice at all, like some people, or using it when no one wants to hear it, like others." I suppose he thought he had me there, the puppy!

He went on chiming at intervals during the night, and of course my master had very little rest in consequence.

The next day Charlie and Jim had a solemn confabulation as to the disposal of me.

"It's no use wasting it, you know," said Jim. "Pity you haven't got a young brother to pass it on to."

"Suppose you take it," said the generous Charlie.

"No, old man, I don't want it. I'm not so mad about tickers as you. But, I tell you what, Charlie, you might like Tom to have it. He's leaving, you know, and it would be a nice reminder of Randlebury."

"Just what I thought directly the new one came," exclaimed Charlie, "only then I remembered we had a row about this very watch three years ago, and I'm afraid he wouldn't like it."

"Try. Old Tom would be quite set up with a watch."

Charlie proceeded that same day in quest of Tom, whom he found packing up his books and chemicals in a large trunk.

To him my master exhibited his new treasure, greatly to Drift's delight.

"Why, Charlie," he said, "I don't know much about watches, but I'm certain that's worth twenty pounds."

"No!" exclaimed Charlie; "you don't mean that."

"Yes, I do; but, for all that, I'll back your old turnip to keep as good time as it."

"It's always gone well, the old one. I'm glad you like it, Tom."

"I always liked it, you know."

"Why?"

"Well, I've known it as long as I've known you, and if it hadn't been for it things might have been different."

"Yes," said Charlie, "it was the cause of all the row three years ago."

"And if it hadn't been for that row I should have gone to the bad long ago. That was a lucky row for me, Charlie, thanks to you."

"Don't say that, old man, because it's a cram."

"I say, Tom," added Charlie nervously, coming to his point, "will you do me a favour?"

"Anything in the world. What is it?"

"Take my old watch, Tom. It's not worth much, you know, but it may be useful, and it will help to remind you of old days. Will you, Tom?"

Tom's lips quivered as he took me from Charlie's outstretched hand.

"Old boy," said he, "I'd sooner have this than anything else in the world. Somehow I feel I can't go wrong as long as I have it."

Charlie was beyond measure delighted to find his present accepted with so little difficulty.

"Oh, Tom," he said, "I am glad to think you'll have it, and I know you'll think of me when you use it."

"Won't I?" said Tom. "I say, Charlie, I wish you were coming to London with me."

"So do I. Never mind, we'll often write, and you'll promise to let me know how you are getting on, won't you?"

"Yes."

"And you'll call and see my father pretty often, won't you?"

"Yes."

"And you'll keep yourself free for a week's jaunt at Easter?"

"Yes."

They had much more talk that evening, which lasted till late. What they talked about it is not for me to repeat, and if it were it would probably not interest my reader. He would perhaps be disappointed to find that a considerable part of it related to a new suit of Tom's, just arrived from the tailor's, and that another part had reference to Tom's intention to prevail on his landlady in London to allow him to support a bull-dog puppy on her premises. These subjects, deeply interesting to the two friends, would not improve with repetition; and neither would the rest of their talk, which was chiefly a going over of old times, and a laying of many a wondrous scheme for the future. Suffice it to say, on this last evening the two boys unbosomed themselves to one another, and if Tom Drift went off to bed in a sober and serious frame of mind, it was because he and Charlie both had thought and felt a great deal more than they had spoken during the interview. The packing went on at the same time as the talk, and then the two friends separated, only to meet once more on the morrow for a hurried farewell.

"Let's have a last look at him," said Charlie, as Tom was getting into the cab to go.

Tom took me out and handed me to him. Long and tenderly my dear young master looked at me, then, patting me gently with his hand as if I were a child, he said, -- 

"Good-bye, and be good to Tom Drift; do you hear?"

If a tick could express anything, my reply at that moment must have satisfied him his parting wish would not be forgotten. Then returning me to my new master, he said, -- 

"Good-bye, old boy; joy go with you. We'll hear of you at the head of your profession before Jim and I have left school."

"Not quite so soon," replied Tom, laughing.

Then came a last good-bye, and the cab drove off. As it turned the corner of the drive Tom leaned out of the window and held me out in his hand.

Long shall I remember that parting glimpse. He was standing on the steps with Jim waving his hands. The sun shone full on him, lighting up his bright face and curly head. I thought as I looked, "Where could one find his equal?" -- Sans peur et sans reproche -- "matchless for gentleness, honesty, and courage," and felt, as the vision faded from me, that I should never see another like him. And I never did.

Little, however, did I dream in what strange way I was next to meet Charlie Newcome.



Chapter Eleven.

How Tom Drift Made One Start In London, And Prepared To Make Another.

The two months that followed my departure from Randlebury were melancholy and tedious.

It was hard for me, after the boisterous surroundings of a public school, to settle down to the heavy monotony of a dull lodging in a back street of London; and it was harder still, after being the pride and favourite of a boy like Charlie Newcome, to find myself the property of Tom Drift.

Not that Tom used me badly at first. He wound me up regularly, and for the sake of his absent friend honoured me with a considerable share of his affection.

Indeed, for the first week or so he was quite gushing, scarcely letting me out of his sight, and sometimes even dropping a tear over me. And I, remembering Charlie's last words, "Be good to Tom Drift," felt glad to be able to remind my new master of old times, and keep fresh the hopes and resolutions with which Charlie had done so much to inspire him. But Tom Drift, I could not help feeling, was not a safe man.

There was something lacking in him, and that something was ballast. No one, perhaps, ever had a greater theoretical desire to be all that was right and good, but that was not in itself enough.

In quiet, easy times, and with a guiding friend to help him, Tom Drift did well enough; but left to himself amid currents and storms he could hardly fail to come to grief, as we shall presently see.

For the first two months he stuck hard to his work he was regular at lectures, and attentive when there; he spent his spare time well in study bearing upon the profession for which he was preparing; he wrote and heard once a week from Charlie; he kept clear of the more rackety of his fellow-students; he spent his Sundays at Mr Newcome's house, and he took plenty of healthy exercise both for body and mind.

With many examples about him of industry and success he determined to make the most of his time as a student, and spoke of the life and sphere of a country doctor, for which he was training, with the enthusiasm of one whose heart is in his work.

"The more I think of it," he once wrote to his mother, who was residing abroad for her health, "the more I take to it. A good doctor is the best-liked man in his parish. Everybody comes to him in their trouble. He gets into the best society, and yet makes himself loved by the poorest. In four or five years at least I ought to get through my course here, and then there is nothing to prevent my settling down at once. By that time I hope you'll be well enough to come and keep house for me, for all country doctors, you know, are bachelors," and so on.

All this was very well, and, as one of Tom's friends, I rejoiced to see him thus setting himself in earnest to the duties of his calling. But I rejoiced with trembling. Although he kept clear, for the most part, of his fellow-students, choosing his friends charily and shyly, I could yet see that he had no objection to contemplate from a distance the humours and festivities of his more high-spirited companions. He was not one of those impulsive fellows who shut their eyes and take a header into the midst of a new good-fellowship, only to discover too late their error, and repent their rashness at leisure.

No, Tom had his eyes open. He saw the evil as well as the good, and, alas for him, having seen it, he looked still!

The students of Saint Elizabeth's Hospital were not on the whole a bad set. On Tom's arrival in London, however, he had the firm impression in his mind that all medical students were bad characters, and this foolish notion did him much harm. If two or three of them were to go off for a spree, his imagination would at once picture them in scenes and places such as no respectable man would like to frequent, whereas, if the truth were known, these misjudged young men had committed no greater crime than that of taking a boat up the river, or a drive in a dog-cart. If a group of them should be seen by him laughing and talking, he instinctively concluded their topic must be ribaldry, whereas they would perhaps be only joking at the expense of some eccentric professor, or else chaffing one of their own number. And so it happened that Tom failed in time to distinguish between the really bad and such as he only imagined to be bad; and from his habit of looking on at them and their doings from a studied distance, their presence began gradually and insensibly to exercise a very considerable influence over his mind.

"After all," he would sometimes say to himself, "these fellows get on. They pass their exams, they pay their bills, they gain the confidence of their professors, and at the same time they manage to enjoy themselves. Perhaps I am a fool to take so much pains about the first three of these things, and to deny myself the fourth. Perhaps, after all, these fellows are not so bad as I have fancied, or perhaps I am prudish."

And then the silly fellow, having once inclined to admit there was something to be said for medical students, and having before considered all bad alike, became tolerant all round, more particularly of the really bad set, who appeared to him to enjoy themselves the most.

As his companions became more attractive to him, his work became less interesting.

"Why should I grind and plod here," he said, "while every one else is enjoying himself? If young Charlie were here, I'm pretty sure he'd be in for some of their sprees, and laugh at me for wearing my eyes out as I'm doing."

And then he leaned back in his chair and took to wondering what the six fellows who started that afternoon for Richmond were doing. Smashing the windows of the "Star and Garter," perhaps, or fighting the bargees on the river, or capturing a four-in-hand drag, or disporting themselves in some such genial and truly English manner. And as Tom conjured up the picture he half envied them their sport.

So he gradually became restless and discontented. The days were weary and the evenings intolerably dull. The visits to Mr Newcome were of course pleasant enough, but it was slow being cooped up an entire Sunday with two old people. On the whole, life in London was becoming stupid.

One of the first symptoms of his altered frame of mind was the occasional neglect of his regular letter to Charlie. That ever-faithful young man wrote as punctually as clockwork. Every Thursday morning a letter lay on Tom's plate at breakfast-time, addressed in the well-known hand, and bearing the Randlebury post-mark. And jolly lively letters they were.

I remembered one of them well. It came after two weeks' omission on Tom's part, and ran thus: -- 

"Dear Tom,

"A pretty fellow you are to correspond with! Here am I, piping to you with all my might, but I can't get you to dance. I know what you'll tell me, you old humbug -- 'awfully hard grind' -- 'exam coming on' -- 'lectures day and night,' and rubbish like that. All very well, but look here, Thomas, don't fancy that your diligence in cutting off legs and arms can be an excuse for cutting yours truly in this heartless manner. Not having a letter of yours to answer, I don't know how I shall scrape up material enough for a yarn. There was a big football-match on Saturday, and Jim and I were in it. You should have seen me turning somersaults, and butting my head into the fellows' stomachs. Jim and I got shoulder to shoulder once in the game. You know old Howe? Well, he was running with the ball to wards our goal, and Jim and I were in front of him.

I was nearest, and charged, and over I went like a ninepin; then Jim was on him, and over he went too. However, I was up again in time to jump on Howe's back; but he shook me off on to the ground on my nose. Then Jim, having recovered, took his fling, and a rare fling it was, for Howe dodged him just as he was at the top of a kangaroo leap, and left him looking very foolish in a sitting posture on the ground. However, in dodging, Howe had allowed me time to extricate my nose from the earth and make my third attempt. This time was more successful, for I got my hands round the ball; but I shouldn't have kept them there if Jim hadn't taken the opportunity of executing another astounding buck-jump, which landed him safe on his man's shoulders, where he stuck like a scared cat on the back of a somnambulist. So between us we brought our quarry to earth and gained no end of applause. Wasn't it prime?

That's about all the news here, except that Willoughby is going to Trinity at Midsummer, and that Salter is laid up from the effects of an explosion of crackers in his trousers pockets.

"I've taken a turn at reading hard, which may astonish you. The doctor told me, if I really thought of some day arraying my manly form in a scarlet jacket and wearing a sword, I ought to put it on with my mathematics, which are not my forte, you know. So now I'm drawing circles and triangles at every available moment, and my logarithm tables are thumbed almost to death. Don't imagine you're the only burner of midnight oil.

"I had a letter from home to-day. They were saying they hadn't seen you lately. I hope you'll go up when you can; it would be a charity to the dear old folk; besides, they are very fond of you -- queer taste! How's the ticker? Give it a cuff from me for not reminding you to write the last two weeks.

The repeater goes on all serene. It has already gained some notoriety, as I was publicly requested, before the whole Fifth, the other day, to abstain from evoking its musical talents in the course of the Latin prose lesson. Now I must shut up. Seriously, old man, don't overwork yourself, and don't bother to write unless you've time; but you know how welcome your letters are to

"Your affectionate chum,

"C.N."

Of course Tom sat down and answered this letter at once, much reproaching himself for his past neglect.

With the vision of Charlie before his eyes, and with the sound of his voice again in his ears, all his old resolutions and impulses returned that morning. He worked hard, and flung the trashy novel, over which he had been wasting his time the day before, into the fire; he went off to lectures with something like his old eagerness, and discharged his duties in the wards with interest and thoroughness; he refused to allow his mind to be distracted by the proceedings of his fellow-students, and he resolved to spend that very evening at Mr Newcome's.

Tom Drift would probably have laughed at the idea that this sudden change was due entirely to Charlie's letter. To him it seemed like a spontaneous reassertion of its natural self by his mind, and a matter for such self-congratulation and satisfaction, that it at once covered the multitude of past omissions.

Indeed, Tom felt very virtuous as he returned that afternoon to his lodgings; and so felt no need to look away from self to Him who alone can keep us from falling.

He read Charlie's letter over again, and smiled at the idea of his getting up mathematics in his spare time.

"He's not the sort of fellow to stick to work of that sort," said Tom to himself, secretly comparing his own remarkable powers of application with those of his Randlebury friend.

Then he sat down, and more than ever admiring and wondering at his own greediness for hard work, read till it was time to start for Mr Newcome's.

It was a good long way, but being a fine evening, Tom determined to walk. He felt that after his work the fresh air would do him good, and besides, as he was in plenty of time, he could indulge himself in that very cheap and harmless luxury, an inspection of the shop windows as he went along. He therefore selected a longer and more crowded route than perhaps he need have done, and certainly, as far as the shops went, was rewarded for his pains.

However, Tom seemed to me to have as much interest in watching the people who passed to and fro as in the shops. He amused himself by wondering where this one was going and what that one was doing. With his usual tendency, he chose to imagine they were all bent on mischief or folly, and because they happened to be in a certain street, and because in that street he had frequently heard some of his fellow - students speak of a low theatre, he jumped to the conclusion that every one he saw was bound for this place. Something impelled him to go himself and take an exterior survey of this mysterious and much-spoken - of building. He found it; and, as he expected, he found people thronging in, though not in the numbers he had anticipated. He stood and watched them for some time, and wondered what they were going to see.

He went up and read the playbill. He read the name of the play, the titles of its acts, and the names of its actors. He wondered if the man who just then drove up in a hansom was one of the heroes of the piece, or whether he was one of the performers in the farce announced to follow the play. Still the people streamed in. There was no one he knew, and no one knew him.

"Strange," thought he, "there are so many places in London where one could go and no one ever know it."

He wished he could see what the place was like inside; it must surely be crowded by this time.

Thus he dawdled for some time; then with a sigh and an effort he tore himself away and walked quickly on to the Newcomes' house. Their welcome was most cordial.

"We were afraid," said Mr Newcome, "you had quite deserted us. Come in, it is pleasant to see you. We had a letter from Charlie only to - day, telling us to see you did not overwork yourself, and to make you come up here whether you would or not. Of course we could hardly follow such instructions literally."

Tom spent a pleasant evening with the two good people.

He always had found Mr Newcome a clever and very entertaining man -- a man whom one feels all the better for talking to, and who naturally sets every guest in his house at ease. They talked much about Charlie and his prospects. They even consulted Tom as to the wisdom of yielding to the boy's desire for a military career, and Tom strongly supported the idea.

Then Tom's own prospects were canvassed and highly approved of by both Mr, and Mrs Newcome.

Tom already pictured himself settled down in his country practice, enjoying himself, doing good to others, and laying by a comfortable competency for future years. On the whole, he felt, as he quitted the hospitable roof of his genial friends, that he had rarely spent a more pleasant or profitable evening.

People were thronging out of the theatre as he returned, and he could not resist the desire to stand and watch them; for a little. He wondered what they had seen, and whether those he saw had waited for the "farce," or was that still going on? -- and he wondered if any people ever went into a theatre at so late an hour as eleven.

Ah, Tom! he did not go in that night, or the next, but he was getting himself ready for the first step.

Reader, do not mistake Tom's weakness and folly. He was not trying to persuade himself this place was a good one for him to enter; he was not thoughtlessly going in to discover too late that he had better have stayed out. No, Tom -- rightly or wrongly -- had made up his own mind that this theatre was a bad place, and yet he had a desire to enter in!



Chapter Twelve.

How Tom Drift Begins To Go Downhill.

Time went on, and Tom Drift advanced inch by inch nearer the brink. He slipped, not without many an effort to recover himself, many a pang of self-reproach, many a vague hope of deliverance.

"Be good to Tom Drift!" was ever ringing in my ears. But what could I do? He often neglected me for days. All I could do was to watch and tremble for what was coming.

You who are so ready to call Tom a fool, and hug yourselves that you have more strength of character and resolution than he had, try to realise what were his perils and what were his temptations at that time, before you pass judgment.

The dulness of those lodgings in Grime Street was often almost unbearable. When his work was done, and Tom looked out of the window and saw nothing but carts and cabs and tradesmen, and the dismal houses opposite, what wonder if he sometimes felt miserable? When he heard nothing but pattering footsteps down the pavement, the rumble of wheels and the street cries under his window, what wonder if he felt lonely and friendless? No footsteps stopped at his door, no friendly face lightened his dull study, no cheery laughter brought music to his life. What wonder, I say, if he moped and felt discontented?

What wonder if his thoughts wandered to scenes and places that contrasted forcibly with his dead-alive occupation? What wonder if he hankered after a "little excitement," to break the monotony of lectures, hard reading, and stupid evenings?

"Ah," I hear you say, "there are plenty of things he might have done. It was his own fault if he was dull in London. I would have gone to the museums, the libraries, the concerts, the parks, the river, the picture galleries, and other harmless and delightful places of amusement. Why, I could not be dull in London if I tried. Tom Drift was an idiot."

My dear friend, what a pity Tom Drift had not the advantage of your acquaintance when he was in London! But he had not. He had no friends, as I have said, except the Newcomes, whom he only visited occasionally, and as a matter chiefly of duty, and his anxiety to keep right at first had led him to reject and fight shy of friendships with his fellow - students. Doubtless it was his own fault to a large extent that he allowed himself to get into this dull, dissatisfied condition. If he had had a healthy mind like you, friend, it would not have happened. But instead of utterly scouting him as an idiot, rather thank God you have been spared all his weaknesses and all his temptations.

Was Tom never to learn that there was a way -- "The Way, the Truth, and the Life" -- better than any he had yet tried, which would lead him straight through the tangled mazes of his London life? Was he never to discover that Friend, truer than all earthly friends, at Whose side he might brave each trial and overcome each temptation?

Poor Tom! he walked in a way of his own? and trusted in no one better than himself; and that was why he fell.

As I have said, he did not fall without an effort. I have known him one day buy a bad, trashy book, and the same evening, in a fit of repentance -- for God's Spirit wonderfully strives with men -- take and burn it to ashes in his grate. But I have also known him to buy the same book again the next day. I have known him to walk a mile out of his way to avoid a place of temptation; and yet, before his walk was done, find himself, after all, under the glare of its lamps. The moth hovers in wide circles round the candle before it ventures its wings in the flame. And so it was with Tom; but the catastrophe came at last.

One evening about three weeks before the time fixed for the Easter trip with Charlie, Tom felt in tolerably dull. He had been neglecting his work during several days for novels of the lowest and most sensational type. Over these he had dawdled till his brain had become muddled with their unreal incidents and impure suggestions, and now that they were done he felt fit for nothing. He could not settle down to work, he had no friends to turn to, and so he put his hat on his head and sallied out into the streets to seek there the variety he could not find indoors.

As usual, his steps led him to the low theatre about which he was so curious, and of which he heard so much from his fellow-students. It was half-past seven, and people were beginning to crowd round the door, waiting for it to open. Tom, standing on the other side of the pavement, watched them with a painful fascination.

"Shall I go for once?" he asked himself. Then he strolled up to the playbill and read it.

As he was doing so some one slapped him on the shoulder, and, turning quickly round, he found himself face to face with his old acquaintance Gus Burke and another youth.

Gus, who was still small of stature, though fully nineteen years of age, was arrayed in the height of the fashion. As Tom regarded him he felt his own coat become more shabby and his hat older, and he wished he had brought his dogskin gloves and cane. Gus was smoking, too, a cigarette, and very distinguished and gentlemanly Tom thought it looked. He felt, as he regarded his brilliant and unexpected acquaintance, that he was rather glad those people who were standing at the theatre door should see him accosted in so familiar a way by such a hero. And Gus's friend was no less imposing -- more so, indeed, for he wore an eyeglass.

Tom was so astonished at this unexpected meeting that he had noticed all this long before he found words to return his old schoolfellow's salutation.

Gus, however, relieved him of his embarrassment.

"Tom Drift, upon my honour! How are you, old horse, and how's your mother? Who'd have thought of running up against you like this?"

Tom tried to look as much at his ease as he could as he replied, -- 

"Why, Gus, old man, where did you spring from? I didn't know you were in London."

"Ain't I, though!" replied Gus, tapping the end of his cigarette on his cane. "But what are you up to, Tom? -- you're not going in here, are you?" pointing over his shoulder to the theatre.

"Well, no," said Tom; "that is," added he, with as much of a swagger as he could assume on the spur of the moment, "I had been half thinking of just seeing what it was like. Some of our fellows, you know, fancy the place."

How suddenly and easily he was, under the eyes of these two "swells," casting off the few slender cords that still held him moored to the shore.

"Oh, don't go in there," said Gus, with a look of disgust; "it's the slowest place in London -- nothing on but that old fool Shakespeare's plays, or somebody's equally stupid. You come along with us, Tom, we'll take you to a place where you'll get your money's worth and no mistake. Won't we, Jack?"

The youth appealed to as Jack answered with a most affected drawl, and with an effort which appeared to cause him no little fatigue, "Wathah."

"Come along," said Gus, lighting a fresh cigarette.

Tom was uncomfortable. He would not for worlds seem unwilling to go, and yet he wished he could get out of it somehow.

"Very kind of you," he said, "I'd like it awfully; but I must get back to do some work, you know, I've an exam coming on. It's an awful nuisance!"

"Why, I thought you were going in here, in any case!" said Gus.

"Ah -- well -- yes, so I was, just for a little, to see what sort of affair it was; but I meant to be home by nine."

"Well, just have a squint in at our place; and if you must go, you must. Come along, old man; cut work for one evening, can't you? You've become an awfully reformed character all of a sudden; you usen't to be so hot on your books."

Tom had no ambition before these two to figure in the light of a reformed character, and he therefore abandoned further protest, and proceeded to accompany Gus and his friend down the street.

"Have a weed?" asked Gus.

"Thanks, I hardly ever smoke," said Tom.

"They're very mild," said Gus, with a sneer.

Tom took the proffered cigar without another word, and did his best first to light and then to smoke it as if he were an experienced smoker.

"Who's your fwend?" inquired Gus's languid acquaintance.

"By the way," said that young man, "I've never introduced you two. Mortimer, allow me to introduce you to my friend Tom Drift."

Mr Mortimer gave a nod which Tom felt he would like greatly to have at his command, there was something so very knowing and familiar about it.

"It was Tom got up that little race party I was telling you of, Jack, you know. He's a regular sporting card. By the way, what's become of that little mooney-face prig we took with us that day; eh, Tom?"

Tom was out in midstream now, floating fast out to sea.

"Who -- oh, young Newcome?" said he; "he's still at Randlebury."

"Young puppy! You never knew such a spree as that was, Jack," said Gus; and then he launched forth into a highly-spiced account of the eventful expedition to Gurley races, contriving to represent Tom as the hero of the day, greatly to that youth's discomfort and confusion, and no less to the amusement of Mr Mortimer.

"Here we are at last," said Gus, as the trio arrived at a gorgeously illuminated and decorated restaurant.

Tom's heart sunk within him. More than ever did he wish himself back in his dull lodgings, never again to set foot abroad, if only he could have got out of this fix. But there was no drawing back.

"Shall we go in yet, or knock the balls about for a bit?" said Gus. "This fellow Tom's a regular swell at billiards. Do you remember thrashing me last time we met, Tom -- the summer after I'd left Randlebury?"

Tom could not deny he had beaten Gus on the occasion referred to, and felt it was useless for him to protest -- what was the case -- that he was only a very indifferent player. He agreed to the idea of a game, however, as he hoped he might at its close be able to make his escape without accompanying his two companions to the music-hall attached to the restaurant, and which he already knew by reputation as one of the lowest entertainments in London. "You two play," said Gus, "and I'll mark. You'll have to give Jack points, Tom, you know, you're such a dab."

It was vain for Tom to disclaim the distinction, and the game began.

"Hold hard!" said Gus, after the first stroke; "what are you playing for?"

"Weally, I don't know; thillingth, I thuppothe," lisped Mr Mortimer.

"All serene! Go on."

And they went on, and Mr Mortimer made no end of misses, so that, in spite of the points he had received, Tom beat him easily. In the two games which followed the same success attended him, and he won all the stakes.

"Didn't I tell you he was a swell?" said Gus. "Upon my word, Tom, I don't know how you do it!"

"It's just the sort of table I like to play on," said Tom, elated with his success, and unwilling to own that half his lucky shots had been "flukes."

"I tell you what," said Gus; "you owe me my revenge, you know, from last time. I'll play you to-morrow for half-crowns, if you'll give me the same points as you did to Jack."

Tom was fast nearing the breakers now. He had nothing for it but to accept the challenge, and the table was consequently engaged for the next evening.

"I must be off now, you fellows!" he said.

"Nonsense! Why, you haven't yet seen the fun below. You must stay for that."

"I wish I could," faltered Tom; "but I really must do some reading to - night."

"So you can; the thing only lasts an hour, and you're not obliged to go to bed at eleven, are you?"

Still Tom hesitated.

"You don't mean to say you are squeamish about it?" said Gus, in astonishment. "I could fancy that young friend of your mother's turning up his eyes at it, but a fellow like you wouldn't be so particular, I reckon; eh, Jack?"

And Mr John Mortimer, thus appealed to, laughed an amused laugh at the bare notion.

That laugh and the term, "a fellow like you," destroyed the last of Tom's wavering objections, and he yielded.



Chapter Thirteen.

How Tom Drift, Still Going Downhill, Met My Old Master.

When Tom reached his lodgings that night he found a jubilant letter from Charlie awaiting him.

"Just fancy," he said, "it's only three weeks more, old man, and then to Jericho with books, and test-tubes, and anatomy! I'll drag you out of your study by the scruff of your neck, see if I don't; I'll clap a knapsack on your back, and haul you by sheer force down into Kent. There you shall snuff the ozone, and hold your hat on your head with both hands on the cliff top. I'll hound you through old castles, and worry you up hills. If I catch so much as a leaflet on chemistry in your hands, I'll tear it up and send it flying after the sea-gulls. In short, I shouldn't like to say what I won't do, I'm so wild at the prospect of a week with you. Of course, the dear old people growl at me for leaving them in the lurch; but they are glad for us to get the blow; indeed, my pater insists on paying the piper, which is handsome of him. I expect I shall get a day in London on my way, either going or returning; and if you can put me up at your diggings for the night, we'll have a jolly evening, and you can show me all your haunts."

Tom gasped as he got so far; and well he might.

"I'll tell you all the news when I come. I suppose, by your not writing, you are saving yours up for me. Ta, ta, old boy, and au revoir in twenty-one days! Hurrah! Yours ever, -- C.N."

Tom, in his misery, crushed the letter up in his fingers and flung it from him. If a passing pang shot through his breast, it was followed almost instantly by other feelings of vexation and shame. One moment he was ready to sink to the floor in a passion of penitence and remorse --  the next, he was ready to resent Charlie's influence over him even at a distance, and to sneer, as Gus and his friend had done, at the boy's expense. His brain was too muddled with the excitement and the strange emotions of that evening to reason with himself; his head ached, and his mind was poisoned.

"What right has the fellow always to be following me up in this way?" he asked. "I'm a fool to stand it. Why can't I do as I choose without his pulling a long face?"

Thus Tom questioned, and thus he proved that it was Charlie's influence more than his letter that worried him; for what had the latter said, either in the way of exhortation or reproof?

Then he threw himself on the bed, and lay with the wild memory of the evening crowding on his feverish mind. He rose, and, lighting a candle, endeavoured to read; but even his novel was flat and stupid, and in the midst of it he fell asleep, to dream of Gus and his friend all night long. Long ere he awoke my senses had left me, for he had neglected to wind me up. Next morning he went to lectures as usual. To his fellow - students he appeared the same shy, quiet youth he had always seemed; to Mr

Newcome, whom he met in the street, he appeared still as Charlie's chosen and dear friend, ready for his holiday and rejoicing in the prospect of the coming meeting; to his professors he appeared still the same steady, hard-working student, bent on making his way in his profession. But to himself, alas! how altered, how degraded he appeared!

In the midst of his duties his thoughts ran continually -- now back to the strange experience of last evening, now forward to the doubtful events of this.

The recollection of the past had lost a good deal of its repulsiveness after twelve hours' interval, and although he still felt it to be low and harmful, he yet secretly encouraged his curiosity to revisit the place of his temptation.

"After all, it did me no harm," said he to himself; "it's not interfered with my work, or made me feel worse than before. What harm in going again to-night? When Charlie comes, and we get away from town, I shall easily be able to break it off; and besides, Charlie's sure to help to put me square; he always does. Yes; I think I'll just go and see what's on there to-night; it can't be worse than it was. Besides," thought he, glad to seize on any straw of excuse, "I'm bound in honour to play Gus a return match; it would be ungentlemanly to back out of that."

But why sicken you, dear reader, and myself, with recapitulating the sad workings of this poor fellow's mind? The more he tried to convince himself he was doing only a slight wrong, the more his conscience cried out he was running to his ruin. But he stopped his ears and shut his eyes, and blindly dared his fate. He went that evening to the music - hall. He met Gus and Mortimer, and two other friends. He had taken care to get himself up in a nearer approach to his companions' style. He bought some cigars of his own on the way, and offered them with a less awkward swagger than he had been able to assume the night before. He found himself able to nod familiarly to the barmaid, and fancied that even Mortimer must have approved of the way in which he ordered about the billiard-marker.

In the match with Gus for half-crowns he lost, though only narrowly -- so narrowly that he was not content, without a further trial of skill, to own himself beaten, and therefore challenged his adversary to a second meeting the next evening. Then he watched the others play, and betted with Mortimer on the result -- and alas! for him, he won.

It was Tom himself who said, at nine o'clock, -- 

"And now, suppose we see what's going on below."

It was the same stupid, disgusting spectacle, but to Tom it seemed less repulsive than he had found it the night before. True, he at times felt a return of the old feeling of shame; the blush would occasionally suffuse his face; but such fits were rare, and he was able to carry them off more easily with joke and laughter.

"Jack," said Gus in a whisper to Mortimer, as Tom, after accepting a very broad hint to treat the party to spirits, was turning to go, "that fellow will be a credit to you and me. Did you see how he smacked his lips over the play, and yet all the while wanted to make us think he saw that sort of thing every day of his life, eh? He's a promising chap, eh, Jack?"

"Wathah," replied Jack, laughing.

Meanwhile Tom, glad enough to get out into the pure air, though in not so desperate a case as the night before, shouldered his way among the loitering company towards the door. He was just emerging into the street, when the sound of voices arrested him.

"That's one of our men, isn't it?" said one.

"Why, so it is; I fancied he was anything but a festive blade. Yes; and upon my word he's half seas over!"

Tom had no difficulty in discovering that these hurried words had reference to him, and turning instinctively towards the voices, he found himself face to face with two, reputedly, of the wildest of his fellow - students.

Gladly would he have avoided them; gladly would he have shrunk back and lost himself in the crowd, but it was too late now; he stood discovered.

"How are you?" cried one of the two, as he passed; "isn't your name Drift?"

Tom stared as if he would have denied his name; but the next moment he put on his lately acquired swagger, and said, "Yes."

"Ah! I thought so; one of the Saint Elizabeth men. Hullo! he's in a hurry, though," added he, as Tom made a dive forward and strode rapidly down the street.

It was but a step deeper. Well he knew that by to-morrow every one of his fellow-students would know of him as a frequenter of that wretched place. Well he knew that, as far as they were concerned, the mask of shyness and reticence under which he had sheltered in their midst was for ever pulled away. "One of us," indeed! So truly the very worst of them might now speak and think of him. Oh, if he had but considered in time; if he had but stemmed this flood at its source! But it was too late now.

And he strode home reckless and hardened.

The next day, as he expected, every one seemed to know of his visits to the music-hall. The two who had seen him accosted him with every show of friendship and intelligence. He was appealed to in the presence of nearly a dozen of his fellow-students as to the name of one of the low songs there given; he was asked if he was going to be there to-night, and he was invited to join this party and that in similar expeditions to similar places. And to all these questions and greetings he was constrained to reply in keeping with his assumed character of a gay spark. How sick, how vile he felt; yet in that one day how hardened and desperate he became!

It was not in Tom Drift to cry "I have sinned! I will return!" No, once loose from his moorings, he let himself float down the stream, watching the receding banks in mute despair, raising no shout for succour, venturing no plunge for safety.

You, who by this time have given him up, disgusted at his weakness, his vanity, his low instincts, his cowardliness -- who say let him wallow in the mire he has prepared for himself, who know so glibly what you would have done, what you would have said, what you would have felt, remember once more that Tom Drift was not such as you; and unfortunately did not know you. He was not gifted with your heroic resolution or your all - penetrating wisdom. He was an ordinary sinful being of flesh and blood, relying only on his own poor strength; and therefore, reader, try to realise all he went through before you fling your stone.

The toils were closing round him fast. His will had been the first to suffer, his conscience next. Then with a rush had gone honour, temperance, and purity; and now finally the flimsy rag, his good name, had been torn from him, and he stood revealed a prodigal -- and a hypocrite.

Even yet, however, help might have been forthcoming.

"I say, you fellow," said one of his fellow-students this same day, "I've never spoken to you before, and perhaps shall never do so again; but don't be a fool!"

"What do you mean?" said Tom sharply.

"Only this, and I can't help it if you are angry, keep clear of these new friends of yours, and still more, keep clear of the places they visit. If you've been led in once, rather cut off your right hand than be led in again, that's all!"

What spirit of infatuation possessed Tom Drift, that he did not spring for very life at the proffered help, that he did not besiege this friend, however blunt and outspoken, and compel his timely aid? Alas, for his blindness and folly!

Scowling round at the speaker, he muttered an oath, and said, "What on earth concern is it of yours who my friends are and where I go? Mind your own business."

And so, thrusting rudely away the hand that might, by God's grace, have saved him, he swept farther and farther out towards the dark waters.

One final and great hope was still reserved for him, and that was Charlie's visit. But to Tom that prospect was becoming day by day mere distasteful. As the days wore on, and Tom sunk deeper and deeper into the snare prepared for him, the thought of a week in the society of one so upright and pure as Charlie became positively odious. The effort to conceal his new condition would be almost impossible, and yet to admit it to him would be, he felt, to shatter for ever the only friendship he really prized. He racked his brain for expedients and excuses to avert the visit, but without avail. If he pleaded illness Charlie would be the first to rush to his bedside; if he pleaded hard work Charlie would insist on sharing it, or improving its few intervals of rest; if he pleaded disinclination Charlie would devise a hundred other plans to please him. In short, Charlie's visit was inevitable, and as he looked forward to it he writhed in misgiving and anxiety.

His visits to the music-hall were meanwhile continuing, and his circle of acquaintance at that evil haunt enlarging. He was duly installed as one of the "fast set" at Saint Elizabeth's, and under its auspices had already made his debut at other scenes and places than that of his first transgression. He was known by sight to a score of billiard - markers, potmen, blacklegs, and lower characters still, and was on nodding terms with fully half of them. He had lost considerably more than he had gained at billiards, and was still further emptying his purse at cards. Quick work for a few weeks! So quickly and fatally, alas! Will the infection, once admitted, spread, especially in a patient whose moral constitution has undergone so long a course of slow preparation as Tom's had.

The day came at last. Tom had carefully hidden away his worst books and his spirits; he had bathed his face half a dozen times, to remove the traces of last night's intemperance he had gathered together from the corners where they had for so long lain neglected the books and relics of his Randlebury days, and restored them to their old places; he had brightened me up, and he had taken pains to purify his room from the smell of rank tobacco; and then he sauntered down to the station.

How my heart beat as the train came into the platform! His head was out of the window, and his hand was waving to us a hundred yards off; and the next minute he had burst from the carriage, and seized Tom by the hands.

"How are you, old Tom? I thought we'd never get here; how glad I am to set eyes on you! Isn't this a spree?" And not waiting for Tom's answer he hauled his traps out of the carriage in a transport of delight.

Still the same jovial, honest, fine-hearted boy.

"Hi! here! some of you," he shouted to a porter, "look after these things, will you, and get us a cab. I tell you what, Tom, you've got to come up home with me first, and we can have dinner there; then I'll come on to your den, and we can pack our knapsacks and sleep, and then start by the five train to-morrow morning."

Thus he bustled, and thus he brought back the old times on poor Tom Drift. Without the heart to speak, he helped his friend to collect his luggage, and when they were fairly started in the cab he even smiled feebly in reply to the boy's sallies.

"Tom, you rascal, didn't I tell you you weren't to knock yourself up, eh? Why can't you do what you're told? Why, I declare you're as thin as a hurdle, and as black under the eyes as if you had been fighting with a collier. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Look at me; do all I can I can't get up an interesting pallor like you, and I've fretted enough over those conic sections (comic sections Jim always calls them). Never mind! Wait till I get you down to the sea."

And so he rattled on, while Tom leaned back in his seat and winced at every word.

When they reached Mr Newcome's of course there was a scene of eager welcome on one side and boisterous glee on the other. Tom, as he looked on, sighed, as well he might, and wished he could have been spared the torture of this day.

Charlie tore himself away from his mother, to drag his friend into the house.

"Look at this object!" he cried; "did you ever see such a caution to students? If we do nothing else in Kent we shall scare the crows, eh, Tom?"

"Charlie!" exclaimed his mother; "you have come home quite rude! I hope you'll excuse him, Mr Drift."

Mr Drift said nothing, and looked and felt extremely miserable.

"He looks really ill, poor fellow!" said Mrs Newcome to her husband. "I wonder they allow the students to overwork themselves in that way."

And then they sat down to dinner -- a meal as distasteful to Tom as it was joyful to Charlie and his parents.



Chapter Fourteen.

How Tom Drift Parted With His Best Friend.

Charlie could not fail to discover before long that there was something wrong with my master.

Never before had he known him so silent, so spiritless, so mysterious. No effort could rouse him into cheerfulness or conversation, and for the first time for three years Charlie felt that Tom was sorry to see him. Naturally, he put it all down to the results of overwork. Tom in his letters had always represented himself as engrossed in study. Even the few hurried scrawls of the past few weeks he had excused on the same ground. It never once occurred to the simple-minded schoolboy that a chum of his could possibly be struggling in the agonies of shame and temptation and he know nothing of it; he who knew so little of evil himself, was not the one to think or imagine evil where any other explanation was possible.

And yet Tom's manner was so strange and altered, that he determined, as soon as they should find themselves alone, to make an effort to ascertain its cause.

The opportunity came when the two youths, having bid farewell to Mr and Mrs Newcome, found themselves at last in Tom's lodgings in Grime Street.

"Well," said Charlie, with all the show of cheerfulness he could muster, for his spirits had been strangely damped by the irresponsive gloom of his old schoolfellow -- "well! here's the den at last. Upon my word, old man, I've seen livelier holes! Why don't you explore and find some place a trifle less dead-alive? But I dare say it's convenient to be near the Hospital, and when a fellow's working, it doesn't much matter what sort of a place he's in, as long as there's not a row going on under his window -- and I don't suppose there's much chance of that here," said Charlie, looking out into the black street with a kind of shudder.

Tom said nothing; he wished his friend would not everlastingly be talking of hard work and study in the way he did. However Charlie intended it, it was neither more nor less than a talking at him, and that he could not stand.

Charlie took no notice of his silence, but continued his inspection of the dismal apartment, lighting up with pleasure at the sight of the old Randlebury relics.

"My old rod!" exclaimed he, taking down the very rod with the lance-wood top which had figured so conspicuously in a certain adventure three years ago; "how jolly to see it again! I'm afraid you don't get much use for it here. And our fencing-sticks, too; see, Tom, here's the very place where you got under my guard and snipped a bit out of the basket. Ha, ha! what a crack that was! And here's the picture of old Randlebury, with you at your window, and me lying on the grass (and looking uncommonly like a recently felled tree). Look here, Tom, this window here is where Jim and I hang out now. It used to be Callaghan's. By the way, do you ever see Call? He's in London, articled to a solicitor. A pretty lawyer he'll make! Have you seen him yet, Tom?"

Tom, during this rattle, had been looking listlessly out of the window. He now turned round with a start and said -- 

"Eh? what did you say?"

The look which accompanied the words was so haggard and miserable, that Charlie's pity was instantly touched. He stepped across the room and put his arm in Tom's as he stood, and said, -- 

"Tom, old boy, what's wrong?"

Tom said nothing, but walked away and leaned against the mantelpiece.

"What is it, Tom? Are you ill, or in trouble? You'll tell me, won't you?"

Tom still remained silent, but his flushing face and restless lips showed that the appeal had at least been heard.

"Old boy," continued Charlie, venturing again nearer, "we never used to have secrets. I'm sure something's the matter. Mayn't I know what it is? Very likely I can't help you; but I could try."

Tom's lips quivered. The old influence was fast coming back. Already in his mind he was picturing himself telling Charlie all and with his help extricating himself from the slough into which he had sunk. How could he stand unmoved with that voice, familiar by many a memory of simple courageous goodness, again falling on his ear; and that appealing face, one so loved and delighted in, again turned to his?

"I'm afraid it's something more than ill health, old boy. You've something on your mind. Oh! why won't you at least tell me what it is?"

Tom could stand it no longer. He must speak. Whatever the confession cost him, whatever its effect would be on his old schoolfellow's friendship, Charlie must know all. To him at least he could not play the hypocrite or the deceiver. He had turned from the mantelpiece, his hand was held out to take that of his friend's, he was just about to speak, when the door of his room opened, and there entered Gus, Mortimer, and two companions.

"Here he is!" cried Gus, not noticing that Tom had company. "Tommy, old man, you're in luck. Old Owl has got a supper on to-night, no end of punch, my boy, and he's expecting you; and afterwards we're going for a regular night of it to the --  Hullo! who's your friend?"

He caught sight of Charlie at this moment, and for an instant failed to recognise in Tom's companion the boy whom he had treated so shamefully at Gurley races. But he remembered him in a moment.

"What, surely -- yet upon my honour so it is, our young sporting friend. How are you, Charlie, my boy? Here's a game! You'll come too, of course? Mortimer, this fellow is Drift's special -- up to all the wrinkles, no end of a knowing blade."

During this brief and rapid salutation Tom and Charlie, I need hardly say, were speechless. One in utter despair, the other in utter rage and astonishment. In both the revulsion of feeling caused by the interruption was almost stupefying, and they stood for a moment staring at the intruders in simple bewilderment.

Tom was the first to find words. His cheeks were white, and his voice almost choked as he said to Gus, -- 

"I wish you'd go. I'm engaged."

"So you are," said Gus, with a sneer; "but I say. Tom, old man, I wish you'd come. It's too good a thing to miss."

"Go away!" almost gasped Tom.

"Oh, of course an Englishman's house is his castle," said Gus, offended at this unusual rebuff; "you're a fool, though, that's all. We were going to have a spree to-night that would make all sprees of the past month look foolish. Come along, don't be an ass; and bring young mooney-face; I dare say by this time he knows what's what as well as you or me, Tom; eh, Jack?"

"Lookth tho," replied the amused Jack.

By this time Charlie had found words. The truth of course had all flashed in upon him; he knew the secret now of Tom's strange manner, of the neglected letters, of the haggard looks, of the reluctant welcome.

And he knew, too, that but for this untimely incursion he would have heard it all from Tom himself, penitent and humble, instead of, as now, hardened and desperate.

And he recognised in the miserable little swaggering dandy before him the author and the promoter of his friend's ruin; on him therefore his sudden rage expended itself.

"You little cowardly wretch!" he exclaimed, addressing Gus, "haven't you done mischief enough to Tom already? Go out of his room!"

Poor Charlie! Nothing could have been more fatal to his hopes than this rash outbreak. The words had scarcely escaped his lips before he saw the mischief he had done.

Tom's manner suddenly altered. All signs of shame and penitence disappeared as he stepped with a swagger up to Charlie and exclaimed, -- 

"What business have you to attack my friends? Get out yourself!"

"Bravo, Tom, old man," cried the delighted Gus. "Do you hear, young prig? walk off, you're not wanted here."

Charlie stood for one moment stunned and irresolute. Had there been in Tom's face the faintest glimmer of regret, or the faintest trace of the old affection, he would have stayed and braved all consequences. But there was neither. The spell that bound Tom Drift, his fear of being thought a milksop, had changed him utterly, and as Charlie's eyes turned with pleading look to his they met only with menace and confusion.

"Go!" repeated Tom, driven nearly wild by the mocking laugh in which Mortimer and his two companions joined.

This, then, was the end of their friendship -- so full of hope on one side, so full of promise on the other.

It was a strange moment in the lives of those two. To one it was the wilful throwing away of the last and best chance of deliverance, to the other it was the cruel extinction of a love and trust that had till now bid fair to stand the wear of years to come.

"Get out, I say!" said Tom Drift, once more goaded to madness by the pitying sneers of Mortimer.

Charlie stayed no longer. Half stunned, and scarcely knowing what he did, with one wild, mute prayer at his heart, he turned without a word and left the room.

Tom's friends followed his departure with mocking laughter, and watched his slowly retreating figure down the street with many a foul jest, and then returned to congratulate Tom Drift on his deliverance.

"Well," said Gus, "you are well rid of him, at any rate. What a lucky thing we turned up just when we did! He'd have snivelled you into a shocking condition. Why, what a weak-minded fellow Tom is; ain't he, Jack?"

"Wathah," replied Jack, with a laugh.

Meanwhile Tom had abandoned even himself. He hated his friends, he hated himself, he hated Charlie and cursed himself for having ever allowed him within his doors. He took no notice of Gus's gibes for a long time. At last, "Ugh!" said he, "never mind if I'm weak-minded or not, I'm sick of all this. Suppose we go off to the supper, and I'll stand treat afterwards at the music-hall?"

And crushing his hat on his head, he dashed out of the house utterly reckless and desperate.

Need I say my thoughts were with the poor injured boy, who, stung with ingratitude, robbed of his friend, and ill with mingled pity, dread, and sorrow, walked slowly down the street away from Tom's lodgings? Ah! when should I see his face or hear his voice again now?

At the supper that evening Tom drank often and deeply, and of all the party his shout rose highest and his laugh drowned all the others. They led him staggering away among them, and brought him to their vile resort. Even his companions wondered at his reckless demeanour, and expostulated with him on his extravagant wildness. He laughed them to scorn and called for more drink. After a while they rose to depart, leaving him where he was, noisy and helpless.

How long he remained so I cannot say, for suddenly and most unexpectedly I found myself called upon to enter upon a new stage in my career.

As my master leaned back hopelessly tipsy in his seat, a hand quietly and swiftly slipped under his coat and drew me from my pocket; as swiftly the chain was detached from its button-hole, and the next thing I was conscious of was being thrust into a strange pocket, belonging to some one who was quitting the hall as fast as his legs would carry him.



Chapter Fifteen.

How I Found Myself In Very Low Company.

My capturer was a boy, and as remarkable a specimen of a boy as it has ever been my lot to meet during the whole of my career. His age was, say, fourteen. He stood four feet one in his slipshod boots.

The hat which adorned his head was an old white billycock, which in its palmy days might have adorned noble brows, so fashionable were its pretensions. Now, alas! it had one side caved in, and the other was green with wear and weather. The coat which arrayed his manly form was evidently one not made recently or to wearer's measure, for besides showing cracks and rents in various parts, its tails were so extravagantly long for its small occupant that they literally almost touched the ground. His nether garments, on the other hand, although they resembled the coat in their conveniences for ventilation, being all in rags and tatters, appeared to have been borrowed from a smaller pair of legs even than those owned by my present possessor, for they -- at least one leg -- barely reached half way below the knee, while the other stopped short very little lower. Altogether, the boy was as nondescript and "scarecrowy" an object as one could well expect to meet with.

As he left the hall he gave a quick look round to assure himself no one was following him; then he darted across the road and proceeded to shuffle forward in so extremely leisurely and casual a way, that very few of the people who met him would have imagined he carried a stolen watch in his pocket.

Such a hole as it was! As soon as I had sufficiently recovered from my astonishment to look about me, I became aware that I was by no means the sole occupant of the receptacle he was pleased to designate by the title of a pocket, but which other people would have called a slit in the lining of his one sound coat-tail.

There was a stump of a clay pipe, with tobacco still hot in it. There was a greasy piece of string, a crust of bread, a halfpenny, a few brass buttons, and a very greasy and very crumpled and very filthy copy of a "penny awful" paper. I need hardly say that this scrutiny did not afford me absolute pleasure. In the first place, my temporary lodging was most unsavoury and unclean; and in the second place, there was not one among my many fellow-lodgers who could be said to be in my position in life, or to whom I felt in any way tempted to address any inquiry.

This difficulty, however, was settled for me. A voice close beside me said, in a hoarse whisper, "What cheer, Turnip? how do you like it?"

I looked round, and perceived that the speaker was the clay pipe, who happened to be close beside me as I lay.

I held my nose -- so to speak (for watches are not supposed to be gifted with that organ) -- the tobacco which was smouldering in him must have been a month old, while the pipe itself looked remarkably grimy and dirty. However, thought I, there would be no use in being uncivil to my new comrades, unpleasant though they were, and I might as well make use of this pipe to assist me to certain information I was curious to get. So I answered, "I don't like it at all. Can you tell me where I am?"

"Where are you, Turnip? Why, you're in young Cadger's pocket, to be sure; but you won't stay there long, no error."

I secretly wished this objectionable pipe would not insist on addressing me as "Turnip," but on the whole the present did not seem exactly the time to stand on my dignity, so I replied, -- 

"Why, what's going to become of me?"

"What's going to become of you, Turnip! Why, you'll go to Cadger's uncle. Won't he, mate?"

The mate addressed was the piece of string, who, I should say, was by no means the latest addition to the Cadger's collection of valuables. He now grinned and wriggled in reply to the pipe's appeal, and snuffled, -- 

"That's right, mate; that's where he'll go. Do you hear, Turnip? that's where you'll go -- to Cadger's uncle."

It occurred to me that Cadger's uncle would have to be vastly more respectable and fragrant than his nephew to make the change at all advantageous to me.

"Is young Cadger a thief?" I next inquired.

The pipe laughed.

"Why, what a funny chap you are, Turnip!" it said.

"Does it look like it? Cadger a thief! -- oh, my eye! not at all. Eh, mate?"

The greasy string took up the laugh, and snivelled in chorus.

"Ho, ho! ain't he a funny chap? Do you hear. Turnip? ain't you a funny chap? Oh, my eye! not at all."

It was disgusting! Not only was I cooped up in an abominably filthy tail-coat pocket, with a motley rabble of disreputable associates, but every time I opened my lips here I was insulted and laughed at for every word I spoke.

However, I gathered that the purport of the reply to my last inquiry was that the young Cadger was a thief, and I made one more attempt to gain information.

"Where are we going to now?" I asked.

"Going!" cried the pipe, with his insulting jeer.

"What, don't you know where you're a-going, old Turnip? You're a-going wherever he takes yer; ain't he, mate?"

It was positively painful to see how that vile piece of string wriggled as he replied, -- 

"Do you hear, Turnip? You're a-going wherever young Cadger takes yer. Now what do you think of that?"

It was impossible to continue a conversation with such low, ill-mannered creatures, and I therefore abandoned the attempt, having at least ascertained that I was at present located in a thief's pocket, that my immediate destination was vague, and that ultimately I might expect to become the property of a near relative of my present possessor.

Noticing that I became silent, the pipe and the string between them began to question me. But I was neither in the mood nor the desire to gratify their curiosity. They therefore contented themselves with cracking jokes at my expense, and thus we journeyed together a mile or two towards our unknown destination.

Presently a dirty little hand came groping down into our place of retreat. It first fumbled me and my chain, with a view, I suppose, to ascertain if we were all safe, and then proceeded among the other occupants of the pocket to secure and draw forth the half penny which I have before mentioned.

I was relieved to have even one of my unpleasant companions removed, and could not refrain from expressing my feelings by a sigh.

"What are you snivelling at, Turnip?" asked the pipe.

I did not deign to reply.

"Suppose yer think that there sou," (fancy the stump of a clay pipe speaking French!) "is gone for good, and good riddance, do yer? You wait a bit, that's all."

"Boh, boh!" chimed in the string. "Do you hear, Turnip? Wait till you see the soldier; then see how you'll laugh!"

"What soldier?" I inquired, my curiosity for a moment getting the better of my reserve. I could not imagine what possible connexion there could be between the military and the disreputable copper I had so lately seen depart.

I was not long in suspense, however, for before my two vulgar companions could answer my question, the "soldier" made his appearance.

The dirty little hand again entered our quarters, and let fall in our midst a red herring! At the sight and smell of him I turned sick with disgust. Fancy a silver watch sat upon, squeezed, and besmeared by a reeking red herring. He came sprawling right on the top of me, the brute, his ugly mouth wide open and his loathsome fins scraping along my back. Ugh!

"That there's the soldier, Turnip; ain't it, mate?" called out the pipe.

"Do you hear, Turnip? this here's the soldier. How do you like him?" snuffled the string.

It was enough! I felt my nerves collapse, and my circulation fail, and for the remainder of that dreadful night I was speechless.

I was not, however, blind, or so far gone as to be unable to notice in a vague sort of way what happened.

The young gentleman rejoicing in the name of Cadger (but whose real cognomen I subsequently ascertained to be Stumpy Walker) proceeded on his walk, whistling shrilly to himself, exchanging a passing recognition with one and another loafer, and going out of his way to kick every boy he saw smaller than himself, which last exertion, by the way, at twelve o'clock at night he did not find very often necessary.

I observed that he did not go out of his way to avoid the police; on the contrary, he made a point of touching his hat to every guardian of the peace he happened to meet, and actually went so far as to inform one that "he'd want his muckintogs before morning" -- a poetical way of prophesying rain.

He proceeded down a succession of back streets, which it would have puzzled a stranger to remember, till he came into a large deserted thoroughfare which was undergoing a complete renovation of its drainage arrangements. All along the side of the road extended an array of huge new pipes, some three feet in diameter, awaiting their turn underground. Into one of these Master Walker dived, and as it was just tall enough to allow of his sitting upright in its interior, and just long enough to allow his small person to lie at full length without either extremity protruding; and further, as the rain was just beginning to come down, I could not forbear, even in the midst of my misery, admiring his selection of a lodging.

Greatly to my relief, the "soldier," the crust, and the pipe were all three presently summoned from the pocket, and with the help of the first two and the consolation of the last, Master Walker contrived to make an evening meal which at least afforded him satisfaction.

Before making himself snug for the night he pulled me out, and by the aid of the feeble light of a neighbouring lamp-post, made a hasty examination of my exterior and interior. Having apparently satisfied himself as to my value, he put me and the pipe back into his dreadful pocket, from which, even yet, the fumes of the "soldier" had not faded, and then curled himself up like a dormouse and composed himself to slumber.

He had not, however, settled himself many moments before another ragged figure came crawling down the inside of the pipes towards him. Stumpy started up at the first sound in a scared sort of way, but instantly resumed his composure on seeing who the intruder was.

"What cheer, Stumpy?" said the latter.

"What cheer, Tuppeny?" replied my master. "Where've yer been to?"

"Lunnon Bridge," replied Mr Tuppeny.

"An' what 'ave yer got?" asked Stumpy.

"Only a rag," said the other, in evident disgusts producing a white handkerchief.

"That ain't much; I've boned a turnip."

"Jus' your luck. Let's 'ave a look at him."

Stumpy complied, and his comrade, lighting a match, surveyed me with evident complacency.

"Jus' your luck," said he again. "Where did yer git 'im?"

"At the gaff, off a young cove as was reg'lar screwed up. I could 'ave took 'is nose off if I'd a wanted it, and he wouldn't have knowed."

"Then this 'ere rag might 'a been some use," replied the disconsolate Tuppeny. "'Tain't worth three'a'pence."

"Any marks?" inquired my master.

"Yees; there is so. C.N. it is; hup in one corner. He was sticking out of the pocket of a young chap as was going along with a face as long as a fooneral, and as miserable-lookin' as if 'e'd swallowed a cat."

C.N.! Could this handkerchief possibly have belonged to poor Charlie Newcome? His way home from Grime Street I knew would lead by London Bridge, and with the trouble of that afternoon upon him, would he not indeed have looked as miserable as the thief described?

And these two boys, having thus briefly compared notes, and exhibited to one another their ill-gotten gains, curled themselves up and fell fast asleep.

Dear reader, does it ever occur to your mind that there are hundreds of such vagrants in this great city? Night after night they crowd under railway arches and sheds, on doorsteps and in cellars. They have neither home nor friend. To many of them the thieves' life is their natural calling; they live as animals live, and hope only as animals hope, and when they die, die as animals die; ignorant of God, ignorant of good, ignorant of their own souls. Yet even for such as they, Christ died, and the Spirit strives.

The pipe, and his friend, the string, that night had a long conversation as their master lay asleep. They evidently thought I was asleep too, for they made no effort to conceal their voices, and I consequently heard every word.

It chiefly had reference to me, and was in the main satirical.

"Some coves is uncommon proud o' themselves, mate, ain't they? --  particular them as ain't much account after all?"

"You're right, mate. Do you hear, Turnip? you ain't much account; you're on'y silver-plate, yer know, so you don't ought to be proud, you don't!"

"What I say," continued the pipe, "is that coves as gives 'emselves hairs above their stations is a miserable lot. What do you think?"

"What don't I?" snuffled the string. "Do you hear, Turnip? you're a miserable cove, you are. Why can't you be 'appy like me and my mate? We don't give ourselves hairs; that's why we're 'appy."

"And, arter all," pursued the pipe, "that's the sort of coves as go second-hand in the end. People 'ud think better on 'em if they didn't think such a lot of theirselves; wouldn't they now, mate?"

"Wouldn't they just! What do you think of that, Turnip? You're on'y a second-hand turnip, now, and that's all along of being stuck-up and thinking such a lot of yourself! You won't go off for thirty bob, you won't see!"

"Mate!" exclaimed the pipe, presently (after I had had leisure to meditate on the foregoing philosophical dialogue), "mate, I'll give you a riddle!"

"Go it!" said the mate.

"Why," asked the pipe, in a solemn voice, "is a second-hand pewter - plate, stuck-up turnip, like a weskit that ain't paid for?"

"Do you hear, Turnip? Why are you like a weskit that ain't paid for? Do yer give it up? I do."

"'Cos it's on tick!" pronounced the pipe.

I could have howled to find myself the victim of such a low, villainous joke, that had not even the pretence of wit, and I could have cried to see how that greasy string wriggled and snuffled at my expense.

"My eye, mate! that's a good 'un! Do you hear, Turnip? you're on tick, you know, like the weskit. Oh, my eye! that'll do, mate; another o' them will kill me. Oh, turn it up! do you hear? On tick! --  hoo, hoo, hoo! Do you hear, Turnip? tick!"

Need I say I spent a sad and sleepless night? When my disgust admitted of thought I could not help reflecting how very happy some vulgar people can be with a very little sense, and how very unhappy other people who flatter themselves they are very clever and superior can at times find themselves.

By the time I had satisfied myself of this my master uncurled himself and got up.



Chapter Sixteen.

How I Changed Masters Twice In Two Days, And After All Found Myself In Pawn.

It was scarcely four o'clock when my lord and master arose from his brief repose, and sallied through the rain and darkness back in the direction of the city. He was far less anxious to salute the police now than he had been a few hours ago. He slunk down the back streets, and now and then darted up a court at the sound of approaching foot steps; or retreated for some distance by the way he had come, in order to strike a less guarded street.

In this manner he pursued his way for about an hour, till he reached a very narrow street of tumble-down houses, not far from Holborn. Down this he wended his way till he stood before a door belonging to one of the oldest, dingiest, and most decayed houses in all the street. Here he gave a peculiar scrape with his foot along the bottom of the door, and then sat down on the doorstep.

Presently a voice came through the keyhole, in a whisper.

"That you, Stumpy?" it said.

"Yas," replied my master.

"All clear?"

Stumpy looked up and down the street and then hurriedly whispered, "No."

Instantly the voice within was silent, and Stumpy was to all appearance sleeping soundly and heavily, as if tired nature in him had fairly reached its last strait.

The distant footsteps came nearer; and still he slept on, snoring gently and regularly. The policeman advanced leisurely, turning his lantern first on this doorway, then on that window; trying now a shutter-bar, then a lock. At last he stood opposite the doorstep where Stumpy lay. It was a critical moment. He turned his lamp full on the boy's sleeping face, he took hold of his arm and gently shook him, he tried the bolt of the door against which he leaned. The sleeper only grunted drowsily and settled down to still heavier slumber, and the policeman, evidently satisfied, walked on.

"Is he gone?" asked the voice within, the moment the retreating footsteps showed this.

"Yas, but he'll be back," whispered the boy.

And so he was. Three times he paced the street, and every time found the boy in the same position, and wrapped in the same profound slumber. Then at last he strode slowly onward to the end of his beat, and his footsteps died gradually away.

"Now?" inquired the voice.

"Yas," replied Stumpy.

Whereat the door half-opened, and Stumpy entered.

It was a dirty, half-ruinous house, in which the rats had grown tame and the spiders fat. The stairs creaked dismally as Stumpy followed his entertainer up them, while the odours rising from every nook and cranny in the place were almost suffocating.

The man led the way into a small room, foul and pestilential in its closeness. In it lay on the floor no less than nine or ten sleeping figures, mostly juveniles, huddled together, irrespective of decency, health, or comfort. Stumpy surveyed the scene composedly.

"Got lodgers, then," he observed.

"Yes, two on 'em -- on'y penny ones, though."

Just then a sound of moaning came from one corner of the room, which arrested Stumpy's attention.

"Who's that?" he asked.

"Old Sal; she's bad, and I reckon she won't last much longer the way she's a-going on. I shall pack her off to-day."

Stumpy whistled softly; but it was evident, by the frequent glances he stole every now and then towards the corner where the sufferer lay, that he possessed a certain amount of interest in the woman described as "Old Sal."

The man who appeared to be the proprietor of this one well-filled lodging-room was middle-aged, and had a hare-lip. He had an expression half careworn, and half villainous, of which he gave Stumpy the full benefit as he inquired.

"What 'ave yer got?"

"Got, pal?" replied Stumpy; "a ticker."

"Hand it up," said the man, hurriedly.

Stumpy produced me, and the man, taking me to the candle, examined me greedily and minutely.

Then he said, -- 

"I shall get fifteen bob for him."

"Come, now, none of your larks!" replied Stumpy, who had produced the pipe, and was endeavouring to rekindle its few remaining embers at the candle; "try ag'in."

"Well, I don't see as he'll fetch seventeen-and-six, but I'll do it for you."

"Try ag'in," coolly replied Stumpy.

The man did try again, and named a sovereign, which my master also declined.

In this manner he advanced to twenty-four shillings.

"Won't do," said Stumpy.

"Then you can take 'im off," said the man, with an oath; "he ain't worth the money."

"Yas 'e is, an' a tanner more," put in Stumpy.

The man uttered a few more oaths, and again examined me. Then he dropped me in his pocket, and slowly counted out the purchase-money from a drawer at his side.

Stumpy watched the process eagerly, doubtless calculating with professional interest how the entire hoard of this thieves' broker could at some convenient opportunity be abstracted. However, for the present he made sure of the sum given him, and dropped the coins one by one into his tail pocket.

"Now lay down," said the man, "and make yourself comfortable."

I fancy Stumpy was a good deal more comfortable in his drain-pipe an hour or two ago than in this foul, choking lodging-room; however, he curled himself up on the floor near the dying woman, and did his share in exhausting the air of the apartment.

I should offend all rules of good taste and decency if I described the loathsome room; I wish I could forget it, but that I shall never do. Suffice it to say daylight broke in at last on the squalid scene, and then one by one the sleepers rose and departed -- all but Stumpy and she whose groaning had risen ceaselessly and hopelessly the livelong night.

"Old Sal's very bad," said Stumpy to his host.

"Yas, she'll have to clear out of here."

"She's nigh dying, I reckon," said the boy.

"Can't help that; she ain't paid a copper this three weeks, and I ain't a-going to have her lumbering up my place no longer."

"Where's she a-going to?" asked Stumpy.

"How do I know? -- out of 'ere, anyways, and pretty soon, too. I can tell yer."

"Pal," said the boy, after a long pause, "I charged yer a tanner too much for that there ticker; here you are, lay hold."

And he tossed back the sixpence. The man understood quite well the meaning of the act, and Old Sal lay undisturbed all that day.

Stumpy took his departure early. I have never seen him since; what has become of him I know not; where he is now I know still less.

But to return to myself. I spent that entire day in the man's pocket, too ill to care what became of me, and too weak to notice much of what passed around me. I was conscious of others like Stumpy coming up the creaking stairs and offering their ill-gotten gains as he had done; and I was conscious towards evening, when the last rays of the setting sun were struggling feebly through the dingy window, of a groan in that dismal corner, deeper than all that had gone before. Then I knew Old Sal was dead. In an hour the body was laid in its rude coffin, and had made its last journey down those stairs: and that night another outcast slept in her corner.

The night was like the one which had preceded it, foul and sickening. I was thankful that my illness had sufficiently deadened my senses to render me unable to hear and see all that went on during those hours. Morning came at length, and one by one the youthful lodgers took their departure. When the last had left, my possessor produced a bag, into which he thrust me, with a score or more of other articles acquired as I had been acquired; then, locking the door behind him, he descended the stairs and stepped out.

Oh, the delight of that breath of fresh morning air! Even as it struggled in through the crevices and cracks of that old bag, it was like a breath of Paradise, after the vile, pestilential atmosphere of that room!

As we went on, I had leisure to observe the company of which I formed one. What a motley crew we were! There were watches, snuff-boxes, and pencils, bracelets and brooches, handkerchiefs and gloves, studs, pins, and rings -- all huddled together higgledy-piggledy. We none of us spoke to one another, nor inquired whither we were going; we were a sad, spiritless assembly, and to some of us it mattered little what became of us.

Still I could not help wondering if the man in whose possession I and my fellow-prisoners found ourselves was Stumpy's "uncle," referred to by that miserable clay pipe. If he was, I felt I could not candidly congratulate that youth on his relative. What he could want with us all I could not imagine.

If I had been the only watch, and if there hadn't been half a dozen scarf-pins, snuff-boxes, and pencils, it would not have been so extraordinary. It would have been easy enough to imagine the person of Stumpy's "aunt" decorated with one brooch, two bracelets, and three or four rings; but when instead of that modest allowance these articles were present by the half-dozen, it was hardly possible to believe that any one lady could accommodate so much splendour. How ever, I could only suppose the superfluous treasures were destined for Stumpy's cousins, masculine and feminine, and occupied the rest of the journey in the harmless amusement of wondering to whose lot I was likely to fall.

The man walked some considerable distance, and strangely enough bent his steps in a direction not far removed from Saint Elizabeth's Hospital. Surely he was not going to restore me to Tom Drift! No; we passed the end of Grime Street. There were milkmen's carts rattling up and down; servants were scrubbing doorsteps; and a few sleepy-looking men, with their breakfasts in their hands, were scurrying off to work. It was all the same as usual; yet how interesting, all of a sudden, the dull street had become to me. It was here I had last seen poor Charlie, outraged and struck by the friend he strove to save, creeping slowly home; it was here Tom Drift still dwelt, daily sinking in folly and sin, with no friend now left to help him. Poor Tom Drift! How gladly would I have returned to him, even to be neglected and ill-used, if only I might have the opportunity once again of fulfilling that charge put upon me by my first master, and which yet ever rang in my ears, -- 

"Be good to Tom Drift."

But it was not to be yet. The man walked rapidly on down a street parallel with Grime Street, at the farthest corner of which stood a small private house.

Here he knocked.

The occupant of the house evidently knew and expected him, for he at once admitted him, and led the way upstairs into a private parlour. Here the thieves' broker emptied the contents of his bag, laying the articles one by one on the table.

The man of the house looked on in an unconcerned way while this was taking place, picking up now one, now another of the objects, and examining them superficially. When the bag was empty, and the whole of the ill-gotten booty displayed, he remarked, "Not so much this time, Bill."

"No; trade's bad, sir," replied he who owned the bag.

"Well, I'll send the most of 'em down to the country to-day," resumed the master of the house.

"When shall I call, sir?" inquired Stumpy's friend.

"Monday. But look here, Bill!" said the other, taking me up, "it's no use leaving this; I shall be able to manage the gold ones, but this is no good."

I had long lost the pride which in former days would have made me resent such a remark, and patiently waited for the result.

Stumpy's friend took me back. "Well," he said, "if you can't, you can't. I'll see to him myself. Well, good-day; and I'll call on Monday."

And he turned to depart, with me in his hand. In a minute, however, he came back. "Would yer mind lending me some togs, sir, for a few minutes?" said he; "I don't want no questions asked at the pawnshop."

And he certainly did not look, in his present get-up, as the likeliest sort of owner of a silver watch. The man of the house, however, lent him some clothes, in which he arrayed himself, and which so transformed him that any one would have taken him, not for the disreputable thieves' broker he was, but for the unfortunate decayed gentleman he professed to be. In this guise he had no difficulty in disposing of me at the nearest pawnbroker's shop, which happened to be at the corner of Grime Street.

The pawnbroker asked no questions, and I am sure never suspected anything wrong. He advanced thirty shillings on me and the chain, gave the man his ticket, and put a corresponding one on me.

Then Stumpy's friend departed, and my new master went back to his breakfast.



Chapter Seventeen.

How Tom Drift Gets Lower Still.

Two years passed.

They were, without exception, the dullest two years I, or, I venture to say, any watch made, ever spent. There I lay, run down, tarnished and neglected, on the pawnbroker's shelf, never moved, never used, never thought of. Week followed week, and month month, and still no claimant for me came.

Other articles on the shelves beside me came and went, some remaining only a day, some a week, but I survived them all. Even my friend the chain took his departure, and left me without a soul to speak to.

None of the hundreds of tickets handed in bore the magic number 2222, which would have released me from my ignoble custody, and, in time, I gave up expecting it, and settled down to the old-fogeydom of my position, and exacted all the homage due to the "father of the shop" from my restless companions.

My place was at the end of a long shelf, next to the screen dividing the shop from the office, and my sole amusement during those two dreary years was peeping through a crack and watching my master's customers. They were of all sorts and all conditions, and many of them became familiar.

There was the little girl, for instance, the top of whose bonnet just reached as high as the counter, who, regularly every Monday morning, staggered in under the weight of a bundle containing her father's Sunday clothes, and, as regularly every Saturday evening, returned to redeem them. It was evident her respectable parent did not attend many evening parties between those two days, for I never remember his sending for them except at the regular times.

Then there was the wretched drunkard, who crept in stealthily, with now a child's coat, now a picture, now a teapot; and with the money thus raised walked straight across the road to the public-house. And there was his haggard, worn wife, who always came next day with the ticket, and indignantly took back her household goods. There was the young sailor's wife, too, with her baby in her arms, who came rarely at first, but afterwards more often, to pawn her few poor treasures, until at length a glad day came when the brawny tar himself, with his pockets full of cash, came with her and redeemed them every one.

I could tell of scores of others if I wished, but I have my own life to record, and not the transactions of my master, the pawnbroker.

One day, towards the end of the first year, the door opened softly and quickly, and there entered into the office a youth, haggard and reckless-looking, whom, I thought, surely I had seen before. I looked again.

Was it possible? Yes! this was none other than Tom Drift! But oh, how changed! A year ago, erring and wayward as he had been, he was yet respectable; his dress was the dress of a gentleman; his bearing was that of a gentleman too; his face had been naturally intelligent and pleasant; and his voice clear and cheerful. But now! There was a wild, restless roll about his eyes, a bright flush on his hollow cheeks, a dulness about his mouth, a hoarseness in his voice, which seemed to belong to another being. He was dissipated and seedy in appearance, and hung his head, as though ashamed to meet a fellow-being's look, and, instead of one, looked at least ten years older than he had.

Such a wreck will evil ways make of a youth! He looked eagerly round, to see that no one but he was in the office, and then produced from his pocket a scarf-pin.

"What will you give me for this?" he whispered.

The pawnbroker took it up and turned it over. It was a handsome pin, with a pearl in the front.

"Ten shillings," said the pawnbroker.

"What!" exclaimed Tom; "do you know what it's worth?"

"Ten shillings is all I can give you," curtly replied the pawnbroker.

Tom gulped down a groan. "Give me the money, then, for goodness' sake," he said.

The pawnbroker coolly and deliberately made out the ticket, while Tom stood chafing impatiently.

"Be quick, please!" he said, as though fearful of some one detecting him in a crime.

"Don't you be in a hurry," said the pawnbroker.

"Here's the ticket."

"And the ten shillings?" broke in Tom.

"You shall have it," said my master, going to his drawer.

To Tom it seemed ages while the silver was being counted, and when he had got it he darted from the shop as swiftly as he had entered it.

"That fellow's going wrong," muttered the pawnbroker to himself, as he laid the pin on the shelf beside me.

I recognised it at once as having often been my companion on Tom's dressing-table at nights, but I myself was so discoloured and ill that it did not at first know me. I was too anxious, however, to hear some thing about Tom to allow myself to remain disguised.

"Don't you know me, scarf-pin?" I asked.

He looked hard at me. "Not a bit," he said.

"I'm Tom Drift's old watch."

"You don't say so! So you are! How ever did you come here? Did he pawn you?"

"No; I was stolen from him one night at the music-hall, and pawned here by the thief."

"Ah, that music-hall!" groaned the pin; "that place has ruined Tom Drift."

"When I left him," I said, "he was just going to the bad as hard as he could. He had broken with his best friend, and seemed completely -- "

"Hold hard! what friend?" interposed the pin.

"Charlie Newcome, my first master; they had a quarrel the day I was stolen."

"That must be nearly two years ago?" said the pin.

"Just," said I. "Do tell me what has happened since then."

"It's a long story," said the pin.

"Never mind, we've nothing else to do here," I said encouragingly.

"Well," said the pin, "the night you were lost Tom never turned up at home at all."

"He was utterly drunk," I said, by way of explanation.

"Don't you interrupt," said the pin, "or I won't tell you anything."

I was silenced.

"Tom never turned up at all until the next morning; and he sat all that day in his chair, and did nothing but look at the wall in front of him."

"Poor fellow!" I could not help saying.

"There you go!" said the pin; "be good enough to remember what I said, and if you can't endure to hear of anybody sitting and looking at a wail, it's no use my going on with my story."

"I only meant that I could imagine how miserable he was that day," said I; "but go on, please."

"Two or three days after, Charlie Newcome called. Tom was alone, but he refused to see him. He cursed to himself when he heard the name. Charlie went back disappointed, but Tom made a great boast to his 'friends' that same night of his 'cold shoulder to the prig,' as he called it, and they highly applauded him for his sense.

"Again, a week later, Charlie called once more, but with the same result. He wrote letters, but Tom put them in the fire unread; he sent books, but they were all flung into a corner. In a thousand different ways he contrived to show Tom that, though ill-used and in suited, he was still his friend, and ready to serve him whenever opportunity should offer.

"All this while Tom was sinking lower and lower in self-respect. He was contracting a habit of drinking, and in a month or two after you had left he rarely came home sober."

"And what about his bad friends?" asked I.

"There you are! why can't you let me tell my story in peace? His bad friends visited him daily at first, made a lot of him, and praised him loudly for his resolution in dismissing Charlie, and for his 'growing a man at last.' They lent him money, they lost to him at cards and billiards, and they made his downward path as easy for him as possible.

"At last, about six months ago, Tom was found tipsy in the dissecting - room at the hospital, and cautioned by the Board. A fortnight later he was found in a similar state in one of the wards, and then he was summarily expelled from the place, and his name was struck off the roll of students."

"Has it come to that?" I groaned.

"Come to that? Of course it has; I shouldn't have said so if it hadn't," replied the testy pin, who seemed unable to brook the slightest interruption. "He took a fit of blues after that; he went to the Board, and begged to be allowed to return to his studies, representing that all his prospects in life depended on his finishing his course there. They gave him one more chance. In his gratitude he resolved to discard his companions, and actually sat down and wrote a letter to Charlie, begging him to come and see him."

"Did he really?" I exclaimed, trembling with eagerness.

"All right, I shall not tell you of it again. Stop me once more, and you'll have to find the rest of my story out for yourself."

"I'm very sorry," said I.

"So you ought to be. When it came to the time, however, Tom's resolutions failed him. Gus and his friends called as usual that evening and laughed him to scorn. He dare not quarrel with them, dare not resist them. He crumpled up the letter in his pocket and never posted it, and that night returned to his evil ways without a struggle.

"For a week or two, however, he kept up appearances at the hospital; but it could not last. A misdemeanour more serious than the former one caused his second expulsion, and this time with an intimation that under no circumstances would he be readmitted. That was three months ago. He became desperate, and at the same time the behaviour of Gus altered. Instead of flattering and humouring him, he became imperious and spiteful. And still further, he demanded to be repaid the money he had advanced to Tom. Tom paid what little he could, and borrowed the rest from Mortimer. He got behindhand with his rent, and his landlady has given him notice. As usual, everybody to whom he owes money has found out his altered circumstances, and is down on him. The keeper of the music-hall, the tailor, the cigar merchant, are among the most urgent."

"And your being here is a result of all this, I see," said I, knowing the story was at an end, and considering my tongue to be released.

"Find out!" angrily retorted the pin, relapsing into ill-tempered silence.

I had little enough inclination to revert to the sad topic, and for the rest of that day gave myself up to sorrow and pity for Tom Drift. One thing I felt pretty sure of -- it would not be long before he came again; and I was right.

In two days he entered the office, wild and haggard as before, but with less care to conceal his visit.

This time he laid on the counter the famous lance-wood fishing-rod which Charlie had given him months ago, and which surely ought to have been a reminder to him of better times.

He flung it down, and taking the few shillings the pawnbroker advanced on it, hurried from the shop.

The next time he came some one else was in the shop. A passing flush came over Tom's face on discovering a witness to his humiliation; but he transacted his business with an assumed swagger which ill accorded with his inward misery. For even yet Tom Drift had this much of hope left in him -- that he knew he was fallen, and was miserable at the thought. His self-respect and sensitiveness had been growing less day by day, and he himself growing proportionately hardened; but still he knew what remorse was, and by the very agony of his shame was still held out of the lowest of all depths -- the depths of ruthless sin.

The stranger in the shop eyed him keenly, and when he had gone said to the pawnbroker, "He's a nice article, he is!"

"Not much good, I'm thinking," observed the pawnbroker, dryly.

"So you may say; I know the beauty. He banged me on the 'ed with a chair once, when he was screwed. Never mind, I know of two or three as is after him."

And so saying, the disreputable man departed.

After that Tom came daily. Now it was an article of clothing, now some books, now some furniture, that he brought. It was soon evident that not only was he miserable and destitute, but ill too; and when presently for a fortnight he never passed the now well-known door, I knew that the fever had laid him low.

Poor Tom Drift! I wondered who was there now to nurse him in his weakness and comfort him in his wretchedness. He must be untended and unheeded. Well I knew his "friends" (oh, sad perversion of the sacred title!) would keep their distance, or return only in time to quench the first sparks of repentance. If only Charlie could have seen him at this time, with his spirit cowed and his weary heart beating about in vain for peace and hope, how would he not have flown to his bedside, and from those ruins have striven to help him to rise again to purity and honesty.

But no Charlie was there. Since the last appealing letter so scornfully rejected, Tom had heard not a word of him or from him. What wonder indeed if after so many disappointments and insults, the boy should at length leave his old schoolfellow to his fate?

With returning health there came to Tom no returning resolutions or efforts. The friends who had deserted his sick-bed were ready, as soon as ever he rose from it, with their temptations and baneful influence. One of his first visits after his recovery was to my master with a pair of boots. He looked so pale and feeble that the pawnbroker inquired after his health -- a most unusual departure from business on the part of that merchant.

"Hope you're feeling better," he said.

"Yes; so much the better for you," replied Tom with a ghastly smile. "What can you give me for these, they are nearly new?"

"Five shillings?"

"Oh, anything you like; I've to pay two pounds to-morrow. What you give me is all I shall have to do it with -- I don't care!"

The pawnbroker counted out the five shillings, and handed them across the counter.

"Good-bye!" said Tom, with another attempt at a smile; "I shall have to change my address to-morrow."

And with that he turned on his heel. I watched him through the window as he left the shop. He walked straight across the road and went in at the public-house opposite.

And that glimpse was the last sight I had of Tom Drift for many, many months.



Chapter Eighteen.

How I Was Knocked Down By An Auctioneer, And Picked Up By A Countryman.

One day, about two years after my arrival at the pawnbroker's shop, an unusual circumstance happened to break the monotony of my unruffled existence. This was nothing more nor less than a Clearance Sale. I must tell you how it happened.

For a week, every night, I saw my master poring over a big account-book in his parlour, comparing the entries in it with those of his pawn - tickets, and marking off on one list what articles had been pawned and redeemed, and on another what had been pawned and still remained unredeemed. So lengthy and complicated a process was this that it consumed the entire week. The next week further indications of a coming change manifested themselves. A printer came to the office with a bill for approval, worded as follows: -- 

"Great Clearance Sale! The entire valuable and miscellaneous unredeemed stock of a pawnbroker will be sold by auction at the Central Mart, on Monday next, by Mr Hammer. Sale to commence at twelve o'clock precisely. Catalogues will be ready on Saturday, and may be had on application."

Thus I, and one or two of my neighbours on the shelf, read as we peeped through the crack at the printer's proof-sheet.

"'Entire valuable and miscellaneous unredeemed stock!' that's a good bit of writing," observed a pair of silver sugar-tongs near me; "that means you and me and the rest, Ticker. Who'd have thought of us getting such a grand name!"

"Well, it strikes me we, at least I, have been lying here idle long enough," said I; "it's two years since I came here."

"Bless you, that's no time," said the tongs. "I knew a salt-spoon lay once ten years before he was put up -- but then, you know, we silver things are worth our money any time."

"Yes," said I, "we are."

The tongs laughed. "You don't suppose I meant you when I talked of silver things, do you?"

"Of course I am a silver watch."

"You're a bigger muff than I took you for," replied the aristocratic tongs, turning his hall-mark towards me. It was humiliating. Of course I ought to have known I was not solid silver, and had no claim to class myself of the same metal as a genuine silver pair of tongs.

It was but one of many painful lessons I have had during my life not to give myself airs beyond my station.

These solid silver goods certainly constituted the "upper ten thousand" of our valuable and miscellaneous community. When the time came for cataloguing us all, they separated themselves from the rest of us, and formed a distinct society, having their several names recorded in full at the head of the list.

What a scene it was the day the catalogue came to our department! I suffered a further humiliation then by being almost entirely overlooked. A great tray of silver watches lay on the bench, brought together from all parts of the shop; and, to my horror, I found I was not among them.

"That's the lot," said the pawnbroker.

"Very good," said the auctioneer, who was making the catalogue; "shall we take leather bags next?"

"As you please," said my master.

"Hold hard," said the auctioneer, hastily counting the watches on the tray and comparing the number with a list he held in his hand, "there's one short."

"Is there? I don't know how that can be."

"You've got twenty-two down here and there's only twenty-one on the tray."

The pawnbroker looked puzzled.

"Better call over the number," said the auctioneer. So my master called out the number attached to each watch, and the auctioneer ticked it off on his list. When the last had been called, he said, -- 

"Where's Number 2222?"

"Ah, to be sure, that's the one," said the pawnbroker, reaching up to where I lay, and taking me down; "this one. I'd forgotten all about him."

Flattering, certainly! and still more so when the auctioneer, surveying my tarnished and dingy appearance, said, "Well, he's not much of a show after all. You'd better rub him up a bit, or we shan't get him off hand at all."

"Very good," said the pawnbroker, and I was handed over forthwith to an assistant to be cleaned. And much I needed it. My skin was nearly as black as a negro's, and my joints and muscles were perfectly clogged with dust. I had a regular watch's Turkish bath. I was scrubbed and powdered, my works were taken out and cleaned, my joints were oiled, my face was washed, and my hands were polished. Altogether I was overhauled, and when I took my place on the tray with my twenty-one companions I was altogether a new being, and by no means the least presentable of the company.

How we quarrelled and wrangled, and shouldered one another on that tray! There was such a Babel of voices (for each of us had been set going) that scarcely any one could hear himself speak. Nothing but recriminations and vituperations rose on every hand.

"Get out of the way, ugly lever," snarled one monstrous hunter watch near me, big enough for an ordinary clock. "Who do you suppose wants you? Get out of the way, do you hear?"

"Where to?" I inquired, not altogether liking to be so summarily ordered about, and yet finding the excitement of a little quarrel pleasant after two years' monotony.

"Anywhere, as long as you get out of my way. Do you know I'm a hundred years old?"

"Are you, though?" said I. "People must have had bigger pockets in those days than they have now!"

This I considered a very fair retort for his arrogance, and left him snorting and croaking to himself, and bullying some other little watches, whom, I suppose, he imagined would be more deferential to his grey hairs than I was.

I was not destined, however, to be left in peace.

"Who are you?" I heard a sharp voice say. Looking round, I saw a creature with a great eye in the middle of his face, and a long, lanky hand spinning round and round over his visage.

"Who are you, rather?" I replied.

It was evidently what he wanted, for he began at once: "I'm all the latest improvements -- compensation balance and jewelled in four holes; perfect for time, beauty, and workmanship; sound, strong, and accurate; with keyless action, and large full-dial second hand; air-tight, damp - tight, and dust-tight; seven guineas net and five per cent, to teetotalers. There, what do you think of that?"

"I think," said I, with a laugh, in which a good many others joined, "that if you're so tight as all that teetotalers had better do without you."

It will be observed the scenes and company I had been in of late years had tended to improve neither my temper nor my manners.

In this way we spent most of the day before the auction, and it was quite a relief early next morning to find ourselves being removed to the "Central Mart."

It was impossible, however, to resist the temptation of another quarrel in our tray while we were waiting for the sale to begin. The culprit in this instance was a certain Queen Anne's shilling attached to the chain of an insignificant-looking watch.

"What business has that ugly bit of tin here?" asked a burly hunter.

"Who calls me an ugly bit of tin?" squeaked out the coin.

"I do; there!" said the hunter; "now what have you got to say?"

"Only that you're a falsehood. Why, you miserable, machine-made, wheezing, old make-believe of a turnip -- "

"Draw it mild, young fellow," said the hunter.

"Do you know that I was current coin of the realm before the tin mine that supplied your carcass was so much as discovered? I'm a Queen Anne's shilling!"

"Are you, though? And what good are you now, my ancient Bob?"

The shilling grew, so to speak, black in the face.

"I won't be called a Bob! I'm not a Bob! Who dares call me a Bob?"

"I do, Bob; there, Bob. What do you think of that, Bob? What's the use of you, Bob, eh? Can you tell the time, Bob, eh, Bob, Bob, Bob?"

And we all took up the cry, and from that moment until the time of our sale every sound, for us, was drowned in a ceaseless cry of "Bob!" in the midst of which the unlucky Queen Anne's shilling crawled under his watch, and devoutly wished he were as undoubtedly dead as the illustrious royal lady whose image and superscription he had the misfortune to bear.

In due time the sale began. Among the earliest lots I recognised my acquaintance the solid silver sugar-tongs, which went for very nearly his full value, thus confirming me in my belief that, after all, there's nothing like the genuine thing all the world over.

After the disposal of the silver goods -- for which comparatively few people bid, and that with little or no competition -- the real excitement of the auction began.

"I have here, ladies and gentlemen," said the auctioneer, "a remarkably fine and superior lot of silver watches, all of which have been carefully cleaned and kept in order, and which, I can safely say, are equal to, if not better than, new. In many cases the watches are accompanied by chains of a very elegant and chaste description, which appendages considerably enhance their value. When I inform you that we value the contents of this tray, at the very lowest, at £90, being an average of £4 per watch, you will see I am not presenting to you any ordinary lot of goods. I will put up the watches singly in the order in which they are described in the catalogue."

Some of the company looked as if they were not sure whether they ought not to say "Hear, hear!" after this very elegant and polished speech, but they restrained their admiration, and reserved their energies for the bidding.

As I was last on the list I had full opportunity of noticing how my fellows fared, and was specially curious to see how the three or four watches whose acquaintance I had chanced to make went off.

The common-looking watch with the unlucky "Bob" attached to its chain was knocked down for £3 5 shillings, which, on the whole, was a triumph to the mortified coin, for it is certain without him the lot would not have fetched nearly so much, and his triumph was further enhanced by the fact that the hunter with whom he had had his altercation fetched only £2 17 shillings 6 pence. However, there was no time for jeers and recriminations at present, we were all too deeply absorbed in watching the fate of our fellows and speculating on our own.

The compensation balance, keyless, air-tight, seven-guinea grandee was the next to be put up, and the first bid for him was £1 10s.

"That I should have lived to hear that!" I heard the poor creature gasp.

"And if he's a teetotaler," I murmured, by way of encouragement, "that only means £1 8 shillings 6 pence!"

"Scoffer! be silent and leave me to my misery," said the keyless one, in a solemn tone.

The bidding improved considerably. He was run up to £2, £2 10 shillings, £3, £3 10 shillings, and finally to £4.

"Nothing more for this very magnificent watch?" said the auctioneer; "I positively cannot let him go for a song."

No answer.

"I wish gentlemen would take the trouble to look at it," continued the persevering official; "they could not fail to see it was worth twice the money bid."

Still no answer.

"Did I understand you to bid four five, sir?" said the auctioneer to an innocent-looking stripling near the door. "Thank you."

The stripling, however, disclaimed the soft impeachment, and looked very guilty as he did so.

"Well, there seems no help for it. I wish I were down among you gentlemen. I'd take good care not to lose this chance."

No answer.

"Then I must knock it down. Going, going, gone, sir; it's yours, and dirt cheap, too."

All this was encouraging for me. If a seven-guinea watch goes for four pounds, for how much will a three-guinea one go?

This was a problem which I feebly endeavoured to solve as I lay waiting my turn.

It came at last. I felt myself lifted on high, and heard my merits pronounced in the words of the catalogue.

"Lot 68. London made, lever, open-face watch, capped and jewelled, in very fine order."

"Look for yourselves, gentlemen."

The gentlemen did look for themselves, and complimented me by a preliminary bid of 15 shillings.

The auctioneer laughed a pleasant laugh, as much as to say, "That is a capital joke," and waited for the next bid.

It was not long in coming, and I advanced rapidly by half-crowns to thirty shillings. Here I made sure I should stop, for this was the figure at which the pawnbroker himself had valued me. But no; such are the vagaries of an auction, I went on still, up to £2, and from that to £2 10 shillings. Surely there was some mistake. I looked out to see who they were who were thus bidding for me, and fancied I detected in that scrutiny the secret of my unexpected value.

It was a countryman bidding -- endeavouring in his downright way to become my possessor, and wholly unconscious of the array of Jews against him, who bid him up from half-crown to half-crown until I had nearly reached my original value.

"Three pounds," at last said one of the Jews.

The countryman had evidently come to the end of his tether, and did not answer the challenge.

"Three pounds," said the auctioneer; "you're not going to stop, sir?"

The countryman said nothing.

"Try once more," said the auctioneer; but the rustic was silent.

"Three pounds; no more? Going, going -- "

"Guineas!" roared the countryman, at the last moment.

"Thank you, sir; I thought you were not going to be beaten. Three guineas, gentlemen; who says more? Nobody? Going, then, to you, sir; going, going, gone!"

And so, once more, I changed masters.



Chapter Nineteen.

How, After Much Ceremony, I Found Myself In The Pocket Of A Genius.

Muggerbridge is a straggling, picturesque little midland village, with one principal street, an old church, a market-place, and a pound. Its population, all told, does not number a thousand, the majority of whom are engaged in agriculture; its houses are for the most part old - fashioned and poor, though clean; and altogether its general character and appearance combine to proclaim the village an unpretending English hamlet, with nothing whatever but its name to distinguish it from a hundred others like it.

It was here I found myself duly installed in the window of the village jeweller's -- held out as a bait to the purses of Muggerbridge. The countryman who had purchased me was a big enough man in his own place, though very little had been made of him in the "Central Mart." He was jeweller, silversmith, church warden, postmaster, and special Muggerbridge correspondent to the London Thunderbolt all in one here, and appeared to be aware of his accumulated dignities!

It was his custom twice a year to visit London for the purpose of replenishing his stock. It was the common talk of the place that he always returned from such expeditions with prodigies of bargains, which went far to encourage the popular tradition as to the prodigal wealth of the metropolis. People who knew him in town, on the other hand, always laughed at him, and were unkind enough to hint that he never by any chance bought an article at less than its full price, and often paid an extremely fanciful ransom for his purchases.

The churchwarden and postmaster of Muggerbridge would have been very indignant had such an insinuation ever reached his ears. It never did, happily, and the worthy man was consequently always well satisfied with his purchases; which -- whatever he gave for them -- he always contrived to sell at a very respectable profit.

It was with a view to this profit that I found myself looking out of Mr Argent's window, in the High Street of Muggerbridge, with a ticket round my neck, conveying the (to me) very gratifying information that "this superb watch was to be disposed of for the moderate amount of £4 10 shillings only," and a parenthesis below further indulged my vanity by volunteering the information that I was worth £6. It did occur to me to wonder why, if I was worth £6, Mr Argent should be such a donkey as to sell me for only three-quarters of that sum. Either he was a very benevolent man, or he was in immediate want of £4 10 shillings, or he had his doubts as to my alleged value. I somehow fancied the last was the true reason, and was half afraid he was right too.

Well, I looked out of Mr Argent's windows for two months, and by that time became acquainted with nearly all the inhabitants of Muggerbridge.

On my first arrival I was an object of a good deal of curiosity and admiration, for any change in a country shop window is an excitement, and when that change takes the form of a £6 "superb" watch offered for £4 10 shillings, it was no wonder the honest Muggerbridgians gaped in at me and read my label.

But in a very little time familiarity had bred contempt, and I lay almost unheeded by the outside world. The grocer opposite, with his triumphal arch of jam-pots monopolised all the wonder, and most of the admiration, and I had the mortification of seeing passers turn their backs on me, and step over the way to contemplate that vulgar structure.

I had, however, one or two constant admirers. One of these was a youth, scarcely more than a boy, with a very pale, thoughtful face. He was poorly dressed, but respectable. A book was generally tucked under his arm, and very often I could see his lips moving, as if repeating something to himself.

He paid me more attention than anybody. Every time he passed the shop he halted and looked at me, as I thought, wistfully, and usually appeared relieved to find me still in my place.

"George Reader's took a fancy to the new watch, I can see," I heard Mr Argent say one day to his wife.

He spoke, let me observe, in a very broad country dialect, which I do not feel equal to reproducing here.

"Poor lad!" said Mrs Argent; "I dare say he'd like to have it in his pocket when he goes to college."

"He is going, then?"

"Yes, for certain; the clergyman says it would be a sin for a boy of his cleverness not to go, and so I think."

"Well, learning's a great thing; and when a gamekeeper's son does take a fit of it, I suppose it's all right to humour it. But you and I, wife, can get on very well without it."

"Speak for yourself," retorted Mrs Argent; "I wish you had half as much in your head as that boy has got, that's all!"

"And I suppose you wish you'd got the other half, eh? Stuff!"

And after this little tiff the worthy couple were silent for a while. Presently Mrs Argent again spoke. "I wonder what they'll do about the church organ when George's gone?"

"Ah! you may say so," said the husband, with a touch of importance in his voice which became a churchwarden when speaking of church matters; "it'll be hard to fill his place there."

"So it will. Did you stay after the service on Sunday?"

"No; you know I had to go round to the curate's. Why?"

"Just because if you'd heard him play you'd have been glued to your chair, as I was. It was beautiful. I couldn't have got up from that chair if I'd tried."

"Good job you didn't try, if you were glued down, especially in your Sunday gown. I shouldn't care to have to buy many of them a month."

"Now, John, you know I've not had a new gown for nearly a year."

And then the talk took a departure over a range of topics to which I need not drag my unoffending reader. This short conversation sufficed to satisfy my curiosity in part as to the boy who was paying me such constant attention; and another event which shortly happened served to bring me into still closer acquaintance with George Reader. One day there entered the shop a party consisting of half a dozen persons. One of them was a young man in the dress of a clergyman, and the others I knew well by sight as respectable and respected villagers.

"Good-morning, Mr Argent," said the curate, for the clerical gentleman was none other; "we've come to see you on a little matter of business."

"Hope there's nothing wrong with the heating stoves in the church, sir," said Mr Argent, with an anxious face, "I was always against them being used at all."

"The stoves are quite well, I believe," said the curate, smiling; "our business is of quite a different kind. We've come to make a purchase, in fact."

Mr Argent's face brightened considerably, partly at the assurance as to the salubrity of the gas-stoves and partly at the prospect of business.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he said, no longer with his churchwarden's voice, but as the Muggerbridge silversmith.

"Well, we have been asked to select a small present to be given by the choir and congregation of our church to George Reader, who, I suppose you know, is going next week to college."

"I have heard tell of it, sir," said Mr Argent, "and my wife and I were only wondering the other day what was to become of the music at the church when he's gone."

"We don't like to think of it," said one of the party. "It would want a good one to take his place," said another.

"We shall all miss him," said the curate; "and we are anxious before he leaves us to present him with some little token of our regard. We have kept the thing from you, Mr Argent, as of course we should have to come to you to procure whatever we decided on getting, so your contribution to the gift will have to be some good advice on the matter we are still undecided about -- what to get."

"I shall be very glad to help -- have you decided -- er -- I mean -- has anything been said -- that is -- about what -- "

"About how much? Well, we have nearly four pounds -- in fact, we might call it four. What have you about that price that would be suitable?"

Oh! how my heart fluttered, for I could guess by this time what was coming.

Mr Argent looked profound for a minute, and then said, "There's one thing, I think, would do."

"What?" asked the deputation.

He pulled me out of the window and laid me on the counter.

"A watch! Dear me! we thought of all sorts of things, but not once of that!"

"It would be a suitable present," said one of the party; "but this one is £4 10."

"That needn't matter," said Mr Argent; "if you like it my wife and I will settle about the difference."

"That's very kind of you, Mr Argent. Does any one know if George has a watch?"

"I know he hasn't," said one of the party. "And what's more, I've heard him say he wishes he had one."

"And I can answer for it he's been looking in at my window at this very one every day for the last month," said the silversmith.

"Well, what do you say to getting this, then? We needn't ask you if it's a good one, Mr Argent."

"No, you needn't, sir," replied the smiling Mr Argent, who, as I had remained run down since the day he bought me, could not well have answered the question more definitely.

"You'll clean it up, will you, and set it going, and send it to me this afternoon?" said the curate; -- "and perhaps you would like to come with us to Reader's cottage this evening, when we are going to present it?"

Mr Argent promised to form one of the party, and the deputation then left.

I was swiftly subjected to all the cleaning and polishing which brushes, wash-leather, and whiting could give me. I was wound up and set to the right time, and a neat piece of black watered ribbon was attached to my neck, and then I waited patiently till the time came for my presentation to my new master.

The gamekeeper's cottage to which I was conducted in state that evening was not an imposing habitation. It boasted of only three rooms, and just as many occupants. George, the hero of the occasion, was the son of its humble owner and his wife, and, as will have been gathered, had turned out a prodigy. From his earliest days he had displayed a remarkable aptitude for study. Having once learned to read at the village school, he became insatiable after books, and devoured all that came within his reach.

Happily he fell into the hands of a wise and able guide, the clergyman of the parish, who, early recognising the cleverness of the boy, strove to turn his thirst for learning into profitable channels, lent him books, explained to him what he failed to understand, incited him to thoroughness, and generally constituted himself his kind and helpful adviser.

The consequence of this timely tuition had been that George had grown up, not a boisterous, over bearing prig, showing off his learning at every available chance, and making himself detestable, and everybody else miserable, by his conceited air, but a modest, quiet scholar, with plenty of hidden fire and ambition, and not presuming on his talents to scorn his humble origin, or be ashamed of his home and parents -- on the contrary, connecting them with all his dearest hopes of success and advancement in the world.

They, good souls, were quite bewildered by the sudden blaze of their son's celebrity. They hardly seemed to understand what it all meant, but had a vague sort of idea that they were implicated in "Garge's" achievements. They would sit and listen to him as he read to them, as if they were at an exhibition at which they had paid for admission, and it is not too much to say "Garge" was, in their eyes, almost as dreadful a personage as the lord of the manor himself.

Among his fellow-villagers George was, as the reader will have gathered, somewhat of a hero, and not a little of a favourite. This distinction he owed to a talent for music, which had at a very early age displayed itself, and had been heartily encouraged by the rector. In this pursuit, which he followed as his only recreation, he had made such progress that, while yet a boy, he became voluntary organist at the church, and as such had won the hearts of the neighbours.

They didn't know much about music, but they knew the organ sounded beautiful on Sundays, and that "Garge" played it. And so it was a real trouble to them now that he was about to leave Muggerbridge.

You may imagine the state of excitement into which this unexpected visit threw simple Mr and Mrs Reader. The good lady was too much taken aback even to offer her customary welcome, and as for the gamekeeper, he sat stock still in his chair, with his eyes on his son, like a hound that waits the signal for action.

"We are rather an invasion, I'm afraid," said the curate, squeezing himself into the little kitchen between a clothes-horse and a dresser.

"Not at all," said George, looking very bewildered.

"Perhaps you'll wonder why we've come?" added the curate, turning to the gamekeeper.

"Maybe you've missed something, and thinks one of us has got it," was the cheerful suggestion.

The curate laughed, and the deputation laughed, and George laughed, and George's mother laughed, which made things much easier for all parties.

"No, we haven't missed anything, Mr Reader," replied the curate, "but we expect to miss somebody -- George, and that is the reason of our visit."

And then the curate explained what the business was, and one of the churchwardens made a speech (the composition of which had kept him awake all the previous night), and then I was produced and handed over. And George blushed and stammered out something which nobody could understand, and George's mother began to cry, and George's father, unable otherwise to express his sense of the occasion, began to whistle. And so the little business was satisfactorily concluded, and the deputation withdrew, leaving me in the pocket of a new master. Three days afterwards both of us took our departure for Cambridge.



Chapter Twenty.

How My New Master Made Trial Of A Pursuit Of Knowledge Under Difficulties.

But now let us follow Reader. My master's rooms at Saint George's College were of the poorest and meanest description; in fact it would not be too much to describe them -- the bedroom and study -- as being like a pair of big cupboards under a great staircase. They looked out on nothing more picturesque than a blank wall. They were carpeted with nothing better than an old drugget; and as for paper, the place would have looked better simply whitewashed. They were suffocating in summer and draughty in winter, and at nights afforded rendezvous to a whole colony of rats. Every step on the staircase above thundered down into the study; the loosely-hung windows rattled even in a light breeze, and the flavours of the college dustbins, hard by, appeared to have selected these chambers, above all others, for their favourite haunt. I am told Saint George's College has recently undergone renovation. It so, it is probable "the Mouse-trap" -- for this was the designation by which George Reader's classical domain was familiarly styled -- has disappeared. Let us hope so, for a more miserable, uncomfortable, and uninviting couple of rooms I never saw.

But they had one merit, and that a great one: they were cheap, which to George Reader meant everything. He had gained a small entrance scholarship, by the help of which he hoped, with the most rigid economy, to support himself during his college career. Most other young fellows would have shrunk from the prospect, but such was my master's ambition that I believe he would have endured life in a stable if only he could have there enjoyed the advantages and encouragements of a college course.

It was, at any rate, a fine sight to see him settle down in his new dispiriting quarters, determined to make the best of everything, and suffer nothing to damp his ardour for work. He unpacked his few precious books and laid them on the shelf; he hung up the likenesses of his father and mother over the chimney-piece; he produced the cheese which the latter had insisted on his bringing with him, and, as a crowning-effect, set me up on the mantel-shelf with as much pride as if I had been a marble clock.

"That looks something like!" he said to himself. "Now for a little tea, and then -- grind!"

The little tea, however, was "sooner said than done." It involved a prolonged hunt for the "gyp," or attendant, and a still more prolonged conference on the subject of hot water, tea, and bread. The suggestions thrown out by the college official, too, were so very lordly and extravagant -- such, for instance, as ham and eggs, chicken, marmalade, and chocolate -- that poor George's heart fluttered as much as his mouth watered while he listened. Chicken and chocolate for a poor student who had barely enough money to afford so much as the luxury of living in the "Mouse-trap" of Saint George's! Well he might be scared at the idea! He politely declined the grand offer of his scout, and asking him to light a small fire and procure him a loaf, sallied out himself into the town and purchased a small and very cheap quantity of groceries. With these he returned in triumph to his rooms, and, with the utmost satisfaction, partook of his first college meal, with a Euclid open on the table beside him.

Then pouring out a final cup of tea to enjoy, cold, later on, he "cleared the decks for action," as he called it, which meant putting away the tea, butter, sugar, and bread in a cupboard, and folding up the table cloth. Poor George! he had no false pride to forbid such menial offices; he had not the brag about him which would have led another to stand on the staircase and howl "Gyp" till every one far and near should be made aware that he had had a meal which required clearing away. No; he was only a gamekeeper's son, in a hurry to get at his books; and to him it was far more natural to wait on his own frugal table than sit in state till a servant should come and clear it.

"Now," said he to himself, "I shall get a good quiet time for work. After all it's not bad to be one's own master where reading is concerned."

And without more ado he set himself down to his books, with me on the table at his elbow, and his cup of tea within reach, when such refreshment should be desirable. It was a fine thing to see this young fellow plunging straight into his work.

Assuredly he had not come to college to fritter away his time -- to row, play cricket, give wine-parties, or drive dog-carts; he had not even come because it was "the thing," or afforded a "good introduction into the world." No, he was here for one purpose, and one alone. That was work. To him the days were as precious mines, and every minute a nugget. It mattered nothing to him who won the cricket-match this year, who occupied the rooms next his, how many bumps the Saint George's boat made on the river; far more important was the thought that perhaps the oil in his lamp would run short before the night was out, or whether the edition of Plato his friend the Muggerbridge clergyman had given him was the best, and contained the fullest notes. In short, George Reader was in earnest.

But, like the tea, the "good quiet time" he hoped for was not so easy to secure. Scarcely had he settled down when the voices of two men in loud conversation rose, immediately under his window. Now, when one is in the agony of trying to understand how it comes that a certain number of angles in one figure are equal to a certain number of angles in another, it is, to say the least of it, confusing to have to listen to a spirited account of a boxing-match between Jack Straight and the Hon. Wilfred Dodge; and when that account manages to get interwoven inextricably with the problem in hand the effect is likely to be distracting; for instance: -- 

"Since the solid angle at B is contained by three plane angles, BAF, FAC, and CAB, then -- "

"Jack let out and got in sweetly under his man's guard," and so on.

"Therefore," persevered George, "the angles ABC and ABF -- "

"Rounded on him grandly, and -- "

"The angles ABC and ABF are together greater than the angle CBF; and, similarly -- "

Here the conversation was continued in language far more worthy of the disgraceful prize-ring than a college, until George could bear it no longer. He leapt from his seat and sprang to the window, which he opened. Leaning out, he surveyed the two disturbers of his peace with very little affection, but controlled himself sufficiently to say politely, -- 

"Would you mind not talking just here? I'm reading."

One of the two scowled up at him, and replied, -- 

"What business is it of yours where we talk?"

"Come on, Fisher," said the other, taking his arm; "let the man read if he wants; I suppose that's the poor beggar who's come to the 'trap.'"

"He's got a cool cheek of his own, whoever he is," retorted the indignant Fisher.

George was too relieved to be rid of their clatter under his window to trouble himself as to their sentiments towards himself, and he therefore once again settled down to work.

But now a new interruption occurred.

There arose a sudden rush of feet outside his door, a laughing and a cheering, in the midst of which he caught the following confused utterances:

"George's has bumped Corpus!" cried a voice.

"Hurrah!" yelled half a dozen voices.

"It was the finest bit of rowing ever you saw," continued the first speaker. "Bailey put it on from the very first stroke, and was on the top of them before the Point."

And then the three cheers and yells rose again.

"You can fancy how black and blue Corpus looked -- it's the biggest sell they've had for a long time."

Once more the shouts.

"And what do you think?" resumed the first speaker. "Old Bailey vows he won't come to the supper to-night. Did ever you hear of such an old bear?"

"He'll have to come," cried the rest; "let's waylay him here and carry him off."

"All serene," said the leader; "he's sure to come here -- let's hang about on the stairs."

Oh, horrors! here were six noisy men going to establish themselves on the stairs over poor George's head, and remain there until their victim arrived, when, unless college traditions were utterly false, there would certainly be a battle royal. It was impossible, with the cheering and stamping and shouting and laughing, and scuffling overhead, to do a stroke of work, and yet George did his best. He pulled his table into the corner of the room farthest away from the noise, and, burying his head in his hands, struggled desperately to abstract himself from the disturbance. But as sure as he succeeded for a minute, a clamour louder than ever would drive every idea out of his head. It was vain to attempt expostulation -- what would these jubilant revellers care for a poor new man like him! -- and he had nowhere else to go to escape them there was nothing for it but to be patient. In due time the victorious and unsuspecting Bailey, accompanied by four of his friends, appeared on the scene, and their approach was the immediate signal for action. With a cheer and a howl the ambush sprang upon their victims; and, with equal vehemence, these, having rapidly taken in the state of affairs, prepared to defend themselves. Poor George might as well have been sitting under Niagara. Step by step, the new-comers strove to force a passage up to Bailey's rooms, and step by step the opposing force strove to repulse them. The balustrades creaked, the ceiling of George's room quaked, and the walls thundered with the weight of conflicting bodies. The occupants of every room on the staircase turned out to see the fun, and on hearing of Bailey's contumacy, joined with his persecutors in refusing him the shelter of his own sanctuary. Bailey's party, on the other hand, was joined by reinforcements from without, who stormed up the stairs with the noise of an earthquake. The opposing forces soon became so great that the press of battle raged even to the door of George's study, which creaked and rattled as if every moment it were about to yield and admit the whole tide of conflict.

For half an hour the tumult roared and the battle swayed, and neither party gained nor yielded a foot.

Then suddenly from the confines of the battle rose and spread a cry of "Cave canem!" on which, as if by magic, the action was suspended, and retreating footsteps betokened a panic. A rally was sounded by Bailey's foes, but too late; the hero of the day had taken advantage of the momentary pause to dash past his persecutors and gain his study, and once there no force could dislodge him. The vanquished ones stormed and raged outside his door for another ten minutes, threatening all sorts of vengeance; then with three mighty cheers they struck camp and retired, leaving the staircase in peace.

Thus ended the famous battle of Bailey's Staircase, at the end of which George, with sunken spirits but indomitable resolution, sat down again to work.

For half an hour he made good progress, without let or hindrance, when --  ah, cruel fate! -- a wretch calling himself a man, in a neighbouring apartment, began to practise on the ophicleide! At the first note George bounded from his seat as if he had been shot, and literally tore his hair. This was worse than all that had gone before. To one of his musical inspiration, the human voice divine in conversation was, endurable, and the roar of battle might even be tolerable, but to hear a creature attempt to play one of the "songs without words" on an instrument he knew as little of as the music he was parodying, was beyond all bearing! Then, if ever, did my wretched master dig his fingers into his ears, and writhe and shiver and groan at each discord produced by that inhuman performer. He retreated into the innermost recess of his bedroom; he even hid his unhappy head beneath the clothes, if haply he might escape the agony of this torture. But it was hopeless. The shrieks and groans of that brutal ophicleide would have penetrated the walls of the Tower of London.

It lasted, I should not like to say how long; and when it was over, the recollection of its horrors was almost as bad as their endurance. When George set himself again to work, it was with nerves unstrung and unutterable forebodings, yet still unconquered.

"At any rate," said he to himself, with a sigh, "there can't be anything worse than that -- unless, indeed, he invites a friend like himself to practise duets with him!"

Happily this climax was not reached, and for one evening the worst of George Reader's persecutions had been suffered -- but not the last.

By the time the last wail of the ophicleide had wriggled away into silence it was getting late, and the college was meditating retirement to rest. This operation was not got through, as may be imagined, without a good deal of clamour and a good deal of scuffling on the staircase, and a good deal of dialogue outside the window; but in due time silence reigned, and George congratulated himself that he had a quiet time at last before him.

Unlucky boast! Not an hour had passed, the lights in the windows round the courtyard had vanished, the distant shouts had ceased, and the footsteps on the pavement without had died away, when George was startled by a sound that seemed like the boring of a hole under his fireplace. The noise grew, and other similar noises rose in different parts. What was it? Surely the gay students of Saint George's were not about to effect an amateur burglary on the friendless owner of the "Mouse-trap?"

Nearer and nearer came the sounds, and George's heart beat loud. He closed his book and pushed his chair back from the table, ready to defend himself, on an emergency, to the bitter end. Then, under the hearth, there was a sound of scraping and grating, then a rushing noise, and then George saw -- two enormous rats!

Loud and long laughed my master to himself at the discovery. What cared he for rats? He pulled his chair back to the table, and buried himself in his book for the next three hours, until his lamp began to burn low, and the letters on the pages grew blurred and dim, and the rats had scuffled back by the way they came, and my flagging hands pointed to four o'clock.

Then George Reader, after kneeling in silent prayer, went to bed.



Chapter Twenty One.

How My Master Fared At Saint George's College And Met An Old Acquaintance Of The Reader's There.

It is not my intention in these pages to give a full and particular account of George Reader's college life. It would neither be on the whole interesting, nor would it be found to have much bearing on my own career, which is the ostensible theme of the present veracious history.

Stories of college life have furnished amusing material for many a book before now, to which the reader must turn, should his curiosity in that direction require to be satisfied. The life of a hard -- a too hard - working student in his cell under the college staircase is neither amusing nor sensational, and it is quite enough to say that, after his first eventful evening, George Reader pursued his studies with unflagging ardour, though with greater precaution than ever.

He soon discovered which hours of the day and night were most favourable for uninterrupted work.

He made a point of taking his constitutional during the hour made hideous by the ill-starred aspirant on the ophicleide. He invested in a trap for the rats, which, with the aid of his mother's cheese, yielded him a nightly harvest of victims, and he arranged with Benson, the "gyp," not to interrupt him, preferring rather to wait on himself -- nay, even to dust out his own room -- than have to sacrifice precious time while the same offices were being performed by another, especially by such an overpowering and awe-inspiring person as Benson.

So he set himself to work, attending lectures by day, reading every night into the small hours, spending scarcely anything, shrinking from all acquaintanceships, taking only a minimum of recreation, and living almost the life of a hermit, until I could see his cheeks grow pale, and his eyes dark round the rims, and feared for his health.

He treated me uniformly well. Of course, as the gift of his fellow - villagers, he prized me highly, but by no means consigned me to the stately repose of a purely ornamental treasure. I lay nightly beside his elbow on the table, and counted for him the hours as they sped from night to morning. I lay beneath his pillow at night, and helped him to rise betimes. I insured his punctual attendance at lectures, and drove him home from his scanty walks in the fresh air more quickly than I myself would have cared to do if I could have helped it. In short, I found myself in the satisfactory position of one thoroughly useful in his sphere of life, and on the whole, though my first young master returned constantly to my thoughts, I contrived to be very happy in my new capacity.

Two events, however, both of a pleasant nature, served to vary the monotony of George's second term at college. The first of these was a visit from his friend and patron, Dr Wilkins, the rector of Muggerbridge.

George was sitting at his modest breakfast one morning, when his door suddenly opened, and the well-known and beloved face of his old tutor lit up the apartment.

My master sprang to his feet, and with unaffected joy rushed forward to welcome his guest, before it had do much as occurred to him into what uninviting quarters he was receiving him.

"How good of you to come, sir!" he cried. "I never expected such happiness."

"You don't suppose I should go through Cambridge and never beat up your quarters, my boy! But, dear me, how ill you are looking!"

"Am I? I don't feel ill."

"Humph! you're overdoing it. But aren't you going to offer me some breakfast?"

George coloured, and his spirits sank as his eyes fell on the scanty fare of which he himself had been partaking.

"It's only bread-and-butter," he said.

"And what better?" said Dr Wilkins, sitting down; "and I warrant the butter's good if it's your mother's making."

"So it is," said George, beginning to recover his spirits. "And how did you leave them at home, sir?"

"First-rate, my boy; -- looking much better than you are. And so this is your den? Well, it's -- "

"Nothing very grand," put in George.

"Exactly, nothing very grand; but I dare say you find it as good a place to read in as a drawing-room, eh? Now tell me all about yourself, my boy, while I drink this good tea of yours."

And George, with light heart and beaming face, told his good friend of all his doings, his hardships, his difficulties, his triumphs, and his ambitions.

And Dr Wilkins sat and listened with pride and thankfulness at heart, to find his young protege the same earnest, unaffected boy he had parted with from Muggerbridge six months before. They talked for a long time that morning. The tutor and boy passed in review all the work hitherto accomplished and discussed the programme of future study. Many were the wholesome counsels the elder gave to the younger, and many were the new hopes and resolutions which filled the lad's heart as he opened all his soul to his good friend.

"And now," said Dr Wilkins, "I want you to take me to see your college and chapel."

George looked perplexed. Who was he to conduct a Doctor of Divinity over his college. Such a hermit's life had he led that he hardly knew the ins and outs of the place himself, and there was not a single man in the college to whom he was not a stranger.

"I'm afraid you've chosen a bad guide," faltered he. "I don't know any of the men, and very little of the place."

"Oh, never mind that," said the doctor; "it will be all the more interesting to make a tour of discovery, so come along!"

George put on his cap and gown and obeyed. For a moment he wished the gown had been long enough to conceal the patch on the knee of his trousers, but the next he laughed at himself for his vanity.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," thought he, "and if it is patched -- well, it is."

And thus consoling himself, he accompanied the doctor across the quadrangle.

Men certainly did stare at him as he passed, and some of them deemed him a queer "specimen," and others wondered what Saint George's was coming to. But my master, if he noticed their looks, disregarded them, and as for Dr Wilkins, he smiled to himself to think how prone mankind is to judge by appearances.

"Unless I mistake," mused he to himself, "these young sparks of Saint George's will some day think fit to be proud of their poor fellow - collegian."

The two made the tour of the college, and finished up with the grand old Gothic chapel. It was easy to guess why George's face lit up as he approached the place. The deep notes of an organ were sounding across the quadrangle, and as they entered the door a flood of harmony swept towards them down the long aisles. Dr Wilkins could feel the boy's arm tremble, and heard the sigh of delight which escaped his lips. Without a word they sat in the nearest stalls, and listened while the music went on. How it rose and fell, how it trembled in the oak arches of the roof, and swept through the choir down to where they sat! It was only an ordinary organist's practice; but to George, after his hard work, and with the memories of home revived by the presence of his dear tutor, it came as a breath from heaven. Daily, nearly, had he heard that organ since his coming to Cambridge, but never had it delighted him as it did now.

"Can we see the organ?" he said, when the last chord had died away.

"Let us try," said the doctor.

The gallery door was open, and ascending the stairs to the organ loft, they found the organist preparing to depart.

"We have been a clandestine audience," said the doctor, "and couldn't help coming to thank you for the treat you have given us. My young friend here is music mad."

The organist smiled.

"You took me at a disadvantage," he said, "I was only amusing myself."

"Whatever you were doing for yourself, you delighted us," said the doctor.

"Would you like to try the organ?" presently said the organist to George.

Oh, what a bound of delight I could feel in my master's breast at the invitation.

"May I?" he exclaimed.

"Certainly, if you like -- and if you can," added the other, hesitatingly, as if not sure whether the lad's skill would be equal to his enthusiasm.

George sat down on the bench, and laid his fingers lovingly on the keys. But he withdrew them before he had sounded a note. "I would rather you did not watch me too closely," he said, nervously, "for I am only a beginner."

"Let us go and sit down stairs," suggested the doctor.

The organist looked still more doubtful than before, and began to repent his offer. However, he retired with the doctor, and made up his mind to be excruciated. They sat down in two of the stalls and waited.

And then George began to play. What he played I cannot tell. It began first in a faint whisper of music which swelled onward into a pure choral melody. Then suddenly the grand old roof trembled with the clash of a martial movement, strong and steady, which carried the listener onward till he was, with the sound, lost in the far distance. Then, in wailing minor numbers the music returned, slowly working itself up into the tumult and fury of a pent-up agony, and finally sweeping all before it in a wild hurricane of bitterness. Then a pause, and then sweetly and in the far distance once more rose the quiet hymn, and after that all was silence.

After the first few notes the organist had uttered a startled ejaculation, and drawn the doctor to another seat farther down the nave, where, till all was over, he sat motionless as a statue. But the moment the music had ceased he ran up the stairs with a face full of pleasure and admiration, and actually seized George by the hand.

"You're a genius, sir. That was not at all bad, I can tell you."

A happy smile was all the answer George could give.

"Not at all bad," repeated the organist. "I was telling your friend," added he to Dr Wilkins, who had returned more slowly to the organ, "that was not at all bad. He must come here often."

"Nothing, I am sure, would delight him more," said the doctor. "Eh, my boy?"

"Nothing, indeed," said George, "but -- "

"But your reading, I suppose."

"Never mind your reading, sir!" exclaimed the organist. "What's that to music? Take my advice, and go in for music."

Poor George! for a moment he felt tempted to abandon all his ambitions and resolutions at the prospect of a career so delightful and congenial.

But he was made of firmer stuff than Tom Drift, and replied, -- 

"I cannot do that, sir; but if I may come now and then -- "

"Come whenever you like," said the organist; and so saying he shook George and his friend by the hand, and hurried from the chapel.

This was the event which of all others brightened George Reader's first year at college.

Instead of aimless walks, he now stole at every spare moment (without cutting into his ordinary work) to the organ, and there revelled in music.

His acquaintance with the college organist increased and developed into a friendship, of which mutual admiration formed a large element, and one happy Sunday, a year after his arrival at Cambridge, he received, for the first time, the much coveted permission to preside at the organ during a college service, a task of which he acquitted himself so well --  nay, so remarkably well -- that not only did he frequently find himself again in the same position, but his playing came to be a matter of remark among the musical set of Saint George's.

"Who is the fellow who played to-day?" a man inquired one day of the organist; "is he a pupil of yours?"

"No. I might be a pupil of his in some things. He's a boy, and, mark my words, if he goes on as he's begun he'll be heard of some day."

"What's his name, do you know?" inquired the youth.

"I don't even know that, I never --  Here he comes!"

"Introduce me, will you?"

"With pleasure. Allow me to introduce Mr Halliday," said the organist to George.

Halliday! Wasn't that a familiar name to me? Was it possible? This fine fellow, then, was no other than Jim Halliday, whom I had last seen as a boy on the steps of Randlebury, with his chum Charlie Newcome, waving farewell to Tom Drift.

Ah, how my heart beat at being thus once more brought back into the light of those happy days by this unexpected meeting!

My master by no means shared my delight at the incident. He had always shrunk from acquaintanceships among his fellow-collegians. With none, hitherto, but the organist had he become familiar, and that only by virtue of an irresistible common interest. His poverty and humble station forbade him to intrude his fellowship on the clannish gentry of Saint George's, and certainly his cravings for hard study led him, so far from considering the exclusion as a hardship, to look upon it as a mercy, and few things he desired more devoutly than that this satisfactory state of affairs might continue.

I do not say George was right in this. Sociability is, to a certain extent, a duty, and one that ought not without the soundest reason to be shirked. George may have carried his reserve rather too far, but at any rate you will allow he erred on the right side, if he erred at all, and carried his purpose through with more honesty and success than poor Tom Drift had displayed in a very similar situation.

Now, however, his hermitage was in peril of a siege, and he quailed as he acknowledged the introduction offered him.

"How are you?" said Halliday, with all his own downrightness. "I and a lot of fellows have liked your playing, and I don't see why I shouldn't tell you so. How are you?"

"I'm quite well, thank you," faltered George.

"You're a freshman, I suppose?" asked Jim.

"No, I'm in my second year."

"Are you? I thought I knew all the men in the college; but perhaps you live in the town?"

"No, I live in college."

"Where are your rooms?" asked the astonished Jim.

"In, or rather under, H staircase," replied George. "Perhaps you would know the place best as the 'Mouse-trap.'"

Jim could not resist a whistle of surprise and a rapid scrutiny of his new acquaintance.

"The 'Mouse-trap'! That's an awful hole, isn't it?"

"Yes," said George, his candour coming to his rescue to deliver him from this cross-examination, "but it's cheap -- "

Jim looked as afflicted as if he had been seized with a sudden toothache.

"What a blundering jackass I am! Please excuse my rudeness; I never meant to annoy you."

"You have not done so. You are not the sort of man I should mind knowing I was poor -- "

"Of course not; so am I poor; but don't let's talk of that. Will you come to my rooms?"

George hesitated, and then answered, -- 

"I'd rather not, please. I'm reading hard, and, besides -- "

"Besides what?"

"I've no right to expect you to associate with me."

"Why ever not?"

"I may as well tell you straight out. My father is a gamekeeper, and I am a gamekeeper's son."

Jim laughed pleasantly.

"Well, really your logic is perfect, but I can't say as much for your sense. Bless you, man, aren't we all of us lineal descendants of a gardener? Come along!"

"Please excuse me," again faltered George; "you are very kind, but your friends may not thank you for -- "

"My friends! -- oh, yes!" blurted out Jim. "What on earth business have they to put their noses into my affairs. Like their impudence, all of them!"

Jim, you will see, was still a boy, though he had whiskers.

"Don't blame them till they have offended. Anyhow, Mr Halliday, please excuse me. I want to read, and have made a rule never to go out."

"Look here -- what's your name?" began Jim.

"Reader," replied my master.

"Reader! Are you the fellow who's in for the Wigram Scholarship?" cried Jim, in astonishment.

"Yes," replied George; "how did you know?"

"Only that some of the fellows are backing you for winner."

George laughed. "They'll be disappointed," he said.

"I hope not," said Jim, "for if you get it you'll be free of the college, and get into rather better quarters than the 'Mouse-trap.' But look here, Reader, do come to my rooms, there's a good fellow; if you don't want any friends, don't prevent my having one."

This was irresistible, and George had nothing for it but to yield, and with many misgivings to accompany his new friend.



Chapter Twenty Two.

How My Master And I Went Out To Breakfast, And Whom We Met.

Jim Halliday -- now a strapping youth of nineteen -- was a good representative of the "steady set" at Saint George's College. Indeed, as he was intending to become a clergyman in due time, it would have been a deplorable thing if this had not been the case. He worked hard, and though not a clever fellow, had already taken a good position in the examination lists of his college. He was also an ardent superintendent at a certain ragged-school in the town conducted by University men; and was further becoming a well-known figure in the debates at the Union -- on all which accounts his friends were not a little satisfied. But on one point Jim and his friends did not hit it. Ever since his Randlebury days he had kept up his passion for athletic sports, and if he had now been famous for nothing else at his college, he would at least have been noted as a good bat, a famous boxer, a desperate man in a football scrimmage, and a splendid oar. It was on this subject that Jim and his relations were at variance. When I speak of "relations" I refer, by the way, to a certain old-fashioned uncle and aunt in Cornwall, who since Jim's father's death had assumed the guardianship of that youth and his brothers and sisters. This good uncle and aunt were horribly shocked that one destined for so solemn a sphere in life as the ministry should profane himself with athletic sports. The matter formed the theme for many serious remonstrances, and long letters addressed to the depraved Jim, who, on his part, maintained his side of the argument with characteristic vehemence. He actually spent a whole day in the college library, making out a list of all the athletic divines in history since the creation of the world, the which he hurled triumphantly at his good relations' heads as an unanswerable challenge. But, however satisfactory it may have been to Jim, it failed to convince them, and neither party being disposed to give in, the feud in this particular had become chronic.

All this Jim contrived to impart to George (for lack of better conversation) in the course of a short walk previous to the breakfast in his rooms, to which he was leading his new acquaintance a captive.

"I suppose we shall have it all opened again now," he remarked, "for you may have seen that my name is down to play in the football-match against Sandhurst."

"I never read the athletic intelligence in the papers," said George.

"Well, my uncle and aunt do. The names were actually printed in the Times, and I shall be greatly surprised if I don't find a letter or telegram when I get back to my rooms. We may as well beat to quarters, though, or the fellows will be waiting."

"You didn't tell me anyone else was to be there," said George reproachfully, suddenly stopping short, "I can't come!"

"Stuff and nonsense," said Jim; "they won't eat you!"

"Halliday," said George, hurriedly, "I'm much obliged to you for asking me, but I have made a rule, as I tell you, never to go out, and I've told you the reason."

"An utterly rubbishing reason!" put in Jim.

"I promised to come with you because I thought there would be only us two; but I really can't come if there are more."

"My dear fellow," said Jim good-humouredly, "anyone else would be offended with you. Why, you're a regular bear."

"I know it's very rude of me," said George, feeling and looking very uncomfortable, "and I don't want to be that."

"Of course you don't; so come along. Why, my dear fellow, one would think my friends were all as abandoned wretches as I am, by the manner in which you shrink from the notion of meeting them, but they aren't."

"Do let me off," put in George, in despair.

"Not a bit of it. But I tell you what, if you don't like them or me -- "

"It's not that, you know, but I've no right to associ -- "

"Associate with your grandmother! Come this once, and I'll never ask you again unless you like, there!"

"Who are the fellows?" asked George.

"Two of them are College men -- very nice men, in my humble opinion; and, now I come to think of it, one of them, Clarke, is in against you for the 'Wigram,' but everyone says you're safe; and the third is an old particular school chum, who is playing in Sandhurst team against us, and whom it is therefore my interest to incapacitate by a howling breakfast."

George laughed.

"I wish you'd let him eat my share as well."

"I dare say he would be equal to the occasion. Newcome was always a good trencherman."

At the name I bounded nearly out of my master's pocket. Newcome! an old school chum of Jim Halliday's. It must be my old master! And -- yes -- now I remembered, he had spoken in one of his letters to Tom Drift of going to Sandhurst Military College. It must be he. How I longed for my master to make up his mind and go to the breakfast!

"But I wouldn't have you miss seeing him," said Jim, "for I'm no end proud of him; and when you've once seen him, you'll have seen the best fellow going. That is," added he, "present company of course excepted."

"I'm sure he's a nice man."

"Nice! Of course, and therefore fit company for you and me; so come along, old man. I never had such hard work inviting a man to breakfast in all my life."

"I'm certain I'm ill-mannered," said George, "but I won't hold out any more. You will -- "

"Hurrah, that's settled, and here we are, too!"

With that he led the way up a staircase, on the second floor of which he opened a door, and ushered George into his rooms. No one was there yet, and there was consequently time to look about. Jim's rooms were nothing very grand, but they were palatial compared with the "Mouse-trap." Cheerful and well-lighted, with a pleasant look-out into the old quadrangle, comfortably furnished, further enlivened with all those adornments in the shape of swords, fencing-sticks, dumb-bells, etcetera, without which no model undergraduate's rooms would be complete.

George could hardly help sighing as his thoughts flew back to his own dingy cell under "H" staircase.

"Lay another plate, Smith," said Jim, addressing his "gyp"; "and now, old man, make yourself comfortable."

And then the host, in a business-like way, devoted himself to the mysteries of coffee-making and egg-boiling, in the midst of which occupation Clarke and the other Saint George's man arrived.

George felt very miserable on being introduced and devoutly hoped the fellows would have sufficient to converse about among themselves, without it being needful for him to come under observation. This reserve, however, he was not destined to maintain for very long.

"Halliday," said Clarke, "were you in chapel this morning?"

"Yes."

"Well, did you ever hear the organ so grandly played?"

George blushed deeply, half with pleasure at this genuine compliment, and half with nervousness at the turn the talk was taking.

"And it wasn't the regular organist," said Clarke's friend, "for I saw him downstairs."

"No, it's some fellow -- plough-boy or stable-boy; or somebody he's got hold of, so I heard. Whoever he is, he knows how to play."

At this point Jim was as red in the face as George, and equally embarrassed.

"Is the fellow at college, do you know?" asked Clarke's friend.

"I believe so, in fact -- "

"In fact," broke out Jim, in fear of further awkwardness, "in fact the gentleman you are speaking of is my friend here."

If Clarke and his friend had suddenly been confronted by a tribe of wild Indians they could not have been more taken aback than they were at this announcement. In fact, it was an awkward moment for everybody. Nobody knew exactly what to say, or which way to look. But a welcome interruption arrived.

My heart beat suddenly as I heard at the bottom of the stairs a sound. Some one was coming up two steps at a time. Nearer and nearer the light feet came, and my agitation told me whom they brought.

There was a rap at the door, a click on the latch, and then, after all these years, I saw once more my dear first master, Charlie Newcome. Little he guessed I was so near him!

He had spent the previous day with Jim, and was therefore no stranger in his rooms; indeed, from the moment he entered them, he appeared as much at home there as their own master. He greeted the visitors pleasantly, and then, in the old Randlebury style, demanded if breakfast was anywhere near ready, as he was starving.

He had the beginnings of a fierce moustache, he stood six feet high in his boots, and there was a look of power about him which exceeded even the promise of his Randlebury days. Otherwise he was the same. He had the same clear, honest eyes, the same frank smile, the same merry laugh, for which everyone had loved him then; and as I looked at him and rejoiced, I felt I would give the world to be back in my old place in his pocket.

Jim, as he himself had said, was proud enough of his friend, and no wonder. His arrival, too, at the instant when it occurred, was most opportune, and made him a specially welcome addition to our party, which, including my master, was very soon on the best of terms round the hospitable Jim's table.

"It's not often," said that worthy, "one gets two pairs of deadly enemies eating out of the same dish."

"What's the fellow talking about?" asked Charlie, passing up his plate for more steak.

"Well," said Jim, "you and I are, or shall be, deadly enemies to-day, old man."

"Rather," responded Charlie; "so much the worse for you. But where's the other pair?"

"Why, Clarke and Reader."

"I?" exclaimed Clarke, in an alarmed tone. "I hope Mr Reader and I are not at enmity?"

"Oh, yes, you are; don't you know Reader's the fellow in against you for the 'Wigram'?" said Jim.

Clarke was astonished. He had been told there was another candidate for the scholarship, who in some quarters was considered a formidable opponent, but he had never fairly realised the fact till now.

"I'm very glad to meet you," said he, courteously, to George, "though I can hardly wish you as much success in your exam, as I dare say you wish yourself."

"I hope I shall not break my heart if I lose," replied George. "Are we the only two in for it?"

And then they fell to talking about their approaching struggle, during which I gave heed to a hurried talk between Charlie and Jim.

"Do you remember Tom Drift?" asked Jim.

Charlie's face at once became serious as he replied, "How could I forget him? What about him?"

"Why," said Jim, "I had a letter from my brother Joe the other day, and he says Tom has altogether gone to the bad. He met him drunk coming out of some slum in Holborn, and followed him for a long time in hopes of being able to speak to him, but the fellow couldn't, or wouldn't recognise him, and only swore. He is living at some disreputable lodging-house -- "

"Where?" exclaimed Charlie, excitedly.

"I don't know. Why! what's the matter?"

"Can you find out his address?" asked Charlie.

"I dare say. Why do you want it?"

"Because I must go and see him. Could you find out to-day by telegram?"

"I'll try." Presently he added, "I could never make out why you stuck to the fellow as you did, old man, especially when he turned against you. You're a better man than ever I shall be."

"Nonsense! I promised once to be his friend, that's all. Do send the telegram soon. And now tell me who's the pale man talking to Clarke?"

"A fellow called Reader -- one of the cleverest men we've got."

"He looks half-starved!"

"Yes; I'm afraid he's -- I mean, I don't think he takes proper care of himself."

"Pity," said Charlie. "I say, old man, this is rare steak! Give us a bit more. What time does the match begin?"

"At two. You old beggar! see if I don't pay off some old scores before the day's over."

"I thought you told me once your people didn't fancy your going in for athletics?"

"No more they do. I expect a stinger by this post; but I shall not open it till after the match. What matches we used to have at Randlebury!"

"Didn't we!"

"And do you remember what an ass you used to make of yourself over that precious silver watch of yours?"

It did one good to hear the laugh with which Charlie greeted this reminder.

"I'd give my repeater, and a ten-pound note besides, to get back that old watch," said he. (If he had but known!) "But there's no knowing where it is now; poor Tom Drift must have parted with it years ago."

With such talk the meal proceeded, and presently the conversation grew more general, and branched out on to all sorts of topics. George, having got over the first strangeness of finding himself in society, found it not so bad after all; and, indeed, he very soon amazed himself by the amount he talked. It was a new world to him, the hermit of the "Mouse-trap," to find himself exchanging ideas with men of his own intellectual standing; and he certainly forgave Jim his persistency in compelling his company this morning. He forgot the patches in his clothes among such gentlemen as Clarke and Charlie, and for the first time in his life felt himself superior to his natural diffidence and reserve. Who could help being at his ease where Charlie was? He kept up a running fire of chaff at his old schoolfellow, for which occasionally the others came in; and if it be true that laughter is a good digestive, Jim Halliday's breakfast that morning must have agreed with the five who partook of it.

"Who's this coming?" suddenly exclaimed the latter, as there came a sound of footsteps slowly ascending the stairs.

"Two of them!" said Charlie. "Perhaps it's your tailor and your hatter with their little bills."

"Whoever it is, they're blowing hard," said Clarke.

"They don't enjoy my 'Gradus at Parnassum,'" said Jim. "Come in, all of you!" he shouted.

The door opened slowly, and there appeared to the astonished eyes of Jim and his party a grave middle-aged gentleman and still more grave and middle-aged lady.

"Oh, my prophetic soul! my uncle and aunt!" groaned Jim.



Chapter Twenty Three.

How Jim's Uncle And Aunt Spent A Different Sort Of Day From That Which They Had Expected.

The apparition was indeed none other than Jim Halliday's dreaded uncle and aunt, and the object of their visit was easy to guess. They had, in fact, taken the long journey from Cornwall as fast as express trains could bring them, in order to remonstrate personally with their depraved nephew on the error of his ways.

They were evidently as astonished to find Jim's room full of visitors, as Jim on his part was to see them, and they looked so taken aback and disconcerted that the party at once rose, and offered to take their leave. Clarke and his friend actually did depart, but Jim still had presence of mind enough left to groan out an entreaty to Charlie and my master that they would remain -- an appeal so pathetic that there was no resisting it.

Charlie politely handed the good people to chairs, while Jim, under cover of preparing a second edition of breakfast, hastily arranged his plan of defence.

"Reader," he whispered to my master, "whatever you do, keep the talk going, old man, or it's all U P." Then turning to his relatives, he broke out, -- 

"This is a surprise! How are you both? Upon my word, you're looking grandly. How kind to come and see me up here! Will you allow me to introduce my two friends, Ensign Newcome and Mr Reader? My uncle and aunt, gentlemen."

The uncle and aunt bowed gravely, and in a frightened sort of way, in acknowledgment of the courteous greeting of the two young men. It was clear they had expected to find Jim alone, and over a quiet cup of cocoa to reduce him to a sense of his wickedness. It put them out of their reckoning, quite, to find that, if they were to open fire at once, it would have to be in the presence of these two gentlemanly and rather imposing strangers. However, they were too full of their mission to delay, and so the uncle began, -- 

"It will be as well, James, that I should state to you -- "

"Not a word now, till you've had some breakfast," interrupted the wary Jim. "My poor dear aunt must be simply fagged to death. Do take your bonnet off, and come and sit here in the easy-chair. Let me make you some cocoa; I know the way you take it, exactly. Try those chops in front of you, sir, they are prime, as Charlie will tell you. Reader, old man, draw in and keep us company. Well, I declare, this is a jolly family party! And what's the news down in your part of the world? Have you had a good harvest? My uncle comes from Cornwall, Charlie."

And he gave his friend a lugubrious wink, as much as to say, "Keep it up."

"Do you live near the sea?" thereupon began Charlie.

"Pretty near, that is, about twenty miles off," said the uncle, looking at Charlie under his spectacles.

"My love, the gentleman will laugh at you," said his good lady. "I call twenty miles a long way."

"I perfectly agree with you, ma'am," said Charlie, "Twenty miles is a good distance in this little island of ours. But it's curious how little they make of such a distance in a big country like India, for instance, where I am going. There, I am told, it is quite a common thing for a man to be twenty miles from his next-door neighbour, and yet be on constant visiting terms."

"Dear me!" said the uncle.

"You don't know India, I suppose, sir?" inquired Charlie.

"No; that is -- "

"He's only read about it in books," again put in the aunt; "and so, my love, you'd better say at once you don't know anything about it."

"Well," said Charlie, "it depends a good deal on the books. Some books of travel are so vivid one almost seems to be in the country they describe.

"Er -- what did you say, Reader?"

Reader was quick enough to take this broad hint, and keep up the talk.

"To my mind, the most interesting books are those which describe, not so much places, as people and their manners. There are a great many books of this kind about India. One I lately read was specially interesting."

And then, to Jim's unbounded delight and gratitude, George began calmly to give a review a quarter of an hour long of the work in question for the benefit of the two old people, who, as they listened, became more and more impressed with the importance of their nephew's friend, and of the impossibility of obtruding their special grievance on the party at the present time. Indeed, the aunt had almost forgotten the speech with which she had come prepared, in her pleasure at hearing the young men talk, and she even joined in the conversation in a manner which showed how she enjoyed it. The uncle was still gloomy, and appeared to be waiting the first favourable opportunity for "coming to the point."

The opportunity, however, never occurred. After a long and lively talk on all sorts of matters, Jim adroitly turned the conversation on to the subject of athletics by appealing to his uncle to add his voice to that of Reader's other friends in rebuking him for never taking any exercise.

"Look at his pale face!" he exclaimed; "isn't it a disgrace?"

George bore this attack good-naturedly, and began to excuse himself; but the uncle, who had not before noticed his looks, interrupted him by saying, -- 

"Pardon me, sir, but I quite agree with James. If is very wrong to cultivate the brain at the expense of the body."

This observation brought down Charlie's hearty approval, who forthwith launched into a rhapsody on athletic sports -- particularly football --  appealing in every sentence to the uncle, who now found himself fairly in the toils.

"If it were for nothing more than the moral training it gives a man," said Charlie -- "for the pluck, manliness, and endurance it puts into him -- we couldn't over-estimate the value of athletics; could we, sir?"

"No -- er -- that is to say -- "

"Why, look at Jim, here! Upon my word, sir, if you'll excuse me saying it, it does you the greatest credit the way he has been brought up to value healthy exercise. Why, there are some parents and guardians who, instead of encouraging that sort of thing, would positively so far wrong their sons as to forbid it. I can't make out that sort of training, can you?"

"Eh? Well, possibly not," faltered the uncle, turning very red.

"Of course not, and you'll have your reward in seeing Jim turn out a far better clergyman than your mollycoddles, who don't know the way to look their fellow-men straight in the face. Jim, old man, you've had my cup up there ten minutes; hand it up."

Jim filled it to overflowing, as a token, perhaps, of the gratitude of his heart towards his champion, and forthwith handed it up.

"And a propos of that," pursued Charlie, having gulped down his coffee, "you are just come up here in the nick of time, for there's a glorious football-match on to-day -- "

The uncle groaned and the aunt fidgeted.

"In which Jim is playing, and no one deserves the honour better. You must come and see it by all means. Eh, Jim?"

"Rather," said Jim; "it would never do to miss it, especially as Newcome is playing against us. The worst of it is, as we are both engaged, there will be no one to pilot you about."

"I shall be very glad," said Reader -- though, if truth must be told, his politeness cost him an effort -- "if your uncle and aunt will let me. I'm almost as great a stranger, though, in the town as they are."

"You are very kind, sir," said Jim's aunt, who had been long since gained over by the enemy. "We shall be most pleased to have your escort. Eh, my love? Besides, we shall help to keep you out in the fresh air for once. But, James," she said, "I can't get over you and Mr Newcome being opponents in this match and yet such friends."

Every one laughed at this, and Charlie confided to the good lady his fixed determination of breaking her nephew's legs before the day was out -- a purpose which, from the speaker's point of view, she could not help admitting was a laudable one.

Thus the breakfast ended very satisfactorily for everyone except the uncle, who had at last discovered the trap into which he had let himself fall, from which, however, he could not with grace free himself.

Three hours later the two worthies, having seen many of the sights of Cambridge with the advantage of Reader's escort, found themselves with some hundreds of other spectators on the field in which the notable football-match of Cambridge versus Sandhurst was immediately about to begin.

Jim Halliday's uncle and aunt could hardly have denied that the thirty young men, half of them in blue jerseys and half in red, who were now strolling out onto the ground, were as fine a body of youths as one could easily encounter in the course of a long day's march. The picture of health and physique, they seemed almost like some of those heroes of old beside whom poor everyday man was wont to shrink into insignificance. Among the blues towered Jim, among the reds Charlie, two by no means the least noble-looking of the company.

"How well James looks in that dress, my love!" said the aunt.

"My love" could hardly dispute the fact, so he said nothing; but in his secret heart he began to doubt whether he had not taken an exaggerated view of the demoralising nature of athletic sports.

Play was soon ordered, and then amidst breathless silence the ball shot upward, propelled by the vigorous kick of the Sandhurst captain.

It is not my purpose to follow in all its details the famous match of which I was that day spectator. My muse has other things to sing of besides rallies and charges, scrimmages and drop kicks, touch-downs and passings. To me the game was chiefly interesting as it was interesting to Jim Halliday and Charlie Newcome; but as during the first part of the match both these worthies were what they would call "out of it" -- that is, on outpost duty -- I found the company I was in better worth studying than the ups and downs of the football.

When the game first began the two good people gazed in silent astonishment. It always takes some time to understand the humour of a football-match from outside, and Jim's uncle and aunt consequently for a time could make nothing out of the constant succession of charges and scrimmages of which they were witnesses. Presently, however, with the aid of their own observation and the remarks of people around them, they came to appreciate the sport better, and grew proportionately interested. After a time the interest grew to excitement and excitement found relief in speech.

"There's that little red-haired fellow got it again!" exclaimed the aunt; "see how he runs!"

"Wait a bit!" cried the uncle; "that fellow there will catch him -- no, he hasn't -- just look at him; there's smartness for you! Ah! he's down!"

"But another of the blues has got the ball!" cried the aunt, starting on tiptoe. "Well, to be sure! five onto one! what a shame!"

And so they kept up a running commentary on the fortunes of the game, much to George's amusement and that of those near us. Now and then the uncle appeared suddenly to recollect himself, and would come out with a grunt of disapproval. Once, for instance, when by a sort of common impulse the whole of the players engaged in one of the scrimmages fell to the ground, he was hardy enough to ejaculate -- 

"Disgraceful!"

"Hold your tongue, my love," broke in his wife; "you know very well you'd like to be in it yourself if you were a boy. I would!"

After that the uncle, whatever he thought, said nothing.

The sides appeared to be very evenly matched; so much so, that when "half-time" was called neither had gained the least advantage.

Just as the sides were changing over, preparing to renew the contest, a man came running up to where our party stood and called out, -- 

"Will anyone lend me a watch? Mine has stopped." This man was the timekeeper for Cambridge, and indeed was no other than Clarke's friend, one of the breakfast-party that morning.

"Here is one!" cried George, recognising him and unfastening me from his ribbon-chain. The next moment I was hurrying towards the goals in my borrower's hands.

I had now nothing for it but to attend closely to the game, for the old gentleman and lady were too far away for me to be able to observe them any further.

The ball was started again, and I had the satisfaction of seeing that both Jim and Charlie were in new posts, which promised a better chance of sport.

And so it happened.

Hardly had the first scrimmage been formed when Jim was seen slipping out of it with the ball under his arm, making straight for the Sandhurst goal. He was quickly stopped, however, and after a desperate encounter the ball got free and rolled out of the crush towards where Charlie stood.

He, not waiting to pick it up, went at it with a flying kick. Up flew the ball, amid cheers and shouts, right over the heads of the players, and had it not been for the promptitude of the Cambridge "backs" it might have got behind their goal. And now, as if every one knew the time was getting short, the play became harder than ever. Many a time did I catch sight of my two Randlebury friends in the thick of the fight, sometimes hand to hand, sometimes separated by a living wall of humanity, but always doing their work, and straining for the one object. The time went on. The man who held me looked at me now oftener than he had done hitherto; and presently, when I pointed to five minutes to four, he cried out to a player near him, "Five minutes more."

That player was Charlie Newcome, and I saw his face flush as of old, and knew he at any rate intended to make the most of the brief time remaining.

But two of the minutes were gone before his chance came. Then there was a cry, and all eyes turned towards him, for there came the ball flying straight to where he stood. In a moment he had it, and started to run. It was a desperate chance, but Charlie was ready for desperate deeds. Shout rose on shout, and cheer on cheer, as first one, then another of the enemy was overturned or dodged. The more he achieved, the less his enemies ventured against him, and he dashed through their "forwards" and between their "quarter-backs." Next moment, with a mighty swoop, their "half-back" fell to the earth.

And now there are but two men to pass, and one of these is Jim Halliday. The avenging host follows in hot haste behind, but the issue of the fight lies with these two. See the grin of joy on Jim's face as he throws away his cap, and watches his dear enemy advance! It was as if a trumpet-call had suddenly sounded in the ears of two old chargers, and to them that moment the world was all contained in the space which severed them. Straight as an arrow rushed Charlie, firm as a rock waited Jim. Nor had he long to wait. With a bound and a howl his enemy leapt at him, and next moment the two were locked in an embrace the shock of which even I could distinctly hear. Oh, shades of Randlebury I did your school every turn out two finer men than this pair of struggling, straining, rival friends! The collision occurred close to the goal-line, and a moment afterwards a cry of "Maul!" proclaimed that they had in their struggle crossed the line, and that consequently (in accordance with the law of the game) the contest for the ball must be decided by these two alone, without aid or hindrance from the breathless friends and foes who stood round. A fair field and no favour! A ring was formed, and as my heart beat rapidly on towards the critical moment, these two strained every nerve to get the advantage for his side before "time" should be called.

"Bravo, our man!" cried one. "Stick to it, Newcome!" shouted others. "Now you have it, Halliday!" called out a third. Never was duel before the walls of Troy more desperate. The crowd burst in onto the field and thronged round, foremost among whom Jim's aunt's voice was heard crying out shrilly, -- 

"Well, I never, it's James and Mr Newcome, my love. How hot they are!"

It was evident the contest in which the two youths were engaged was one not destined to end before time was up. I pointed to within half a minute of the fated hour -- and it would take far longer than that for even so powerful a champion as Jim to wrest the ball from Charlie's defiant grasp. The timekeeper turned away from the rivals and held me up. On went my hand, and on went the struggle.

"Now, Newcome; one tug more?"

"Bravo, our man! You'll do it yet!"

"Time's up! No side!"

Then rose those two from the earth, and immediately the astonished Jim felt himself embraced before the whole multitude by his aunt.

"Well, James, and how do you feel after it all?"

"Hungry," replied Jim.

So ended the famous match. After that Jim had no more trouble from his uncle and aunt on the subject of athletics, which they were fain to admit were a branch of science beyond their comprehension.

Charlie started that same night for London, with the intention of making one more effort to help Tom Drift at all hazards. I, meanwhile, was restored to the possession of my lawful owner, who returned to his studies in the "Mouse-trap"; sitting up all night, I am sorry to say, to make up for the loss of the day.



Chapter Twenty Four.

How George Reader Went Up For His Final Examination And Left Me Behind Him.

"Old man, you're overdoing it!"

These words were uttered by Jim Halliday, one evening two years after the events related in our last chapter, to his friend George Reader, as the two sat together in Jim's rooms at Saint George's.

Time had wrought changes with both. My master had secured the scholarship for which he had worked so hard during his first year's residence, and no longer inhabited the "Mouse-trap." His present quarters were the rooms immediately above those in which he was at this moment sitting, and it is hardly necessary to say that the two friends were constantly in one another's society. George, though still retaining much of his shyness, had made many acquaintances at his college, but Jim was his only friend. The two had their meals together, attended lectures together, worked together, and, though a greater contrast in all respects could hardly have been possible, were fairly inseparable.

At the present moment they were both working hard for the grand Tripos examination which was to close their college career. Every one said George would stand high in this, and Jim (since he had taken to hard reading) was expected to pass too, though how, none of his friends cared to prophesy.

They were working hard on the evening in question, when Jim, suddenly shutting up his books and pushing back his chair, exclaimed, -- 

"Old man, you're overdoing it!"

George looked up from his work, surprised at the interruption. Alas! his pale face and sunken eyes testified only too forcibly to his friend's protest. I, who knew him best, and saw him at all times, had watched with grief the steady and persistent undermining of his health, at no times robust, and dreaded to think what might be the result of this protracted strain on his constitution.

"I tell you, you're overdoing it, old man, and you must pull up!"

"Suppose we talk of that afterwards," said George.

"Not at all," retorted the dogged Jim; "just shut up your books, Reader, and listen to me."

"I'll listen to you, Jim, but don't make me shut up my books. What have you got to say?"

"Just this; you're doing too much. I can see it. Everybody can see it. Do you think I can't see your eyes and your cheeks? Do you think I can't hear you blowing like -- "

"Really -- " began George.

"Listen to me!" went on Jim -- "blowing like an old broken-winded horse? Yes, you may laugh, but I mean it. Do you think I don't know you've never been out of doors ten minutes that you could help for six months? and that you have even given up the organ?"

"That's true," groaned George, leaning back in his chair.

"Of course it's true, and it's equally true that you'll smash up altogether if this goes on much longer. Then what will be the use of all your achievements? What will be the good of them to your father and mother, for instance, when you are knocked up?"

"I must work up to the Tripos now," pleaded George, "it's only a fortnight."

"My dear fellow, how you talk! As if you weren't certain of a first class even if you were not to look at another book between now and then."

"I'm not at all certain," said George, anxiously.

"Yes you are, and if you hadn't worked yourself into an unhealthy, morbid state you would know it. No, old fellow, we've never quarrelled yet, and don't let us begin."

"Certainly not. Why should we?"

"We shall if I don't get my way. Now tell me, what time did you go to bed last night?"

"Three, I believe."

"No, it wasn't, it was four, for I heard you over head; and the night before it was three; and the night before that, if I mistake not, you didn't go to bed at all. Eh?"

George smiled, but said nothing.

"Well," said Jim, putting down his foot, "this must be stopped. You may work till ten every night, but then you must go to bed, or you and I will fall out."

Jim looked so grave as he said this that George was bound to take it in the earnest way in which it was meant. A long argument ensued. George pleaded, Jim bullied, and at last my master was obliged to promise to give over work at twelve every night for the next fortnight. But more he would not promise. No persuasions could tempt him out of doors for more than a hurried five minutes' walk, or induce him to yield to the fascinations of the organ. As the days went on, too, he grew more and more despondent about his own chances, and implored more than once to be released from his promise. But Jim was inflexible, and held him grimly to his engagement.

"You're certain to be among the first three," he said, over and over again, "and if you'll only give yourself two days' rest you may be first."

"Yes, of the third class," mournfully replied my master. "I tell you what, Jim, it isn't fair to bind me down to a promise I made almost under compulsion, and for fear of making you angry."

"It's quite fair, and you would make me angry if you didn't stick to it. Why, my dear fellow, has it ever occurred to you I'm in for the same Tripos as you, and I'm not behaving as ridiculously as you?"

"You are safe to be in the second class," said George.

"I wish I were as safe of a second as you are of a first; but I wouldn't kill myself to be senior classic."

"You forget how important it is for me to take a good place."

"It is far more important to retain your health."

"Think what a difference it would make at home if I got a fellowship."

"What a difference it would make if you had to go to a hospital."

"What a pity, when I have the chance, not to use it."

"What a pity, when you have the chance, to throw it away by knocking yourself up."

"Surely four days can't make any difference."

"Then why not stop work now and take a rest?"

It was plain to see these two would never agree, and so the time went on until the date of the examination arrived.

The night before the two friends met in George's room. George was in low spirits, nervous and fretful. It was plain to see his friend's protest had come too late to be of much use, for he had grown more and more worn every day; and the additional hours spent in bed had only been a source of worry and vexation. Jim, on the other hand, was doing his best to keep up, not his own spirits only, but those of his friend. His chances of a second class were as momentous to him (though he would not admit it) as his friend's of a first, and he too was experiencing, though in a less degree, that heart-sinking which so often characterises the eve of an examination.

"You are not going to work to-night?" said he to my master.

"I think I must," said George, wearily, and putting his hand to his forehead.

"It can't be any earthly good now," said Jim, "so let's forget all about it for a bit and talk of something else."

Forget all about it! George smiled in a melancholy way at the words; but nevertheless he was not well enough to contest the point. "And by the way," added Jim, cheerily, "I've got a letter from Newcome (you remember Newcome, George, the man who played for Sandhurst against us two years ago) I think you'll like to hear."

There was one in the room, whether George liked it or not, who was dying to hear it!

"He's just gone out to India, you know, to join his regiment."

"Here's his letter," he said, producing it and nervously glancing at George to see if he appeared interested. "Shall I read it?"

"Yes, please," said George, slowly.

"It's not a long one. 'Dear Jim,' he says, 'I wish you were out here with all my heart. I should at least have one fellow to talk to among all these strangers. I had a decent enough passage. Father Ocean was on his good behaviour, and the vessel was a snug one. We came in for rough weather in the Persian Gulf, but it didn't afflict me much, and I landed here two days ago, safe and sound. I reported myself to our colonel yesterday and was introduced to my fellow-officers. Some of them are decent fellows, though perhaps hardly in your and my line. I had been told the officers of our regiment were a rackety lot, but I don't see much sign of that yet. It's awfully dull here, and I would give a lot to be up in your rooms at George's, sprawling in your easy - chair and talking over Randlebury days. I suppose you will soon be in for your final. Good luck be with you, my boy! Remember me in your will if you get made a Fellow. I suppose the man I met in your rooms once -- Read I believe his name was -- will be first. Talking of that day, have you heard lately of Tom Drift? I shall always be glad I went up to town that night and found him out, though I lost him again so soon. I inquired everywhere when I was last in town, but nothing was known of him, except that he was supposed to have been engaged in some -- ' But that's all about an old schoolfellow and won't interest you. 'We expect to be ordered up-country pretty soon now, and meanwhile have liberty to amuse ourselves pretty much as we like, but, as far as I can see, cards unfortunately seem the only recreation in which the officers indulge. However, I shall be kept busy with drill, and being junior officer expect I shall be for some time fag of the regiment. Mind you write as soon as ever you get this, and a regular yarn. I have had to write this in a hurry, and in a room where a noise is going on. By next mail you shall get a full, true, and particular account of all the doings, sayings, and adventures of yours as ever, C.N.'

"I'm afraid," said Jim, as he folded up the letter, "it will be rather dull out there, for -- hullo!"

This ejaculation was caused by seeing that George was sitting motionless with his elbows on the table and his face buried in his hands.

"What's the matter?" he said, getting up and laying his hand on his friend's arm.

George looked up suddenly with a scared face, which frightened Jim.

"Old man, aren't you well?" said the latter anxiously.

"Eh? -- oh, yes! I'm all right. Why -- why do you ask? But I say, Jim, this room is close. Let's go out and take a turn in the big court."

Jim, in sore perplexity, complied, and for an hour those two paced the flags round the great quadrangle. George was himself again, much to Jim's relief, and suffered himself to be sent uncomplainingly to bed at ten. To bed, but not to sleep. All night long I heard him toss to and fro, vainly endeavouring to recall Greek and Latin lines or some other fragment of his studies. At about six he dozed fitfully for an hour, and then came the knock at the door which summoned him from his bed to the first day of his ordeal.

I would rather not dwell on those examination days, for I could tell, if no one else could, that my master was really ill, and was only prevented by sheer excitement from succumbing at any moment. As day by day passed I could see the effort becoming more and more difficult. The nights were worse than the days -- sleepless, feverish, distracted. It was evident this could not go on for long.

The last day of the examination arrived, and my master was in his usual place in the Senate House. His pen flew swiftly all the morning along the paper, and one by one, a triumphant tick was set against the printed questions before him. I could see no one as well employed as he. Jim, at a distant desk, was biting the end of his pen and looking up at the ceiling; other men sat back in their seats and stared with knitted brows at the paper before them; others buried their fingers in their hair and looked the picture of despair. But still my master wrote on. It wanted half an hour to the time of closing when he reached the last question on the paper. I saw his lips curl into a smile as he dashed his pen into the ink and began to write. Then suddenly it dropped from his fingers, and his hands were clasped to his forehead. He made no motion and uttered no cry; men went on with their work on each side of him, and professors at their desks never turned his way. I looked wildly towards Jim; he sat there, biting the end of his pen and scowling at the question before him, but for a long time never looked our way. At last his head turned, and in an instant he was at his friend's side. Others came round too and offered help. Among them my poor master was borne from the hall and carried to his rooms, and that evening it was known all over the University that Reader, of George's, had been taken ill during the Tripos examination, and now lay delirious in his rooms in college.

Every one believed the attack was but a slight one, but I feared the worst; I knew how systematically and fatally my master's constitution had been undermined by the work of the last three years, and felt sure it could never rally from the fierce fever which had laid him low. And it never did. The fever left him in due time, and his mind ceased to wander, but every hour his strength failed him. His parents and Jim, and sometimes his old friend the rector, would constantly be about his bed, and to all of them it soon became evident what little hope there was of his recovery. Indeed, he must have guessed it too!

One day, as Jim sat with him, a faint shout was heard below in the quadrangle.

"What's that?" inquired George.

"I'll see," said Jim, and he went lightly from the room.

Presently he returned with a face almost beaming.

"It's good news," he said; "they were reading the result of the Tripos."

"And where are you?" asked George.

"You are first!" said Jim, proudly.

"Where are you?" repeated George.

"I am twelfth."

"In the first class?"

"Yes."

"That is good news, old fellow!"

"That shout was in your honour, you know; our college is as proud as anything to have the first man."

George smiled feebly, and for a long time both were silent.

Then George said, -- 

"You were right, Jim, after all. If I had listened to you I should have been wiser."

"Never mind, old man, you'll know better another time."

"I shall never have the chance, Jim."

"Don't say that, George; every one hopes you'll get better."

George smiled again, then said, -- 

"Jim, you will look after my father and mother, won't you? You know I've got a little money now, and they will be comfortably off, but you'll go and see them now and then?"

Jim laid his hand on the wasted hand of his friend.

"And, Jim, I want you to take my watch when I'm gone. I always valued it as much as anything, and I'd like you to have it."

Poor Jim could say nothing, he only gave another pressure of his friend's hand.

Then presently Mrs Reader returned to the room, and he slipped away.

The end was not long in coming. One afternoon as the four friends he loved most stood round his bed, George opened his eyes, and said, -- 

"Listen!"

"What is it, lad?" whispered the father.

"An organ -- somewhere -- open the window."

They opened the window, but the only music out there was the chirping of birds in the trees, and the distant footfalls of passers-by.

"Listen, there it is!" he said again.

"What is it playing?" asked the clergyman.

"A new tune."

And almost as he spoke the words, he closed his eyes for the last time on earth.



Chapter Twenty Five.

How I Fall Into The Hands Of An Old Friend.

Boys may imagine with what astonishment Jim Halliday discovered, on receiving the legacy bequeathed him by his dead friend, that I was the very watch which years before he had known so familiarly as the property of Charlie Newcome. At first he could not believe it, and marvelled how any two watches could be so much alike. Then he discovered the "C.N." scratched long ago inside, which he well remembered. And further inquiries enabling him to trace me back to the Muggerbridge silversmith, and from him to the pawnbroker's sale in London, he had no doubt left that I was actually the watch of which nothing had been heard since Tom Drift owned me.

My new master did not long remain in Cambridge after the death of his friend. He left the University in many respects a more thoughtful and earnest man than he had entered it, and in leaving it set himself honestly and faithfully to the work for which he had prepared, and on which his heart was fixed.

I shall not follow him through all the labours of his first village curacy, which lasted a year, during which time many people learned to love the manly, open-hearted young clergyman, and to bless the day when he had been sent among them.

At the end of a year he was removed to the charge of a church in a distant large seaport, where everything was in strangest contrast with the scenes he had just left. Instead of simple villagers and rustics, his work now lay amongst labourers and artisans of the poorest and lowest class. Instead of fresh country air he had now to breathe the vitiated air of close courts and ill-kept streets; and instead of an atmosphere of repose and innocence, he had now to move in an atmosphere of vice and disorder, from which very often his soul turned with a deep disgust. Still he worked manfully at his post with a bold heart, ready to face any hardship in the service of his Master, and never weary of striving by the Spirit's help to bring into the hard lives around him the elevating joys which they alone know who can call Christ the Saviour theirs. One day an adventure befell him which had a strange bearing on my own fortunes, and the fortunes of more than one of my several masters.

The gaol chaplain at Seatown had recently died, and during the interval necessary for appointing a successor Jim was asked and undertook to add to his other labours that of visiting the prisoners confined there. It was melancholy, and on the whole monotonous work, for the persons whom he thus attended, were mostly stupid, ignorant beings on whose hardened souls it was difficult indeed to make the slightest impression. They listened sulkily to what the chaplain had to say, but to all appearance neither understood nor cared about a single word, and he had the disappointment of noticing, week after week, and month after month, scarcely a sign of good rising out of his labours in the case of any one of them.

One day the governor met him as he was about to pay his customary visits.

"Oh, good-morning, sir. You'll find a new customer to-day."

The gaol governor, you will observe, spoke about his prisoners in a very commercial sort of way.

"Yes, and a queer one too," he added; "he doesn't look like one of our regular customers."

"What is he imprisoned for?"

"He was drunk, and quarrelled with a sailor on the quay, and pushed him into the water, I believe."

"Was the sailor drowned?"

"No, they fished him out, but this gentleman has got six months for it. He seems very down about it, so I'd like you to see him."

"All right; I will make a point of visiting his cell. Good-morning."

And Jim went on his round, thinking very little about the governor's communication.

Presently he came to the gallery in which the new prisoner's cell was, and asked the turnkey to show him the door.

"No use you a-going in there," muttered that functionary.

"Why?" asked Jim.

"He do swear so as I never hear a cove swear afore."

"Ah," said Jim, "and I suppose you've heard a good deal too in your time."

"So you may say, but this here young fellow comes out with it as if he'd skin you alive."

"Well, I must see him. Let me in, please."

When the door was opened the prisoner's back was turned, nor did he alter his position as Jim entered the cell.

There was undoubtedly something unusual about the man. His figure was not that of a labourer or a rough, nor was his attitude one of stolid brutishness, such as the chaplain had grown only too familiar with.

Jim stood a moment irresolute, and then said, -- 

"May I speak to you, friend?"

The man turned himself, and without raising his eyes from the stone floor, poured out a volley of curses which fully justified the turnkey's description.

Jim started, and uttered a quick exclamation. But it was not at the curses, terrible as they were. No, his amazement was of another kind altogether; for in the face and voice of this unhappy speaker he was forcibly reminded of one he once knew in very different scenes. As the man went on he watched him keenly and earnestly. He heeded not the oaths, or the taunts, or the threats which flowed from his lips; but as word followed word, and gesture gesture, and look look, he became gradually convinced that the resemblance was more than imaginary -- that, indeed, this blaspheming convict was one whom he had once known and still remembered.

Walking up to him, and laying his hand on his shoulder, Jim said, quietly, -- 

"Tom Drift, do you remember me?"

The man started as for an instant he raised his eyes. Then, letting them drop once more, he growled, -- 

"That's not my name; I don't know you. Let me alone!"

Jim, more convinced than ever, now did the wisest thing he could in leaving the cell without another word.

"Well," said the turnkey, with a half-triumphant grin, as they turned to leave the gallery, "wasn't I right? Didn't he give you half a dozen as pretty bits of language as you ever heard?"

"Do not speak to me about it, please," replied Jim, more tartly than he had been ever known to speak to any one.

He did not return to the gaol for a week; and then the first visit he paid was to the new prisoner's cell.

He entered it anxiously, and not without misgivings. Tom Drift was sitting on his little bench with his head in his hands.

"May I come in?" said Jim, nervously.

Tom neither spoke nor raised his head; and Jim quietly stepped in. It was evident the interview of a week ago had had its effect on Tom Drift. He seemed as he sat there like a man who would fain lose himself if he only knew how. He never once raised his head from his hands or uttered a syllable while Jim sat and talked to him. The latter knew better than to return to the topic which had so startled the prisoner a week ago, and contented himself with mere kindly talk and the reading of a short passage of Scripture. All this Tom suffered without interruption, stirring neither head nor foot all the time.

"Now, good-bye," said Jim, rising; "don't get to think you have no friends."

The man fidgeted impatiently, and next moment Jim was out in the gallery.

"What's that man's name?" he inquired of the turnkey.

"Dykes; and I tell you what, Mr Halliday, he -- "

"Open this door, please, my man," interrupted Jim, by way of cutting him short.

During the week which followed Jim was restless and out of spirits. He seemed unable to settle down to anything, and it was evident his heart was ill at ease -- why, it was easy to guess. He had found Tom Drift, and there was a chance of rescuing him. But how to do it? How to approach one who was ashamed of his own name, and who repelled with an oath every offer of help?

Long and earnestly did my master think over the matter. He also wrote a long letter to Charlie, telling him all, and promising to do all that could be done for the poor prodigal. During the days that intervened before his next visit, too, he made as careful and full inquiries about Tom as it was possible to do.

The poor fellow had come to Seatown a month before, and very shortly became a familiar loafer on the quays. No one knew where he came from or why he was in Seatown, unless indeed he expected to be able to conceal himself on some vessel going abroad. Jim found out the lodging - house where he he had lived, but was unable to hear anything there to throw light on what he had been doing, or whence he had come. One man said he had found him once down by the water's edge, looking as though he intended to throw himself in -- and the man who gave him drink at the public-house remembered him -- and the man whom he had assaulted -- but that was all.

Wretched enough was the picture it presented of a hopeless, friendless vagabond, weary of life, yet not daring to die, and finding his only solace in deeper degradation.

Tom was walking to and fro in his cell the next time Jim called. It was almost the first time I had been able to get a view of his face. And oh! how changed it was. Not merely that it looked pale and worn, with bloodshot eyes and hectic cheeks, but there was a scared despairing look there which fairly shocked me. Dissipation, and shame, and want, had all set their mark there. Alas! how soon may the likeness of God be degraded and defaced! He continued to walk to and fro as Jim sat down and began to read, but I could see he more than once darted a quick glance from under his clouded eyebrows at my master. I could tell by the beating of the latter's heart that he had made up his mind not to leave this morning without an effort to speak to Tom of old times, and I trembled for the result of his venture.

It seemed impossible to say a word while Tom continued to walk up and down his cell like a caged beast in his den, and Jim saw that every moment his opportunity was becoming less likely.

"Will you stand still and listen to me a moment?" he said at last.

Tom growled out an oath, and halted in front of him.

"Be quick," said he.

"I'm not going to preach," said Jim, "I want you to look at something."

"I want to look at nothing," muttered Tom, beginning to walk again.

"But you must, you shall look at it!" exclaimed Jim, starting at once to his feet.

Tom stopped short, suddenly, and turned upon him like a hunted animal. But Jim neither faltered nor quailed. He walked resolutely up to the poor fellow, and suddenly drawing me from his pocket, held me out towards him, saying, -- 

"Look at this, Tom Drift!"

Tom knew me at once, and I never saw a man change as he did that moment. The savage scowl vanished from his face, and a sudden pallor came to his hollow cheeks. A trembling seized him as he held out his hand to take me, and but for Jim's support he would hardly have remained standing. My master led him gently to the bench, and putting me into his hand, said, -- 

"I'll leave it with you till to-morrow, old fellow; good-bye."

I heard the key turn in the door behind him, and counted his retreating footsteps down the gallery, and then became fully conscious where and in whose charge I was.

And now an old familiar sound rang in my ears once more, "Be good to Tom Drift!" Long, long had I ceased to believe it possible that the chance of obeying my dear first master's request would ever again come to me; but here it was. I lay in the prodigal's trembling hands, and looked up into his troubled face, and heard his deep-drawn sigh, and felt that there was still something left for me to do.

No one disturbed Tom Drift and me that night, Jim had explained enough to the governor to gain permission for me to remain in the poor fellow's company till next day, and I need hardly say I never left his hand. Memories of better days, of noble friends, of broken vows, crowded in upon him as he sat bending over me that night.

Daylight faded, but still he never stirred; the governor made his nightly round, but he never took his eyes off me; and when it was too dark to see me he held me clasped between his hands as tenderly as if I had been a child.

I cannot, and would not if I could, describe all that passed through Tom Drift's soul that night. What struggles, what remorse, what penitence. Once he murmured Charlie Newcome's name, and once he whispered to himself, in the words of the parable he had so lately heard, "No more worthy, no more worthy!" Save for this he neither spoke nor moved, till an early streak of dawn shot through the grated window and fell upon us.

Then he turned and knelt, with me still clasped in his hands. And so that night, and with it the crisis of Tom Drift's life, was passed.

There was no more difficulty now for Jim Halliday. Tom even gave me up when he heard how I had come into my master's possession.

Then he asked about Charlie, and Jim told him all he knew. And so the weeks went on, and hope once more lit up Tom Drift's face. How could I help rejoicing in the share I had had in this blessed work of restoration?

Alas! how fleeting is this world's satisfaction!

A short time afterwards, only a week or so before the termination of Tom Drift's imprisonment, my master was returning home from the gaol, tired - out after his day's work. His way lay over a place half brickfield, half common, across which a narrow footpath went. We had got half way over when suddenly a dreadful sensation seized me. I was slipping through the bottom of my pocket! Though I had a watered ribbon attached to me my master always carried me loose in his waistcoat pocket, with never a suspicion of the hole that was there. But now that hole seemed suddenly to expand in order to let me through.

Lower and lower I slipped. I tried to scream, I endeavoured to attract my master's attention. But all in vain. He strode unconsciously on, never giving a thought to me or my peril. I held on as long as I could. Then I dropped. If only I could have fallen on his foot, or struck his knee as I descended! But no. I slid quietly down, scarcely grazing his trousers, and just out of the reach of his boot. For a moment I hoped wildly he would see me as I lay at his feet. Alas! he walked heedlessly on, leaving me on my back on the footpath, powerless to cry after him, and not daring to guess what would become of me.

In fact, reader, I was lost.



Chapter Twenty Six.

How I Was Unexpectedly Enlisted In A New Service, In Company With An Irishman.

The first thing I was conscious of, after partially recovering from the agony, mental and bodily, of my late accident, was a sharp tugging at my handle.

"Watch! I say, watch!" I heard a voice whisper, "what's to be done?" It was the watered ribbon.

"How should I know?" I growled; "if you had done your duty we should never have been here!"

One is always ready to blame somebody for everything that happens amiss.

"Oh, yes, I dare say," it replied; "if you hadn't poked your nose into that hole we should never have been here."

I did not like being thus talked to by a disreputable piece of watered ribbon, and so kept a dignified silence.

"What's to be done?" presently repeated my companion, giving me another rude tug at the collar.

"Hold your tongues, if we've nothing to say," was my curt reply.

"Oh, but I've a lot to say," went on this irrepressible chatterbox; "in the first place -- "

"Will you be silent?" said I, angrily; "isn't it bad enough to be down here, all through your carelessness?"

"But it's not through my carelessness; it was through the hole in the pocket you got down here."

"If you had half the sense of a -- "

"Of a nickel watch, let us say," said the watered ribbon, losing his temper; "and that would be precious little. Well?"

"If you had half the sense of a blade of grass, you would have been able to prevent it."

"But you see I hadn't half the sense of a blade of grass, or a quarter, or an eighth, or a sixteenth. If I had I should have known better than to lend my moral support to a good-for-nothing, tarnished, ill - regulated, mendacious piece of Britannia metal, that chooses to call itself a silver watch. Ha, ha! what do you think of that?"

What I thought of that this impudent ribbon was not destined then to hear; for there came at that moment a sound of approaching footsteps across the field, which made us both hold our breaths. Unless the comer, whoever he was, could get sight of us, he was sure to tread right on the top of us! Luckily the moon was out, and with her aid I made myself as bright as possible. The footsteps belonged to a youth, not, certainly, oppressed by melancholy, to judge by the tune he was whistling, or very infirm, to judge by the pace at which he advanced.

He came nearer and nearer, and in another step would have been upon me when suddenly both he and the whistling halted. He stooped, and, with an exclamation of surprise, picked me up.

"Man alive, an' it's a watch! Hout, boys! there's luck for yez!"

So saying he thrust me and the ribbon into a pocket crowded with all sorts of oddments, and walked on more rapidly than ever.

I was too bewildered at first by my narrow escape and the sudden change in my fortunes to pay much heed to my new quarters; but presently that everlasting ribbon jerked my neck roughly, and called out in a loud whisper, -- 

"I say, watch, he's an Irishman!"

"Oh!" said I, as briefly as I could.

"Yes, and there's a lucifer here tells me he's no better than he ought to be. What do you think of that?"

"I think you and he ought to understand one another, if that's the case," growled I, unable to resist the temptation of a sarcastic reply.

"Ho, ho! that's pretty good for you, watch. However, there are some folk who are not as good as they ought to be, let alone better."

After a brief pause he began once more.

"He's young; only eighteen, I'm told."

As no answer was necessary here, I vouchsafed none.

"And he's trying to get a job on some ship, there's a nice look-out! What a poor figure you'd cut if you went to sea!"

I could not stand this, probably because I knew it was true; so I turned my back, and in self-defence bade good evening to an old pocket-comb which lay near me.

"Whew! good evening! whew!" replied he. He had a curious way, this comb, of giving a sort of half-whistle, half-sigh, between every few words he spoke.

"I suppose you are an older resident here than I am?" I suggested, by way of making myself agreeable.

"No, I'm not, whew! I belong to the other pocket, whew! I don't know why I'm here, whew! but make yourself at home, whew!"

"I hear your master is going to sea," said I.

"Not at all, whew! Who told you that? whew! but I tell you what, whew -- "

"What?" I inquired.

At this moment our master stopped still in the middle of the road. I looked out and saw that he was standing face to face with a fine soldierly-looking fellow in uniform, who wore a cockade of ribbons on his shako.

"Good evening, my lad," said the soldier.

"Good evening, cap'n," said the youth.

"Not cap'n just yet," said the other, laughing; "call it sergeant."

"Well, sargint. Good evening to ye, sargint."

"I've been looking for you all day, that I have," said the sergeant.

"What, me!" said my new master, in astonishment.

"Well, I was told to look out for the finest young fellow in the place, and that's about the same thing."

The lad chuckled at this vastly, and then said, -- 

"And what might ye be wanting me for, gineral, at all at all?"

"Faith, Patrick," said the sergeant, adopting the Irish brogue as if he had been a native, "to give yez a message from the Quane, just."

"The Quane!" shouted the Irishman.

"Sure, no other. She wants your help, my lad."

"And she shall have it, bless her! What can I do at all?"

"Arrah, she wants yez to foight a blackguard or two that's guv' her impidence."

"They have! I'm yer boy for a shindy. Where are they, colonel?"

"Not far off. And, by the way, she sent ye this bran new shillin' with her best respex to ye, Pat; and sez I'm to axe ye what you'll take to drink her health in; so come along, my lad."

Patrick did come along, and of course was duly and willingly enlisted by his new friend, who promised him honour, and glory, and riches enough to make a commander-in-chief's mouth water.

My new master, perhaps, was fond of making himself out a greater simpleton than he really was. At any rate, he appeared to believe every word the recruiting officer told him. And having no friends to say good-bye to, and no luggage to pack up, and no money (unless he pawned me) to spend, he was ready for marching orders immediately. To my surprise, he showed no desire now to dispose of me.

"What 'ud I want to give him up?" he said to himself as he held me in his hand. "Shure he'll be handy to tell the toime by on the faylde of battle." And with this satisfactory assurance he put me back in his pocket, which, greatly to my relief, was not the one which contained that asthmatic pocket-comb.

Patrick had not to leave for his depot till next day, and took a long stroll through the streets of Seatown along with the recruiting officer this evening. He was in high spirits and very proud of being a soldier, so the sergeant had very little difficulty in keeping him in good humour. Indeed, he stood that officer in good stead once; for encountering a compatriot acquaintance, a likely sort of fellow too, he helped her Majesty's army to a fine recruit.

"Here, Larry, ye blackguard," called he, "here's a gentman axing for yez."

Larry, a hulking sheepish young Irishman, did not look particularly happy at this information, and replied, -- 

"And what's to prevent him axing?"

"Man dear, and is that the way ye address one of the Quane's foighting men? Spake to him, meejor dear."

The "dear meejor" at this point took up the discourse.

"Faith," he said, "till I saw Patrick here I thought there wasn't a single boy in the place smart enough to wear a red coat, but I see there's two of ye anyhow."

And the sergeant laughed loud and clapped Larry on the back, and told him it was a shame for him to be walking about in boots full of holes, when he might be strutting up and down as fine as any gentleman in the place, to say nothing of regular pay and quarters, and all the chance of glory. And Patrick added his persuasions, and quoted his own example as a great argument. And between them Larry let the shilling drop into his hand, and the three went off to drink her Majesty's health, and then continued their pilgrimage through the streets.

At one street corner there was a rush of people, reading a newly-posted bill. Fancy my astonishment as I read: -- "£20 reward! Lost yesterday (February 4th), near Seatown Gaol, an old silver watch, of very little value to any one but the owner. A piece of black ribbon was attached. Any one bringing the above to the Reverend James Halliday, at 2, Quay Street, will receive £20 reward."

How my heart beat as our party halted in front of this announcement. Alas! my new master was not a scholar, and on satisfying himself the object of the people's assembling was not a fight, he took no further interest in the matter, but shouldered his way past with no more thought of me just at that moment than of the North Pole.

That night, as I lay in the dark in my new quarters, I had leisure to think over the strange turn which my fortune had taken. Here I was in a town where three of those whom at some time or other I had called master were living. One was a common prisoner, one a hard-working curate, and one a raw recruit. Of my other masters, one was a London thief, one lay in his grave, and the other, and best loved of all, was far away in scenes and perils which I could not so much as picture to myself. What would become of me? I knew not; but I could not help feeling the best part of my life was spent, for who could be to me again what some of those whom I now remembered had been?

I had arrived thus far in my meditations when I all of a sudden turned faint. I knew what the matter was at once, and what did this lump of an Irishman understand about watch-keys and winding up?

I called faintly to the watered ribbon -- 

"I'm running down!"

"Down where?" ejaculated he, in well-feigned alarm.

"Wretch!" gasped I, "somebody ought to wind me up."

"Up where?" again asked my unsympathetic tormentor.

"Brute!" was all I could say.

"That's just the way with you clever people," began the ribbon; "as long as you are all right no name's bad enough for poor people like us; but as soon as ever you get into trouble -- "

Here with a groan I ran down, and was spared the end of his speech.

I only had a vague, dim idea of what took place for the next few months. I was conscious of long railway journeys, and arriving at a big, dreary-looking sort of prison where there was nothing but soldiers.

All day long the place rang with bugle notes and words of command; and all night my master slept in a great room with a lot of noisy men, of whom I have an impression he was not the most silent. In due time he put a coat over the waistcoat in which I lived, and was mightily proud the first time he walked abroad in his new dress. And so things went on for nearly a year.

But one day it was evident some great excitement had come to vary the monotony of our barrack life. Officers talked in clusters instead of drilling their men, and the men instead of doing their ordinary work crowded into the long shed to talk over the news.

And it soon came out what the news was. The regiment had been ordered to hold itself in readiness for immediate service at the seat of war in India! What excitement there was! What cheers and exultation! What spirits the men were in, and what friends every one became all of a sudden with everybody else! Among the rest my young master's blood rose within him at the thought of fighting. He had grown sick of the dull routine of barrack life, and more than once half repented his easy acceptance of the Queen's shilling, but now he thought of nothing but the wars, and his spirits rose so high that the sergeant on duty had to promise him an arrest before he could be reduced to order.

At night the room where we slept was a perfect Babel. Men talked of nothing but the voyage and the campaign that was to follow, and wished the marching orders had been for to-morrow instead of next week.

Suddenly (and I don't exactly know why) my master remembered my existence, and I heard him call out, -- 

"Does any of you boys know anything about a watch, at all?"

"Duck Downie does," replied one or two voices.

"Duck Downie, me jewil, will ye step this way just?" called out my master, "and cast your eye on my watch?"

The gentleman rejoicing in the name of Duck Downie was a ferocious - looking little fellow who had, before he decided to devote his energies to the extermination of her Majesty's foes, been a watchmaker's apprentice. He came, forward at the invitation, and cast his eye in the direction indicated. It was evidently the first time he had known that Paddy so much as owned a watch; for he stared hard at me, and then said with a knowing wink, -- 

"Did he struggle much?"

"Faith and he did a wee bit, Duck, but so did I too, ye see," said Paddy, entering into the joke.

"Let's have a look at him," said Duck, taking me and stripping the coat off my back. "Give us the key."

"The kay!" said Paddy, whose notions of a watch's interior were delightfully vague; "sure there's no kay. Here, Edward I will ye lend Mister Downie a kay!"

The youth addressed as Edward fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the key of his locker, which he handed to my master.

"That's the boy! Here's a kay, Duck darlint, since ye want one."

Duck was rude enough to laugh immoderately at this -- so much so, that my master, who was unconscious of a joke, grew quite angry.

"Ef that's all ye can do -- gape like an ould money-box -- I can do that as well myself; so hand up the watch!"

Duck Downie laughed again at this, and then said, -- 

"I want the key of the watch, puddin'-head, not this thing!"

"Arrah, it's got no kay, I tell ye. What ud it want a kay for?"

Duck laughed again at this.

"Paddy," said he, "next time you borrow a gentleman's watch be sure you ask 'im for the key, do you hear? You want the key to wind the thing up -- that's why he don't go."

Paddy, who had sense enough to see that Mr Downie knew more about a watch than he did, held his peace, and took no trouble to refute the imputation on the way in which he had come by me.

Duck Downie having, with some difficulty, borrowed a watch-key, wound me up, greatly to my delight and that of my master. It was delicious to feel the blood tingling through my veins once more, and to have my heart beat again with renewed animation. My master's glee was only equalled by his astonishment. He looked at first as if he suspected Duck Downie of being in league with supernatural powers; but when that eminent mechanic took the trouble to explain to him the value of the operation he had just performed on me, Paddy without a word rushed out, at the risk of all sorts of penalties, into the town, and knew no peace till he had possessed himself of a "kay," which henceforth became the inseparable companion of me and the watered ribbon.



Chapter Twenty Seven.

How I Made A Long Journey, And Reached The Happiest Moment Of My Life.

One morning, in the autumn of the same year, a small cluster of men standing on the deck of the troopship "Lizard," as she tumbled lazily forward over the waves, descried in the far horizon before them a dim low line of blue. My master was one of this cluster, and having recovered from the depression which had afflicted both his spirits and his stomach during the early part of the voyage, now celebrated the "discovery of India" with a cry so outlandish, and other manifestations of joy so extravagant (one of which was pitching one of the sergeants' caps overboard) that he was instantly summoned before the officer in command, and ordered to remain below for the next twelve hours. This was, I need hardly say, a disappointment to both of us.

All day long we heard overhead the crowding of footsteps, the clanking of chains, and the banging about of baggage. The men were paraded on deck and one or two servants down where we were were very busy polishing the officers' swords. Altogether it looked as if we were not intended to remain an hour longer in Bombay than was necessary before marching to the front. Indeed, the arrival of a newspaper on board, along with the pilot, created such a ferment among the officers and men that it was evident something unusual had happened since we last heard the news.

When, towards evening, my master was allowed once more to come on deck, we were not long in discovering the cause of all this.

The Indian Mutiny, which had just broken out when we left England, had suddenly assumed enormous and hideous dimensions. The rebels, taking advantage of their first success, seemed to have gone mad with a most cruel madness. Helpless Englishwomen and children had been massacred and outraged; gallant Englishmen, overpowered by numbers, had been put to shameful deaths. One by one our strongholds had been surprised and captured; and, carrying all before them, the traitors bade fair to leave England not so much as a foothold in India.

This was enough to make the blood of the tamest among us boil with indignation, and, as the dreadful truth, bit by bit, dawned on our gallant fellows, their impatience became almost beyond control. My master was in sad peril of another arrest by reason of his excitement.

"Show me the spalpeens! Show me 'em!" roared he, almost beside himself. "Let me at 'em, Duck, ye blackguard; let me at 'em!"

And so saying he seized Mr Downie, who happened to be standing near him, and nearly shook the bones out of that unoffending hero's body.

"Do ye hear?" roared Paddy, quite out of his senses.

"I hear," said Downie, coolly, proceeding to take off his coat and tuck up his shirt-sleeves as if he were going to wash his hands.

"What's the gossoon about at all?" cried my master, taken aback by this unexpected reply to his question.

"On'y going to smash you!" calmly replied the imperturbable Duck, beginning to spar -- "so come on, my lad!"

That Patrick would have joyfully accepted the invitation I have no doubt, had not an accident at that moment befallen him.

A trolly coming up behind, took him off his feet. To recover himself, he took a spring forward, and landed full on the top of the junior ensign of the regiment, a mild youth with a very little voice, and for the next minute the two were rolling, one on the top of the other, over and over, along the wet deck, amid the laughter of everybody.

By the time Paddy had picked himself up, and helped the poor young ensign to his feet, his ardour was sufficiently damped. He apologised with as good grace as he could to his late victim, and made very humble excuses to the sergeant in charge, who, fortunately for him, had witnessed that the affair was an accident.

Duck Downie, however, with his coat off and his sleeves tucked up, still awaited his man as if nothing had happened, and seemed surprised that Paddy was not as eager as before for the fray. The latter, however, quite sobered by this time, merely cried out in the hearing of everybody, -- 

"Arrah! Downie, darlint, ye may put on your coat, because I forgive you this onst; but, man dear, don't do it again!" and was thereby considered by everybody to have had the best of the whole adventure.

Under such dignified circumstances did we set foot on Indian soil.

The reader will be surprised that I have never yet remembered that when I last heard of him, Charlie, my first master, was in India. I did remember it often and often -- during the voyage and after landing. And yet I quite despised myself for imagining (as I did) that the next white face I saw would surely be his. India is a big place -- a dreadfully big place -- and the chances of finding any one particular person there are about as great as of discovering a needle in a haystack. He might have left India long ago; he might have fallen in the massacres of the past few months; he might be somewhere right across the continent. And so, though I could not get rid of a vague sort of expectation, during the first few days of my being in India, I always laughed at myself for a simpleton for thinking such a chance possible.

However, we had no time for thinking just then. From the moment we landed in Bombay, and for a week or two afterwards, we were continually on the move. Long forced marches under a broiling sun, it was enough to wear out any ordinary troops. But our men, and the column to which they were now attached, formed no ordinary body of men. They were Englishmen hastening to the rescue, and nothing on earth could stop them. It was strange how slowly the news of those stirring times came to our ears.

One day we heard with a horror that I can never describe of that foul massacre at Cawnpore, where in cold blood gentle English ladies and innocent children had been brutally massacred, and their bodies flung into a well. Then the news came of the achievements of that wonderful army of relief led by Havelock.

Day after day came the news of his march on Lucknow, where our besieged fellow-countrymen lay. Every one knows of that heroic march. Inch by inch, almost, that handful of men fought their way, fighting a battle a day, and never yielding a step.

One day a horseman galloped into our camp in a great state of excitement. As he flung himself from his horse he shouted something, but we only caught the two words, "Havelock," "Lucknow." It was enough. Lucknow was saved! There rose cheer upon cheer at the news, and shout upon shout. Men and officers alike waved their hats and shook hands, Paddy, as usual, let his feelings get the better of him, and nearly broke Larry's spine with the joyful thump he gave it; indeed, it is safe to say our men were almost as proud as if they had themselves achieved the relief.

Presently, however, there spread a rumour that though Lucknow was saved, it was not yet relieved.

Havelock had fought his way in, but until help arrived, he, too, would be a prisoner within its walls; and almost in the same breath came the grand news; our column was the one destined for this glorious work! How our hearts beat! What mattered it now how long the marches were, and how grilling the sun?

"Lucknow" was the cry; and that magic word sustained us in every hardship and peril.

We reached Cawnpore at last, and there joined Sir Colin Campbell's force. The sight of this house of murder was simply maddening to the men. They left the place next morning with a sort of shudder, and set their faces towards Lucknow. It was not till we were well on the march that I had leisure to look about me and notice how our force was increased.

Several now regiments were with us, and the commander-in-chief and his staff and heavy guns and siege trains accompanied the march. With the exception of a few skirmishes, my master had yet to learn what a battle was. We crept on, halting sometimes, and sometimes pushing on, until one jubilant afternoon the distant walls of Lucknow appeared in sight. Then indeed our brave fellows began to breathe again.

To-morrow would bring them to the city walls, and -- what was equally after their hearts -- face to face with the enemy. We bivouacked here for the night.

Now it happened on this particular night that my master was on sentinel duty for the first time in his life, and mightily proud of his charge. There he stood as stiff as a poker, with his rifle at his side, and I verily believe would have thought nothing of running his bayonet through the body of the commander-in-chief if he had presented himself without the password.

Patrick was not a dreamer; and as he looked across in the direction of Lucknow I don't suppose his meditations were of the loftiest kind. He knew there would be a fight to-morrow, and so he was happy; he knew duty might call him to action even to-night, and so he kept a very sharp look-out at his post; but otherwise his mind was profoundly untroubled. It was not so with me. On the eve of the battle I could not but feel that in a few hours I might be ownerless, and in a dead man's pocket; and, as I looked back upon my strangely eventful life, I sighed, and half hoped, if he were slain, they would in mercy bury me with him, and so end my cares once and for all. Little I knew!

It was scarcely ten o'clock when Paddy was startled by approaching footsteps. They belonged to an officer of our force who was returning at this hour from an outpost. Paddy eyed him suspiciously, and even when he gave the word looked disappointed at not having the privilege of using his bayonet upon him. Just as he was going on his way, the officer turned and said, in a voice which startled me, -- 

"Is it ten yet, my man?"

Why did the voice startle me? I could not see the speaker's face, but as he spoke I fancied myself back in the Randlebury schoolroom, and my memory saw a bright-eyed boy I had known once whom I could almost have believed to be the speaker of these few words. Strange what fancies take possession of one! Patrick, as he had a watch, and had by this time learned the mysterious art of telling the time, was not the man to answer such a question as this at random.

"Hould my gun, cap'n," he said, "till I sthrike a light."

Fancy a sentinel asking an officer to hold his gun! I knew enough of military discipline to make me tremble at the thought of what would become of my unceremonious master.

But the officer, instead of flying into a rage, took the rifle and laughed. That laugh reminded me more than ever of Randlebury.

"You're a pretty fellow," he said. "Is that the manners they teach you at home."

"I axe yer pardon, colonel, but -- "

Here the officer laughed again -- and oh! how my heart beat as I heard him. "If I stay here much longer I shall get promoted to general, I suppose," said he. "Look sharp and tell me the time."

Patrick, without another word, produced a light. The officer's face was half turned as he did so, and I could not catch his features, but as he turned impatiently towards the sentinel the light fell full upon it, and with a bound of astonishment I recognised in the swarthy, soldierly officer before me, no other than my oldest and dearest master, Charlie Newcome, of Randlebury.

The strange presentiment, then, was true -- I had found him after so long a time! But what if he should not see me? What torment to be so near and yet so far! And how was it likely he would take notice of a common private's watch, and if he did, how was it likely at this distance of time he would remember poor me? Jim, I know, had told him of the strange way in which I had come into his hands, and would certainly have also told him about losing me. He must, therefore, long ago have given up all thoughts about me, or if he ever remembered me it would be as one dead.

My master took me out and held me up to the light.

"It'll be about five minutes past ten, your honour, by my watch."

"Thank you. Good -- hullo?"

He had seen me! His eyes were suddenly riveted upon me, and he seemed glued to the spot where he stood.

"Did your honour plaze to spake?" asked Paddy, proceeding to put me back into his pocket.

"My old watch!" cried Charlie, springing forward, and catching hold of my master's hand. "Give it to me!"

Paddy's surprise was unbounded. At first he deemed the man mad, then drunk, then gradually it dawned upon him this was not an officer at all, but a highwayman in disguise, seeking to take advantage of his solitude to rob him.

In an instant he sprang back, and, seizing his rifle, levelled the bayonet to within an inch of Charlie's heart.

"Now, ye thievin' blackguard," said he, "move an inch and I'll stick ye like a pig. Arrah! but ye came to the wrong boy when ye thought to play your tricks on me! Stan' still now, or as sure as you're alive you're a dead man;" and he gave Charlie a suggestive touch with the point of his weapon, which showed plainly he had every intention of being as good as his word.

Here was a predicament! and I could do nothing to help.

Charlie, fairly penned in a corner, was at a loss what to say or do. He began in an angry strain, -- 

"Don't be a fool, sir; do you -- "

"Howld yer tongue!" roared Paddy, giving another poke with his bayonet.

Then Charlie attempted to laugh, which enraged the sentry all the more.

"Is it mock me, ye would, as well as rob me, ye foul-mouthed spalpeen, you?" he cried.

"I don't want to rob you," put in Charlie.

"Faith and I'll see ye don't," retorted the Irishman.

"Listen to me an instant," besought Charlie.

"The sorra a word. Ye shall say it all before the gineral the morrow, for there I'll take ye."

For some moments Charlie stood in this awkward fix, not daring to stir, or even to speak, and with every prospect of spending the night with a bayonet point within an inch of his body.

Suddenly, however, a brilliant idea occurred to him. If I really was his old watch, as he fancied, this man had possibly found me where Halliday had lost me.

It was a bare chance every way, but he determined to try it.

"So you are from Seatown!" he suddenly exclaimed.

The rifle literally dropped from the astonished sentry's hand.

"Who told ye that?" he almost shrieked.

"Never mind," said Charlie, following up the advantage, and softly stepping out of his corner. "It's two years since you left, isn't it?"

Patrick was "dumfoundered." This man must be in league, surely, with the powers of darkness!

"Now do you know why I want that watch?" said Charlie sternly, at the same time quietly picking up the dropped rifle. The tables were fairly turned now. The wretched Patrick, whose conscience had more than once smitten him about the way in which he had become possessed of me, looked the picture of terror -- not at the bayonet, but at the man who held it.

He drew me from his pocket with trembling hands, and holding me out at arm's length, cried, -- 

"Arrah, arrah! take him, gineral, take him. How was I to know you was the gentleman dropped him there? Who'd have -- "

By this time Charlie had seized me and taken me to the light. In an instant he stripped me of my coat, and there, with bounding heart, read his own initials, scratched years ago with his own boyish hand, in the dormitory of Randlebury.

"It is it!" he shouted; "my old watch! Who would have thought it possible!"

Then turning to the trembling Paddy, he said, in a voice almost unsteady in its eagerness, -- 

"My man, what will you sell me this watch for?"

Paddy looked more astonished than ever.

"Sure it's your honour's own."

"It was once, but it's yours now. But I'll give you a ten-pound note for him and a gold watch besides if you'll let me have him back."

Imagine Paddy's astonishment.

"Sure Duck Downie says it's not worth thirty shillings -- "

"Who cares for Duck Downie?" shouted Charlie, pulling out his purse. "Here's the money, and if you come to Lieutenant Newcome's tent when you are off duty you shall have the watch."

And so saying, and not waiting for another word, he darted off, with me still in his hands, leaving Paddy fairly stupefied with amazement, and with only presence of mind enough left to pick up his rifle and make a royal salute to the retreating form of my first and last and dearest master.



Chapter Twenty Eight.

How I Saved My Master's Life, And Retired From Active Service.

I may with truth say, I reached that night the happiest moment in my life.

Indeed, as the young officer walked on, with me held tight in his hand, it would be hard to say which of us two was the happier.

Charlie's soldier life had not turned out as happily as, long ago, he had pictured it to himself. Away from home, and with comparatively few friends, he had felt himself losing somewhat of his freshness and boyish enthusiasm, and settling down rather to habits of a humdrum commonplace official. Books he had very few, and congenial society still less. Quartered as he had been during the first two years in dull country stations, he had grown weary of the routine of everyday life, and longed for the sight of fresh faces, fresh scenes, fresh occupation.

After a while this desire was gratified in his removal to Calcutta. But if he had suffered from dulness and weariness before, he was now in danger of going to another extreme. In his first joy at getting back into lively society he rushed with ardour into all the attractions and gaieties of the capital. Not that Charlie was a fellow ever to make the same mistakes as Tom Drift. He never associated with companions he knew to be bad, or allowed himself to be led into scenes which were in the slightest degree discreditable. But he did enter rather too readily into the frivolities of his new quarters, at the expense of his peace of mind. His popularity was his greatest snare. Everywhere he went he became a favourite. People were eager to get him to join their parties, and he was often enough too good-natured to refuse. And thus Charlie wasted much of his time, and in the end found himself far more dissatisfied with himself than in the quiet monotony of his up-country duties.

Do not let me do him injustice, reader, in my account of him during those few weeks at Calcutta.

He was gay but not fast, frivolous though not dissipated. His errors were errors of unprofitableness, but never of viciousness. Even in his most frivolous moments he had never been anything but a gentleman and a good fellow. Still, it had been unsatisfactory, and he knew it to be so in his inmost soul.

In the midst of this life came the mutiny, and, like hundreds of others, Charlie leapt at the call of duty, and flung to the winds all those attractions which had held him captive during the weeks of his idleness. Like hundreds of others his blood boiled at the tragedies of that awful time, and now, of all the rescuing host, there was not one who loved his own life less, or his country's glory more, than Charlie Newcome.

And thus it was with him when I found him.

But to-night, whatever may have been the memories, and hopes, and regrets which secretly animated his breast in finding himself again possessed of his boyish treasure and the companion of so many of his happiest days, Charlie Newcome had no leisure to sit down and spend his time in passive contemplation. He had a report to make to his colonel, and an important despatch to carry to the commander-in-chief. Then there was the ammunition to be served out among his men, and he had to superintend the process. And there were the plans for next day's assault to be talked over with his brother officers, and the various detachments for that duty to be selected. So that Charlie was a busy man that night. But with what a light heart he laboured! Among his occupations he did not forget the gold watch, but had the satisfaction of making Paddy the happiest man (but one) in the camp.

Thus, first with one thing, then another, the night wore on; and, when towards morning he lay down on his camp bed for a hurried rest, he fell asleep like a child, whistling one of the old Randlebury songs, and with me, as of old, under his pillow.

At the first note of the bugle he sprang from his couch, and putting me in my old abode, next his heart, sallied out to see the preparations for the advance. It was generally known we were to make a dash for the approaches to Lucknow this day; and at the prospect of the attack the troops hailed the signal to get under arms with enthusiasm. It was plain to see, by the alacrity with which the men worked, that my master was a prime favourite in his own company; indeed, such was their promptitude that we stood ready and waiting long before the order to march arrived.

During this interval, if Charlie was seized with a desire to know the time once, he was seized twenty times; and each time a mere glance was not enough to satisfy him. How natural it all seemed, and how like old times!

Then came the longed-for signal, and with a cheer the men set their faces towards Lucknow.

Now, the reader must not expect I am going to describe military operations for his edification. I know nothing about columns and countermarches, and echelons and skirmishing; how could a watch, hid under a scarlet jacket, be expected to do so?

True, I had eyes that could penetrate any number of scarlet jackets, but what good was that when I knew about as much of the art of war as I did of candle-making!

But there are some things in the events of that memorable day which I shall remember as long as I live.

After about an hour's march we were suddenly halted, and almost at the same moment there came the sullen boom of a gun ahead. I could feel Charlie's heart leap at the sound. It was the enemy at last; and now the fate of Lucknow was to be decided.

A horseman dashed up to the head of our column and called out to our colonel, in a voice loud enough for us all to hear, "Bring up your battalion." Next moment we were advancing in double quick time through a lane of troops to the front. There two other regiments stood waiting, and almost the instant we arrived the whole body moved forward at a run.

It was an exciting moment. The enemy's guns sounded louder and more frequent ahead, and dropping shot at either side announced that our danger was not all in front. The pace was kept up for a hundred yards or so, until we reached a cluster of trees, in whose shelter the column was halted to get breath. The fire in front still kept up, and through the smoke I thought I could discern the dim outline of a low building, not five hundred yards distant. At this moment Charlie and the other officers were summoned to the front for orders. They were brief and to the point.

"Straight for the fort, there!" said the commanding officer, "the shortest way you can take your men!"

It was an order that meant certain death to scores of those brave fellows; yet when they had heard it they cheered as schoolboys cheer for a holiday.

Again we stood waiting. The officers with their swords drawn stepped in front. The men quickly loaded and fixed bayonets, and then came the shout, -- 

"Forward!"

As we cleared the trees we burst full in the face of the enemy's fire. For a moment the balls whizzed harmlessly over our heads, then there was a crash on the ground before us, and, as we rushed on, the men parted on either side to avoid stepping over a dying man. It was awful; and every step we took grew more and more fatal. Under that withering fire men went down by the dozen; yet still the column rushed on. The front rank broke into gaps, which the rear rank men dashed forward to fill, till they themselves fell. And still on we rushed. Officers, too, everywhere to the front, dropped one by one; but still we never checked our pace. The sullen walls of the fort stood clear before us and poured upon us an unceasing shower of bullet and ball. In a minute our foremost men would be at the walls.

"Forward now! follow me!" I heard Charlie cry; and looking round noticed for the first time that the captain of his company was missing. The men cheered by way of answer, and their run broke into a rush as they followed him under the guns. Others were at the fort before us, and the storm had already begun. Heedless of wounds, heedless of peril, the men swept towards the breach, and called on those behind to come on. Charlie was one of the earliest of our battalion there, and already his feet were in the place, and he was waving to his men to come up when -- 

I felt a dull crushing sensation. My nerves collapsed; my senses left me. Speech, sight, hearing, all failed me in an instant; a strange darkness came over me, and then I was conscious of nothing.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

When my senses slowly and wearily recovered I was still lying in my master's pocket in the place where he had fallen at the storming of the breach. Firing was still going on all around, but the shouts of our men rose now from inside the fort instead of outside. And what shouting it was! The enemy's guns ceased as if by magic, and the distant sounds of firing showed plainly enough that the main body, now that we had silenced the fort, was resuming its march on Lucknow.

All this flashed through me as my senses gradually returned, and before even I had time to contemplate my own condition. What a wreck I was! A helpless cripple past all healing, of no use to any one, and utterly incapable of resuming the ordinary duties of life. But almost before I could realise this, another care flashed through my mind and drove out every other.

My master! What of him? There he lay, motionless and pale, with his blue eyes closed, and a little stream of blood trickling down his chest. Could he be dead?

Anxiously I listened if his heart still beat. At first all seemed silent as death. Then there seemed a slight quiver, and as I listened still, a faint throb. He lived still! How I longed for help to come!

And before long it came. Two soldiers of Charlie's regiment came out of the fort and walked straight towards us.

"It was close to the breach he dropped," said one.

"Come on, then," said the other, "and we may be in time."

They were not long in finding the object of their search, and leant eagerly over him.

"He's dead, poor fellow!" said the first; "shot right through the heart!"

"So he is," said the other. "It must have -- wait a bit!" cried he, in sudden excitement. "Feel here, Tom, quick! he's alive yet! Oh, if we could only get hold of a doctor!"

"Is there one about at all?"

"Not that I know of, unless the Major knows what to do."

Just then there came up a gaunt man, in an undress uniform, who, seeing that they knelt over a wounded man, said, -- 

"Is he alive?"

"It's all he is, sir," replied one of the men; "and we're wondering how to get a doctor to him."

"Let me see," said the stranger, approaching the body.

He knelt beside it and gently removed the coat from the wound.

"It looks as if he must be shot through the heart. Stay a bit, though, here's a watch!" and he pulled me softly out of the pocket. As he did so I looked up at him. Surely I knew his face! Surely somewhere I had seen that troubled frightened face before! Then I remembered Seatown Gaol! Could this be Tom Drift here in India, and kneeling beside his old schoolfellow's body?

It was indeed Tom Drift! But he neither recognised me nor the wounded man before him; indeed he was too busy examining the latter's wound to look very closely at his face. As he removed the waistcoat he uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"A most wonderful thing," he said; "the bullet, which must have been a spent one, has struck his watch and turned aside. A most wonderful escape!"

And then he produced a box of instruments, with one of which he probed the wound, and after some trouble extracted the bullet. Then, bandaging up the place, he said, -- 

"He may do now, but he has lost a lot of blood. Let him lie here a bit, and presently, if he seems better, move him into the fort. I will see him again this evening."

And so saying, he passed on to the next prostrate figure.

Towards evening the two men tenderly lifted their officer in their arms and carried him inside the fort, where a rude hospital had been fitted up. Here Charlie, who, after the extraction of the bullet and staunching of blood, had shown symptoms of recovery, opened his eyes, and found himself able to say a few words to those round him. And when they told him how I had probably saved his life his face lit up with a most triumphant smile, and he asked that I might be put into his hand.

As he lay there, scarcely strong enough to speak, and fondling me in his fingers, the doctor entered the hospital.

He came straight to Charlie's bed. My master's eyes were closed when Tom first reached his side; and I could see by the face of the latter that he was still as far from recognising his old schoolfellow as ever. But directly Tom softly lifted the clothes in order to examine his wound, the patient woke and opened his eyes. They rested for a moment on the doctor's face, and then, with a sudden flush and start, he half raised himself in his bed, and exclaimed, -- 

"Tom Drift, is it you?"

The doctor thus unexpectedly hearing his own name pronounced, turned pale, and started back as if he had been shot. The scared, terrified look returned to his face, and for an instant he seemed as if he would rush from the place. But only for an instant.

As he looked again on the face of his patient a strange expression came over his own. Wonder, doubt, joy, succeeded each other in rapid succession, and then all of a sudden it flashed upon him who this was.

"Charlie!" he exclaimed, trembling with astonishment; and next moment the poor prodigal was on his knees beside his friend's bed, sobbing, with his head buried in his hands.

Don't laugh at him, reader, for thus forgetting himself. Tom Drift had been through many trials you know nothing about, and out of those trials he had come broken in spirit and as humble as a child. You might have had more regard for appearances, perhaps, and controlled your emotion genteelly; but, as I have said before, Tom Drift was not anything like so strong-minded as you. So he knelt there and sobbed; and Charlie, as he lay, took his hand into his own, and held it.

Presently he said, softly, "Tom!"

Tom looked up and rose to his feet.

"What, old fellow?"

"Look here, Tom!" said Charlie, showing me.

At the sight of me, bruised and battered as I was, Tom's feelings overcame him again. He seized me eagerly, and looked long and tenderly into my face; then his tears came again, and once more he sunk on his knees at Charlie's side and buried his face in his hands.

The place was getting dark. The noise of voices outside and the distant roar of guns slowly died away; the guards for the night were called out, and one by one soldier and invalid fell asleep after their hard day's toil. But Tom Drift never moved from Charlie's bedside, nor did Charlie, by word or movement, disturb him. In the silence of that night I seemed to be back in the past -- when, years ago, I first knew these two. The dreary hospital changed, in my imagination, into the old Randlebury dormitory.

These beds all round were occupied not by wounded soldiers, but by soundly-sleeping boys, worn out with sports or study. And the two between whom I lay were no longer suffering men, but the light-hearted lads of long ago. I could almost fancy myself ticking through the silent watches; and when now and then the fingers that held me closed over me, or fondled me tenderly, I could almost have believed I heard the low sweet whistling of an innocent boy as he furtively turned in his waking moments to his father's precious gift.

It all seemed so strangely natural that as I woke from my dream it required an effort to remember where I really was. All was silent around me. I peered first at my master, then at Tom Drift; they were both asleep -- sleeping, perhaps, as simply as ever they did in those bygone days -- Tom kneeling still by the bedside with his head upon his arms, and Charlie turned towards him with one hand upon his friend's, and I -- I lay between them.

Thus the sultry Indian night passed, and then at the little window opposite there came a faint gleam of light.

Charlie woke first, and, laying his hand gently on Tom's arm, said, "Tom Drift, old fellow!"

With a start and a bound Tom was awake and on his feet, staring in a bewildered way round him.

At last his eyes fell on Charlie, and he remembered where he was. "I was asleep and dreaming," he said.

"So was I," said Charlie -- and I could almost guess what their dreams had been.

"Now, Tom," said Charlie, "you must look to my wound."

"My poor boy!" exclaimed Tom; "to think I have forgotten it all this time!"

"It's not worth bothering about, after all," said my master, "But see, Tom, the day is breaking."

"Ay!" said Tom, looking down with a new light in his weary eyes, "the day is breaking!"



Chapter Twenty Nine.

Which Brings My Adventures To A Close.

Reader, be my companion in one scene more, and my story is done.

A month or two ago there was a grand merrymaking at the house of one Charles Newcome, Esquire, late captain in her Majesty's army, to celebrate the tenth birthday of his son, Master Thomas James Newcome. The company was mostly juvenile, and included, of course, the gallant captain's two little girls and his younger son, that most terrible of all Turks, Charlie the younger. Then there were all the little boys and girls living in the square, and many others from a distance, and one or two big boys and girls, and one or two young gentlemen who stroked their chins as if something was to be felt there, and one or two young ladies who would not take twice of sponge-cake, for fear of looking as if they were hungry. But besides these there were a few grown-up people present, whom I must not forget to name. Naturally the gallant captain was one, and the gallant captain's lady was another; and then there were the last-named lady's two brothers there, one a clergyman called the Reverend James Halliday, and the other (and elder) Mr Joseph Halliday, a civil engineer with a ferocious pair of whiskers. And, to complete the party, there was present a grave, anxious-looking gentleman by the name of Mr Drift, a surgeon.

These all sat apart and looked on while the young folk enjoyed themselves. And how the young folk did enjoy themselves that night! What shouting and laughter there was, what a jingling of the piano, what hiding in corners, what romping on the stair case! And the round games, and the charades, and the family posts! Oh dear me, I'm an old watch, and I've gone through a good many noisy scenes, but I never remember such a racket as this.

And how the young folk besieged the elder and compelled them to join in the fun. There was papa down on his hands and knees with half-a-dozen youngsters on his back. And there was Uncle Joseph performing tricks of conjuring before a select audience; and Mr Drift telling stories to another; and as for the reverend Uncle Jim, he was made blind man, and had his long coat-tails pulled; and, strange to say, he never caught anybody all the time. And then the supper! who shall describe that? the clattering of dishes, the rattle of knives and forks, the banging of crackers, the peals of laughter, and the cross-fire of chaff.

Alas! all good things must come to an end, and so did this party. One by one the little guests said good-bye, and after they had gone the little family of children and elders was left alone. Though it was past eleven, the little urchin Charlie insisted on clambering on to Mr Drift's knee, to hear one last story, and the little girls besieged their uncles, and put their arms round their necks, and besought their intercession with mamma to gain them another half-hour's respite down stairs.

"Charlie," said Tom Drift, "this little fellow is worrying me for a story. Suppose you tell one."

"Oh yes," shouted that small chorus. "Oh yes! papa, please tell us a story?"

"Hear, hear!" said Uncle Joe.

"Fire away," said Uncle Jim.

"Remember, it must be quite a short one, Charles," said mamma.

Charlie Newcome the elder looked puzzled for a minute, and fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

Then he turned to his eldest boy, and said, -- 

"Tom, open that cabinet there and bring me the watch that is under the glass-case."

"The old, ugly watch, papa?" asked the boy, running off on his errand.

"Yes, the old, ugly watch," said papa, with a queer sort of smile.

The boy brought me. I was taken out of my case, and lay there in his open hand.

"Once upon a time," began papa -- and what a hush fell on that little company! -- "once upon a time there was a little boy," -- why was it everyone but the children looked so grave? and why did Mr Drift push his chair back into the shadow? why, even, did papa's voice tremble now and then as he went on, and caught the eye first of one and then another of his listeners?

That night he told my story -- not as I have told it to you. There was not much about Mr Drift in the story he told, and a great deal less about himself than there might have been. But as he went on these children crowded round me and looked with awe upon my battered body, and read with reverence those quaintly-scratched initials, and as they followed me in imagination from one master to another, and from one peril to the next, ending up with the famous battle before Lucknow, they forgot I was old and ugly, and I gradually appeared to their little eyes one of the greatest treasures which their father's house contained.

"And here he lies in my hand, children," concluded papa; "and if you love him as much as I do you must be very fond of him. And now, good - night, all of you."

<eob>

The Radio Boys Trailing A Voice

Or

Solving A Wireless Mystery

By

Allen Chapman



Chapter I

Splintering Glass


"You fellows want to be sure to come round to my house to-night and listen in on the radio concert," said Bob Layton to a group of his chums, as they were walking along the main street of Clintonia one day in the early spring.

"I'll be there with bells on," replied Joe Atwood, as he kicked a piece of ice from his path. "Trust me not to overlook anything when it comes to radio. I'm getting to be more and more of a fan with every day that passes. Mother insists that I talk of it in my sleep, but I guess she's only fooling."

"Count on yours truly too," chimed in Herb Fennington. "I got stirred up about radio a little later than the rest of you fellows, but now I'm making up for lost time. Slow but sure is my motto."

"Slow is right," chaffed Jimmy Plummer. "But what on earth are you sure of?"

"I'm sure," replied Herb, as he deftly slipped a bit of ice down Jimmy's back, "that in a minute you'll be dancing about like a howling dervish."

His prophecy was correct, for Jimmy both howled and danced as he tried vainly to extricate the icy fragment that was sliding down his spine. His contortions were so ludicrous that the boys broke into roars of laughter.

"Great joke, isn't it?" snorted Jimmy, as he bent nearly double. "If you had a heart you'd lend a hand and get this out."

"Let's stand him on his head," suggested Joe. "That's the only thing I can think of. Then it'll slide out."

Hands were outstretched in ready compliance, but Jimmy concluded that the remedy was worse than the presence of the ice and managed to keep out of reach.

"Never mind, Jimmy," said Bob consolingly. "It'll melt pretty soon, anyhow."

"Yes, and it'll be a good thing for Jimmy to grin and bear it," added Herb brightly. "It's things like that that develop one's character."

"'It's easy enough to be pleasant, when life moves along like a song, but the man that's worth while, is the man who can smile when everything's going dead wrong,'" quoted Joe.

Jimmy, not at all comforted by these noble maxims, glared at his tormentors, and at last Bob came to his relief, and, putting his hand inside his collar, reached down his back and brought up the piece of ice, now greatly reduced in size.

"Let's have it," demanded Jimmy, as Bob was about to throw it away.

"What do you want it for?" asked Bob. "I should think you'd seen enough of it."

"On the same principle that a man likes to look at his aching tooth after the dentist has pulled it out," grinned Joe.

"Don't give it to him!" exclaimed Herb, edging away out of reach, justly fearing that he might feel the vengeance of the outraged Jimmy.

"You gave it to him first, so it's his," decided Bob, with the wisdom of a Solomon, as he handed it over to the victim.

Jimmy took it and started for Herb, but just then Mr. Preston, the principal of the high school, came along and Jimmy felt compelled to defer his revenge.

"How are you, boys?" said Mr. Preston, with a smile. "You seem to be having a good time."

"Jimmy is," returned Herb, and Jimmy covertly shook his fist at him. "We're making the most of the snow and ice while it lasts."

"Well, I don't think it will last much longer," surmised Mr. Preston, as he walked along with them. "As a matter of fact, winter is 'lingering in the lap of spring' a good deal longer than usual this year."

"I suppose you had a pleasant time in Washington?" remarked Joe inquiringly, referring to a trip from which the principal had returned only a few days before.

"I did, indeed," was the reply. "To my mind it's the most interesting city in the country. I've been there a number of times, and yet I always leave there with regret. There's the Capitol, the noblest building on this continent and to my mind the finest in the world. Then there's the Congressional Library, only second to it in beauty, and the Washington Monument soaring into the air to a height of five hundred and fifty-five feet, and the superb Lincoln Memorial, and a host of other things scarcely less wonderful.

"But the pleasantest recollection I have of the trip," he went on, "was the speech I heard the President make just before I came away. It was simply magnificent."

"It sure was," replied Bob enthusiastically. "Every word of it was worth remembering. He certainly knows how to put things."

"I suppose you read it in the newspaper the next day," said Mr. Preston, glancing at him.

"Better than that," responded Bob, with a smile. "We all heard it over the radio while he was making it."

"Indeed!" replied the principal. "Then you boys heard it even before I did."

"What do you mean?" asked Joe, in some bewilderment. "I understood that you were in the crowd that listened to him."

"So I was," Mr. Preston answered, in evident enjoyment of their mystification. "I sat right before him while he was speaking, not more than a hundred feet away, saw the motion of his lips as the words fell from them and noted the changing expression of his features. And yet I say again that you boys heard him before I did."

"I don't quite see," said Herb, in great perplexity. "You were only a hundred feet away and we were hundreds of miles away."

"And if you had been thousands of miles away, what I said would still be true," affirmed Mr. Preston. "No doubt there were farmers out on the Western plains who heard him before I did.

"You see it's like this," the schoolmaster went on to explain. "Sound travels through the air to a distance of a little over a hundred feet in the tenth part of a second. But in that same tenth of a second that it took the President's voice to reach me in the open air radio could have carried it eighteen thousand six hundred miles."

"Whew!" exclaimed Jimmy. "Eighteen thousand six hundred miles! Not feet, fellows, but miles!"

"That's right," said Bob thoughtfully. "Though I never thought of it in just that way before. But it's a fact that radio travels at the rate of one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second."

"Equal to about seven and a half times around the earth," observed the principal, smiling. "In other words, the people who were actually sitting in the presence of the President were the very last to hear what he said.

"Put it in still another way. Suppose the President were speaking through a megaphone in addition to the radio and by the use of the megaphone the voice was carried to people in the audience a third of a mile away. By the time those persons heard it, the man in the moon could have heard it too -- that is," he added, with a laugh, "supposing there really were a man in the moon and that he had a radio receiving set."

"It surely sounds like fairyland," murmured Joe.

"Radio is the fairyland of science," replied Mr. Preston, with enthusiasm, "in the sense that it is full of wonder and romance. But there the similarity ceases. Fairyland is a creation of the fancy or the imagination. Radio is based upon the solid rock of scientific truth. Its principles are as certain as those of mathematics. Its problems can be demonstrated as exactly as that two and two make four. But it's full of what seem to be miracles until they are shown to be facts. And there's scarcely a day that passes without a new one of these 'miracles' coming to light."

He had reached his corner by this time, and with a pleasant wave of his hand he left them.

"He sure is a thirty-third degree radio fan," mused Joe, as they watched his retreating figure.

"Just as most all bright men are becoming," declared Bob. "The time is coming when a man who doesn't know about radio or isn't interested in it will be looked on as a man without intelligence."

"Look here!" exclaimed Jimmy suddenly. "What's become of my piece of ice?"

He opened his hand, which was red and wet and dripping.

"That's one on you, Jimmy, old boy," chuckled Joe. "It melted away while you were listening to the prof."

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," said Herb complacently. "Jimmy meant to put that down my back."

"Oh, there are plenty of other pieces," said Jimmy, as he picked one up and started for Herb.

Herb started to run, but slipped and fell on the icy sidewalk.

"You know what the Good Book says," chaffed Joe. "The wicked stand on slippery places."

"Yes, I see they do," replied Herb, as quick as a flash, looking up at him. "But I can't."

The laugh was on Joe, and Herb felt so good over the retort that he did not mind the fall, though it had jarred him considerably. He scrambled to his feet and brushed off his clothes, while Jimmy, feeling that his comrade had been punished enough, magnanimously threw away the piece of ice that was to have been the instrument of his vengeance.

"The reason why I wanted you fellows to be sure to be on hand to-night," resumed Bob, as they walked along, "was that I saw in the program of the Newark station in the newspaper this morning that Larry Bartlett was down for an entirely new stunt. You know what a hit he made with his imitations of birds."

"He sure did," agreed Joe. "To my mind he had it all over the birds themselves. I never got tired listening to him."

"He certainly was a dabster at it," chimed in Jimmy.

"Now he's going in to imitate animals," explained Bob. "I understand that he's been haunting the Zoo for weeks in every minute of his spare time studying the bears and lions and tigers and elephants and snakes, and getting their roars and growls and trumpeting and hisses down to a fine point. I bet he'll be a riot when he gives them to us over the radio."

"He sure will," assented Herb. "He's got the natural gift in the first place, and then he practices and practices until he's got everything down to perfection."

"He's a natural entertainer," affirmed Bob. "I tell you, fellows, we never did a better day's work than when we got Larry that job at the sending station. Not only was it a good thing for Larry himself when he was down and out, but think of the pleasure he's been able to give to hundreds of thousands of people. I'll bet there's no feature on the program that is waited for more eagerly than his."

By this time the boys had reached the business portion of the town and the short spring day was drawing to a close. Already lights were beginning to twinkle in the stores that lined both sides of the street.

"Getting near supper time," remarked Bob. "Guess we'd better be getting along home. Don't forget to come -- Gee whiz!"

The ejaculation was wrung from him by a snowball that hit him squarely in the breast, staggering him for a moment.

Bang! and another snowball found a target in Joe. It struck his shoulder and spattered all over his face and neck.

"That felt as though it came from a gun!" he exclaimed. "It's the hardest slam I ever got."

"Who did it?" demanded Bob, peering about him in the gathering darkness.

Halfway up the block they saw a group of dark figures darting into an alleyway.

"It's Buck Looker and his crowd!" cried Jimmy. "I saw them when they ran under that arc light."

"Just like that crowd to take us unawares," said Bob. "But if they're looking for a tussle we can accommodate them. Get busy, fellows, and let them have something in return for these two sockdolagers."

They hastily gathered up several snowballs apiece, which were easily made because the snow was soft and packed readily, and ran toward the alleyway just in time to see Buck and his crowd emerging from their hiding place.

There was a spirited battle for a few minutes, each side making and receiving some smashing hits. Buck's gang had the advantage in that they had a large number of missiles already prepared, and even in the excitement of the fight the radio boys noticed how unusually hard they were.

"Must have been soaking them in water until they froze," grunted Jimmy, as one of them caught him close to the neck and made him wince.

As soon as their extra ammunition was exhausted and the contending forces in this respect were placed more on a footing of equality, Buck and his cronies began to give ground before the better aim and greater determination of Bob and his comrades.

"Give it to them, fellows!" shouted Bob, as the retreat of their opponents was rapidly becoming a rout.

At the moment he called out, the progress of the fight had brought the radio boys directly in front of the windows of one of the largest drygoods stores in the town.

In the light that came from the windows Bob saw a snowball coming directly for his head. He dodged, and --  -- 

Crash! There was the sound of splintering glass, and the snowy missile whizzed through the plate glass window!



Chapter II

In A Dilemma


There was a moment of stupor and paralysis as the meaning of the crash dawned upon the radio boys.

Buck and his crowd had vanished and were footing it up the fast-darkening street at the top of their speed.

The first impulse of the radio boys was to follow their example. They knew that none of them was responsible for the disaster, and they were of no mind to be sacrificed on behalf of the gang that had attacked them. And they knew that in affairs of that kind the ones on the ground were apt to suffer the more severely.

They actually started to run away, but had got only a few feet from the scene of the smash when Bob, who had been thinking quickly, called a halt.

"None of this stuff for us, fellows," he declared. "We've got to face the music. I'm not going to have a hunted feeling, even if we succeeded in getting away. We know we didn't do it and we'll tell the plain truth. If that doesn't serve, why so much the worse for us. But at any rate we won't be despising ourselves as cowards."

As usual, his comrades accorded him the leadership and fell in with his plan, although it was not without many misgivings that they awaited the coming of the angry proprietor of the place, who had already started in pursuit of them, accompanied by many others who had been attracted by the crash and whose numbers were being rapidly augmented.

"Here are the fellows that smashed my window!" cried Mr. Larsen, the proprietor of the drygoods store, rushing up to them and shaking his fist in their faces. "Where are the police?" he shouted, looking around him. "I'll have them arrested for malicious damage."

And while he faced them, gesticulating wildly, his face purple with anger and excitement, it may be well for the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this series to tell briefly who the radio boys are and what had been their adventures before the time this story opens.

The acknowledged leader of the boys was Bob Layton, son of a prosperous chemist of Clintonia, in which town Bob had been born and brought up. Mr. Layton was a respected citizen of the town and foremost in its civic activities. Clintonia was a thriving little city of about ten thousand population, situated on the Shagary River, about seventy-five miles from the city of New York.

Bob at the beginning of this story was about sixteen years old, tall and stalwart and a clean-cut specimen of upstanding American youth. He was of rather dark complexion and had a pair of eyes that looked straight at one. Those eyes were usually merry, but could flash with indignation when circumstances required it. He was never on the lookout for trouble, but was always ready to meet it half way, and his courageous character together with his vigorous physique had made him prominent in the sports of the boys of his own age. He was a crack baseball player and one of the chief factors of the high school football eleven. No one in Clintonia was held in better liking.

Bob's special chum was Joe Atwood, son of the leading physician of the town. Joe was fair in complexion and sturdy in makeup. He and Bob had been for many years almost inseparable companions, Bob usually acting as captain in anything in which they might be engaged, while Joe served as first mate. The latter had a hot temper, and his impulsiveness sometimes got him into trouble and would have involved him in scrapes oftener if it had not been for the cooler head and steadying influence of Bob.

Two other friends of the boys who were almost always in their company were Herb Fennington, whose father kept a large general store in the town, and Jimmy Plummer, son of a respected carpenter and contractor. Herb was of a rather indolent disposition, but was jolly and good-natured and always full of jokes, some of them good, others poor, which he frequently sought to spring on his companions.

Jimmy was a trifle younger than his mates, fat and round and excessively fond of the good things of life. His liking for that special dainty had gained him the nickname of "Doughnuts," and few of such nicknames were ever more fittingly bestowed.

Apart from the liking that drew them together, the boys had another link in their common interest in radio. From the time that this wonderful new science had begun to spread over the country with such amazing rapidity, they had been among the most ardent "fans." Everything that they could read or learn on the subject was devoured with avidity, and they were almost constantly at the home of one or the other, listening in on their radio sets and, lately, sending messages, in the latter of which they had now attained an unusual degree of proficiency.

In decided contrast to Bob and his friends was another group of Clintonia youth, between whom and the radio boys there was a pronounced antipathy. The leader of this group was Buck Looker, a big overgrown, hulking boy, dull in his studies and a bully in character. His two special cronies were Carl Lutz, a boy of about his own age, and Terry Mooney, both of them noted for their mean and sneaking dispositions. Buck lorded it over them, and as his father was one of the richest men in the town they cringed before him and were always ready to back him up in any piece of meanness and mischief.

The enthusiasm of Bob and his friends for radio was fostered by the help and advice of the Reverend Doctor Dale, the clergyman in charge of the Old First Church of Clintonia, who, in addition to being an eloquent preacher, was keenly interested in all latter-day developments of science, especially radio. Whenever the boys got into trouble with their sets they knew that all they had to do was to go to the genial doctor and be helped out of their perplexities.

An incident that gave a great impetus to their interest in the subject was the offering of prizes by Mr. Ferberton, the member of Congress for their district, for the best radio sets turned out by the boys of his congressional district by their own endeavors. Bob, Joe, and Jimmy entered into this competition with great zest. Herb with his habitual indolence kept out of it.

While the boys were engrossed with their radio experiments an incident happened in town that led them into many unexpected adventures. An automobile run by a visitor in town, a Miss Nellie Berwick, got out of her control and dashed through the window of a store. Bob and Joe, who happened to be at hand, rescued the girl from imminent peril, while Herb and Jimmy did good work in curbing the fire that followed the accident.

How the boys learned of the orphan girl's story, got on the track of the rascal who had tried to swindle her and forced him to make restitution; what part the radio played in bringing the fellow to terms; how they detected and thwarted the plans of Buck Looker and his cronies to wreck their sets; are told in the first volume of this series entitled: "The Radio Boys' First Wireless; Or, Winning the Ferberton Prize."

That summer the chums went to Ocean Point on the seashore, where many of the Clintonia folks had established a little bungalow colony of their own. What adventures they met with there; what strides they made in the practical work of radio; how they were enabled by their knowledge and quick application of it to save a storm-tossed ship on which members of their own families were voyaging; how they ran down and captured the scoundrel Cassey who had knocked out with a blackjack the operator at the sending station and looted his safe -- these and many more incidents are narrated in the second volume of this series entitled: "The Radio Boys at Ocean Point; Or, The Message That Saved the Ship."

While the summer season was yet at its height, the boys had occasion to rescue the occupants of a rowboat that had been run down by men in a stolen motor boat. The two rescued youths proved to be vaudeville actors, and the boys grew very friendly with them. The injury that crippled one of them, Larry Bartlett; the false accusation brought against him by Buck Looker; the way in which the boys succeeded in getting work for Larry at the sending station, where his remarkable gift of mimicry received recognition; how they themselves were placed on the broadcasting program, and the clever way in which they trapped the motor-boat thieves; are told in the third volume of the series, entitled: "The Radio Boys at the Sending Station; Or, Making Good in the Wireless Room."

The coming of fall brought the boys back to Clintonia, where, however, the usual course of their studies was interrupted by an epidemic that made necessary for a time the closing of the schools. This gave the radio boys an opportunity to make a trip to Mountain Pass, a popular resort in the hills. Here they came in contact with a group of plotters who were trying to put through a nefarious deal and were able to thwart the rascals through the use of radio. By that same beneficent science too they were able to save a life when other means of communication were blocked. And not the least satisfactory feature was the utter discomfiture they were able to visit upon Buck Looker and his gang. These and many other adventures are told in the fourth volume of the series, entitled: "The Radio Boys at Mountain Pass; Or, The Midnight Call for Assistance."

And now to return to the radio boys as they stood facing the angry storekeeper amid a constantly growing throng of curious onlookers. They had been in many tighter fixes in their life but none that was more embarrassing.

"I'll have them arrested!" the storekeeper repeated, his voice rising to a shrill treble.

"Now look here," replied Bob. "Suppose you cut out this talk of having us arrested. In the first place, we didn't break your window. In the second place, if we had it wouldn't be a matter of arrest but of making good the damage."

"All right then," said Mr. Larsen eagerly, catching at the last word. "Make good the damage. It will cost at least two hundred dollars to replace that window."

"I think you're a little high," returned Bob. "But that doesn't matter. I didn't say that we'd make the damage good. I said that if we'd broken it, it would be a matter of making good. But we didn't break it, and that lets us out I'll say."

"It's easy to say that," sneered the merchant. "How do I know that you didn't break it? It would of course be natural for you to try to lie out of it."

"It wouldn't be natural for us to lie out of it," replied Bob, controlling his temper with difficulty. "That isn't our way of doing things. Why do you suppose we stayed here when it would have been perfectly easy for us to get away? It wasn't a snowball we threw that broke your window. It was one thrown by the fellows we were fighting with."

"Always the other fellow that does it!" replied the storekeeper angrily. "Who was that other fellow or fellows then? Tell me that. Come on now, tell me that."

Bob kept silent. He had no love for Buck Looker and his gang, who had always tried to injure him, but he was not going to inform.

"See," said Mr. Larsen, misunderstanding his silence. "When I ask you, you can't tell me. You're the fellows that did it, all right, and you'll pay me for it or I'll have you put in jail, that's what I'll do."

"I saw the fellows who were firing snowballs in this direction," spoke up Mr. Talley, a caterer, pushing his way through the throng. "I nearly bumped into them as they were running away. Buck Looker was one of them. I saw his face plainly and can't be mistaken. The others I'm not so sure of, but I think they were Carl Lutz and Terry Mooney.

"For my part, Mr. Larsen," he continued, "I don't see how a snowball could break that heavy plate-glass window, anyway. My windows are no heavier, and they've often had snowballs come against them without doing any harm. Are you sure it wasn't something else that smashed the glass?"

"Dead sure," replied Larsen. "Come inside and see for yourself."

He led the way into his store, and Mr. Talley, the boys, and a number of others crowded in after him.

"Look," said Larsen, pointing to a piece of dress goods that had been hanging in the window. "See where the snow has splashed against it? There's no question that a snowball did it. You can see the bits of snow around here yet if you'll only look."

This was true and the evidence seemed conclusive. But just then Bob's keen eyes detected something else. He stooped down and brought up quite a large sharp-edged stone which still had some fragments of snow adhering to it and held it up for all to see.

"Here's the answer," he said. "This stone was packed in the snowball, and that is why it smashed the window!"



Chapter III

The Stuttering Voice


There was a stir of interest and exclamations of surprise as those in the store crowded closer to get a better view.

"That explains it," said Mr. Talley, as he examined the missile. "I was sure that no mere ball of snow could break that heavy window. To put such a stone in a snowball was little less than criminal," he went on gravely. "If that had hit any one on the temple it would almost certainly have killed him."

"It was coming straight for my head when I dodged," said Bob.

"That's another proof that it wasn't any ball we threw that broke the window," put in Joe. "Each one of us is willing to swear that there was no stone in any ball that we threw."

"Not only then but at any time," put in Herb. "Only a mean coward would do a thing like that. None of us has done it any time in his life."

"I believe that," replied Mr. Talley. "I've known all you boys ever since you were little kids and I know you wouldn't be capable of it."

"That's all very well," said Mr. Larsen. "But that doesn't pay for my window. Whether any of you boys threw the ball or not you can't deny that you were engaged in a snowball fight right in front of my windows. If the fight hadn't been going on the window wouldn't have been smashed."

There was a certain amount of justice in this, and the boys were fair enough to acknowledge it.

"I suppose you are right there, Mr. Larsen," said Bob regretfully. "We ought to have kept out of range of the windows, but in the excitement we forgot all about that. Then, too, we never would have supposed that any ordinary snowball would have broken the window. Perhaps that was in the back of our minds, if we thought of it at all."

"Is the window insured?" queried Mr. Talley.

"Yes, it is," answered the storekeeper.

"Well, then, that lets you out," remarked Mr. Talley, with a note of relief in his voice. "That puts the matter up to the insurance company. If they want to take any legal steps they can; and of course they ought to be compensated by the parents of the boy who may be found guilty of having thrown the ball with a stone in it. For my part, I doubt very much that it can ever be proved, unless the boy himself owns up to it."

"Think of Buck Looker ever owning up to anything!" muttered Jimmy.

"As for these boys," continued Mr. Talley, "I am perfectly sure in my own mind that they are telling the truth. You'll have to look for the culprit in the other crowd, and I've already told you who they are, or who one of them is, at least."

"Well," said the storekeeper, who by this time had cooled down considerably, "that, I suppose, will be something for the insurance company to settle. But by the terms of my contract with them I'll have to help them all I can to find out the responsible party, and I'll have to give them the names of all the boys concerned in the fight."

"That's all right," responded Bob. "You know our folks and you know that they're good for any judgment that may be found against them. But I'm sure it will be somebody else that will have to pay the bill."

There was nothing more to be done for the present, and the boys filed out of the store, after having expressed their thanks to Mr. Talley for the way he had championed their cause.

"Gee!" murmured Joe, as they went up the street toward their homes, "I know how a fellow feels now after he's been put through the third degree."

"It was rather a hot session," agreed Bob. "But I'm glad we had it out with him instead of running away. It's always best to take the bull by the horns. And you can't blame Mr. Larsen for feeling sore about it. Any one of us would probably have felt the same way."

"Sure thing," admitted Herb. "But think of that dirty trick of Buck Looker in putting stones in snowballs! It wasn't only that one that went through the window. Every time I got hit it made me jump."

"Same here," said Jimmy. "I was thinking all the time that they were the hardest snowballs I ever felt, but it never came into my mind that there were stones in them."

"Trust Buck to be up to every mean trick that any one ever thought of," returned Bob. "He hasn't got over the way we showed him up at Mountain Pass. He thought he had us dead to rights in the matter of that burned cottage, and it made him wild to see the way we came out on top. He and his gang would do anything to get even."

"It will be interesting to see what he'll say when this matter of the window is put up to him and his pals," remarked Herb.

"Not a doubt in the world what he'll say," replied Joe. "He'll swear till he's blue in the face that he never dreamed of using a stone in the snowballs. Do you remember how he told us that he'd lie in court to keep us from putting anything over on him? Any one that expects to get the truth out of Buck is barking up the wrong tree. I guess the insurance company would better kiss their money good-by."

"I'm afraid so," returned Bob. "It was dark and there probably weren't any witnesses who saw them put the stones in, and it is likely that the company will have to let the matter drop."

The lads had reached Bob's gate by this time, and they separated with a promise to come over and listen in on the radio later on.

Bob told the whole story to his parents at the supper table that night, and his father and mother listened with great interest and some concern.

"I'm sorry you were mixed up in the thing at all, Bob," his father remarked thoughtfully. "Being in it, however, you acted just as you should have done. Just how far you and your friends may be held responsible, in case they can't find the one who actually threw the ball that broke the window, I'm not lawyer enough to say. It's barely possible that there may be some ground for action on the score of culpable carelessness in taking part in a snowball fight in front of store windows, and of course you were wrong in doing that. But the total amount involved is not very great after all, and it would be divided up among the parents of the four of you, so there's nothing much to worry about. It would gall me though to have to pay for damages that were really caused by that cub of Looker's."

"I'm sorry, Dad," said Bob. "I'm hoping yet that something may develop that will put the thing up to Buck, or whoever it was of his gang that actually threw the ball."

"Let's hope so," returned Mr. Layton, though without much conviction in his voice, and dismissed the subject.

A little while afterward the other three boys came over to Bob's house to listen in on the radio concert. So much time, however, had been taken up in discussing the afternoon's adventure that they missed Larry's offering, which was among the first on the program. This was a keen disappointment, which was tempered, however, by the probability that they could hear him some evening later in the week.

"Sorry," remarked Joe. "But it only means that we still have a treat in store when the old boy begins to roar and growl and hiss so as to make us think that a whole menagerie has broken loose and is chasing us. In the meantime we can fix up that aerial so as to get a little better results."

"Funny thing I noticed the other day," remarked Bob, as they embarked upon some experiments.

"All sorts of funny things in the radio game," observed Joe. "Something new turns up every day. Things in your set that you think you can't do without you find you can do without and get results just about as usual."

"Just what I was going to tell you," returned Bob. "You must be something of a prophet."

"Oh, I wouldn't go quite so far as to say that," replied Joe, with mock modesty.

"Isn't he the shrinking violet?" chaffed Jimmy.

"Stop your kidding, you boobs, and let a regular fellow talk," chided Bob. "What I was going to say was that while I was tinkering with the set I disconnected the ground wire. Of course I thought that would put the receiver out of business for the time, and I was almost knocked silly when I found that I could hear the concert that was going on just about as well as though the wire had been connected. How do you account for that?"

"Don't account for it at all," replied Herb. "Probably just a freak, and might not happen again in a thousand times. Likely it was one of the unexplainable things that happen once in a while. Maybe there was a ground connection of some kind, if not by the wire. I wouldn't bank on it."

"It's queer, too, how many kinds of things can be used as aerials," put in Joe. "I heard the other day of a man in an apartment house where the owner objected to aerials, who used the clothesline for that purpose. The wire ran through the rope, which covered it so that it couldn't be seen. It didn't prevent its use as a clothesline either, for he could hear perfectly when the wash was hanging on it."

"Oh, almost anything will do as an aerial," chimed in Jimmy. "The rib of an umbrella, the rainspout at the side of the house, the springs of a bed give good results. And that's one of the mighty good things about radio. People that have to count the pennies don't have to buy a lot of expensive materials. They can put a set together with almost any old thing that happens to be knocking around the house."

Bob had been working steadily, and, as the room was warm, his hands were moist with perspiration. He had unhooked an insulated copper wire that led to his outside aerial. His head phones were on, as he had been listening to the radio concert while he worked.

"I'll have to miss the rest of that selection, I guess," he remarked regretfully, as he unhooked the wire. "It's a pity, too, for that's one of the finest violin solos I ever heard. Great Scott! What does that mean?"

The ejaculation was wrenched from him by the fact that although he had disconnected the wire he still heard the music -- a little fainter than before but still with every note distinct.

He could scarcely believe his ears and looked at his friends in great bewilderment.

"What's the matter?" asked Joe, jumping to his feet. "Get a shock?"

"Not in the sense you mean, but in another way, yes," replied Bob, still holding the exposed end of the copper wire in his fingers. "What do you think of that, fellows? I'm an aerial!"

"Come out of your trance," adjured Herb unbelievingly. "They talk that way in the insane asylums."

"Clap on your headphones," cried Bob, too intent on his discovery to pay any attention to the gibe.

They did so, and were amazed at hearing the selection as plainly as did Bob himself.

The latter had been holding the disconnected wire so that his fingers just touched the uncovered copper portion at the end. Now he hastily scraped off several inches of the insulation and grasped the copper wire with his hand. Instantly the volume of sound grew perceptibly greater.

Hardly knowing what to make of it, he scraped off still more of the insulation.

"Here, you fellows," he shouted. "Each of you take hold of this."

Joe was the first to respond, and the sound became louder. Then Herb and Jimmy followed suit, and it was evident that they served as amplifiers, for with each additional hand the music swelled to greater volume.

The boys looked at each other as if asking whether this was all real or if they had suddenly been transferred to some realm of fancy. They would not have been greatly surprised to wake up suddenly and find that they had been dreaming.

But there was no delusion about it and they listened without saying another word until, in a glorious strain of melody, the selection came to an end. Nor did they break the silence until a band orchestra was announced and crashed into a brilliant overture.

While it was still in full swing, Bob had an inspiration. He took off his headphones and clamped them on to the phonograph that stood on a table near by. Instantly the music became intensified and filled the room. When all their hands were on the wire, it became so loud that they had to close the doors of the phonograph.

"Well," gasped Bob, when the last strain had died away and the demonstration was complete, "that's something new on me."

"Never dreamed of anything like it," said Joe, sinking back in his chair. "Of course we know that the human body has electrical capacity and that operators sometimes have to use metal shields to protect the tube from the influence of the hand. And in our loop aerial at Ocean Point you noticed that the receptivity of the tube was modified when we touched it with our fingers."

"Of course, in theory," observed Bob thoughtfully, "the human body possesses inductance as well as capacity, and so might serve as an antenna. But I never thought of demonstrating it in practice."

"So Bob is an aerial," grinned Herb. "I always knew he was a 'live wire,' but I never figured him out as an antenna."

"And don't forget that if Bob is an aerial we're amplifiers," put in Jimmy.

"There's glory enough for all," laughed Joe. "We'll have to tell Doctor Dale and Frank Brandon about this. We've got so many tips from them that it's about time we made it the other way around."

They were so excited about this new development which they had stumbled upon purely through accident that they sat talking about it for a long time until Bob chanced to look at his watch.

"Just have time for the last selection," he remarked, as he reconnected the aerial. "We'll wind up in the regular way this time. It's an aria from Lucia and I don't want to miss it."

He had some difficulty in making his adjustment, as there was a lot of interference at the moment.

"Raft of amateurs horning in," he muttered. "All of them seem to have chosen just this time to do it. I wonder --  -- "

He stopped as though he had been shot, and listened intently. Then he beckoned to the others to adjust their headphones.

Into the receiver was coming a succession of stuttering sounds that eventually succeeded in framing intelligible words. Ordinarily this might have provoked laughter, but not now. They had heard that voice before.

It was the voice of Dan Cassey!



Chapter IV

A Puzzling Mystery


For the second time that evening the radio boys thought they must be dreaming.

Cassey! Cassey the swindler, whom they had compelled to make restitution to the victim he had wronged. Cassey the thug, whom they had captured in that wild chase after he had looted the safe and nearly killed the operator in the sending station. Cassey the convict, who, to their certain knowledge, had been sentenced to a long term in prison.

What was Cassey doing over the radio? That it was that scoundrel they had no doubt. The stuttering, the tones of the voice, the occasional whistle which he indulged in in order to go on -- all these things they recognized perfectly. It was the wildest kind of improbability that he had a double anywhere who could reproduce him so perfectly.

Gone now was any thought of the aria from Lucia. Bob motioned frantically to Jimmy to hand him a pencil and a sheet of paper. Then he jotted down the words, as after great efforts they fell one by one from the stutterer's lips. As Bob did this he bent over the paper in frowning perplexity. The words themselves were intelligible, but they did not seem to make sense, nor was there anywhere a connected sentence.

Finally the stammering voice ceased, and after they had waited several minutes longer to make sure that it would not resume, the boys took off their headphones and gazed at each other in utter bewilderment.

"Well, I'll be blessed!" exclaimed Joe. "That villain Cassey, of all men on the face of the earth! What do you make of it, Bob?"

"I don't know what to make of it," confessed Bob. "It has simply knocked me endways. I never thought to hear of that rascal again for the rest of my life. Yet here he is, less than a year after he's been sentenced, talking over the radio."

"Perhaps he's received a pardon," hazarded Jimmy.

"Not at all likely," answered Bob. "It isn't as though he were a first offender. He's old in crime. You remember the raking over the judge gave him when he sentenced him. Told him if he had it in his power he'd give him more than he actually did. No, I think we can dismiss that idea."

"Isn't it possible," suggested Herb, "that he's employed as radio operator in the prison? He understands sending and receiving all right."

"That doesn't strike me hard either," Bob objected. "Likely enough the prison is equipped with a wireless set, but it isn't probable that they'd let a prisoner operate it. It would give him too good a chance to get in touch with confederates outside the jail. Then, too, his stuttering would make him a laughing stock.

"The only explanation that I can see," he went on, "is that he's escaped, and he's sending this message on his own hook. Though what the message is about is beyond me."

"Just what did you get down?" asked Jimmy curiously. "I caught a few words, but I don't remember them all."

"It's a regular hodgepodge," replied Bob, spreading out the sheet of paper, while they all crowded around to read.

"Corn -- hay -- six -- paint -- water -- slow -- sick -- jelly," read Joe aloud. "Sounds to me like the ravings of a delirium patient."

"And yet I'm sure that I got all the words down right," said Bob perplexedly. "It must be a code of some kind. We can't understand it, and Cassey didn't mean that any one should except some one person whose ear was glued to a radiophone. But you can bet that that person understood it all right."

"I wonder if we couldn't make it out," suggested Herb.

"No harm in trying," said Joe, "though compared to this a Chinese puzzle is as simple as A B C. Let's take a hack at it, anyhow. We'll each take a separate sheet of paper and try to get something out of it that makes sense."

For nearly an hour the boys did their best. They put the words in different orders, read them forward and backward. But the ideas conveyed by the separate words were so utterly dissimilar that they could frame nothing that had the slightest glimmering of sense and they were finally compelled to give it up.

"If time were money, we'd spend enough on this stuff to make us bankrupt," Joe remarked, in vast disgust, as he rose to get his cap. "Dan Cassey was foxy when he made this up. We'll have to give the rascal credit for that."

"Yes," admitted Herb, "it's the best kind of a code. Any one of those words might mean any one of a hundred thousand things. A man might spend a lifetime on it and be no nearer success at the end than he was when he started. The only way it can be unraveled is by finding the key that tells what the words stand for. And even that may not exist in written form. The fellows may simply have committed them to memory.

"I'll tell you what I'll do!" Bob exclaimed. "I'll get the prison to-morrow on the long distance 'phone and ask them about Cassey. I'll tell them all about this radio message, and it may be a valuable tip to them. They may be able to locate the station from which the messages come, if there are any more of them. You remember how Mr. Brandon located Cassey's sending station the first time."

Bob was as good as his word, and got in communication with the prison just before school time. The warden was gruff and inclined to be uncommunicative at first, but his manner changed remarkably after he heard of the radio message and he inquired eagerly for the slightest details.

"Yes, Cassey has escaped," he told Bob. "He got away about two months ago. He had behaved himself well for the first six months of his imprisonment, and we made him a trusty. In that capacity he had access to various parts of the prison and occasionally to my own quarters, which are in a wing connected with the prison. In some way that hasn't yet been discovered he got possession of clothes to cover his prison uniform and got away one day from the yard in which he was working. Probably with his help, two others got away at the same time. Their names are Jake Raff and Toppy Gillen, both of them desperate criminals and in for long terms. Likely enough the three of them are operating together somewhere. We made a careful search for them and have sent out descriptions of them to the police of all the important cities in the United States. But this clue of yours is the only one we have, and it may prove a most important one. I'll see that the Federal radio authorities are notified at once. Keep in touch with me and let me know if you come across anything else that seems to point to Cassey. His escape is a sore point with me, and I'd be glad to have him once more behind the bars. You can be sure he'll never get away again until he's served out the last day of his sentence."

With a warm expression of thanks the warden hung up his telephone receiver, and Bob hurried off to school to tell his comrades of what he had learned.

There was no chance for this, however, before recess, as he had been kept so long at the telephone that he was barely able to reach the school before the bell rang.

When at last he told them of his talk with the warden, they listened with spellbound interest.

"So the villain managed to escape, did he?" ruminated Joe. "That's a black mark against the warden, and it's no wonder he's anxious to get him back. I'd hate to be in Cassey's shoes if the prison gates ever close on him again."

"You'd think it would be a comparatively easy matter to capture him," suggested Herb. "The fact that he stutters so badly makes him a marked man."

"You can bet that he doesn't do any more talking than he can help," replied Joe. "And, for that matter, I suppose there are a good many thousand stutterers in the United States. Almost every town has one or more. Of course it's against him, but it doesn't by any means make it a sure thing that he'll be nabbed."

Buck Looker and his cronies happened to pass them in the yard just at that moment and caught the last word. Buck whispered something to Carl Lutz, and the latter broke out into uproarious laughter.

It was so obviously directed against Joe that his impulsive temper took fire at once. He stepped up to the trio, despite Bob's outstretched hand that tried to restrain him.

"Were you fellows laughing at me?" he asked of the three, though his eyes were fastened directly on Buck's.

"Not especially at you," returned Buck insolently. "But at something you said."

"And what was that?" asked Joe, coming a step nearer, at which Buck stepped back a trifle.

"About getting nabbed," he said. "It made me think of some fellows I know that were nabbed last night for breaking windows."

"Oh, that was it!" remarked Joe, with dangerous calmness while his fist clenched. "Now let me tell you what it reminds me of. It makes me think of three cowards who smashed a window last night with a stone packed in a snowball and then ran away as fast as their legs could carry them. Perhaps you'd like me to tell you their names?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," retorted Buck, changing color.

"Oh, yes, you do," replied Joe. "And while I'm about it, I'll add that the fellows who smashed the window were not only cowards, but worse. And their names are Buck Looker, Carl Lutz and Terry Mooney."

"What's that?" cried Buck, bristling up, while an angry growl arose from his cronies.

"You heard me the first time," replied Joe; "but to get it into your thick heads I'll say it again. The cowards, and worse, I referred to are named Buck Looker, Carl Lutz and Terry Mooney."



Chapter V

Marvels Of Wireless


"That's fighting talk," blustered Buck, as he made a pretense of getting ready to throw off his coat.

"That's precisely what I want it to be," declared Joe, as he tore off his coat and threw it to the ground.

By this time most of the boys in the school yard had sensed the tenseness of the situation and had gathered around Joe and Buck, forming a ring many lines deep.

"A fight!" was the cry.

"Go in, Joe!"

"Soak him, Buck!"

Before Joe's determined attitude and flashing eyes, Buck wavered. He fingered his coat uncertainly and glanced toward the school windows.

"There's one of the teachers looking out," he declared. "And it's against the rules to fight on the school grounds. If it wasn't for that I'd beat you up."

There was a general snicker from the boys at Buck Looker's sudden regard for the rules of the school.

"Any other place you can think of where you'd like to beat me up?" said Joe sarcastically. "How about this afternoon after school down by the river?"

"I --  -- I've got to go out of town this afternoon," Buck stammered. "But don't you worry. I'll give you all the fight you're looking for the first chance I get."

Murmurs of derision arose from the crowd, and the flush on the bully's sour face grew much deeper.

"You're just a yellow dog, Buck!" exclaimed Joe, in disgust. "Have I got to pull your nose to make you stand up to me?"

He advanced toward him, and Buck retreated. What would have happened next will never be known, for just at that moment one of the teachers emerged from the school and came toward the ring. Hostilities at the moment were out of the question, and the boys began to scatter. Buck heaved a sigh of evident relief, and now that he felt himself safe, all his old bluster came back to him.

"It's mighty lucky for you that Bixby came out just then," he declared. "I was just getting ready to thrash you within an inch of your life."

Joe laughed sarcastically.

"The trouble with you, Buck, is that you spend so much time getting ready that you never have any time for real fighting," he remarked. "It took you an awfully long time to get your coat unbuttoned."

"They laugh best who laugh last," growled Buck. "And don't forget that you fellows have got to pay for that glass you broke."

"You've got another guess coming," replied Joe. "You or one of your gang broke that glass and we can prove it."

"I wasn't downtown that night at all," said Buck glibly.

"Don't add any more lies to your score," said Joe scornfully. "We've got you! You and your gang are the only fellows in town who would put stones in snowballs, anyway."

"If that's all the evidence you've got, it wouldn't go far in a court of law," sneered Buck. "Any judge would see that you were trying to back out of it by putting it up to somebody else."

"Perhaps you don't know that Mr. Talley bumped into you while you were running away," remarked Joe.

This shot told, for Buck had banked on the darkness and had forgotten all about his encounter with Mr. Talley. He had been nursing the comfortable assurance that all he had to do was to deny. Now his house of cards had come tumbling about his ears. Mr. Talley was a respected citizen, and his word would be accepted by everybody.

Joe saw the effect of his remark and smiled drily.

"Want to revise that statement of yours that you weren't downtown at all last night?" he asked, with affected politeness.

"He -- he was mistaken," stammered Buck weakly, as he walked away, followed by his discomfited cronies.

"I guess that will hold him for a while," chuckled Jimmy, as the radio boys watched his retreating figure.

Two or three days passed without special developments. The broken pane of glass had been restored and the parents of the boys had been formally notified by the insurance company that they would be held responsible jointly for the damages. A similar notice had been sent to the fathers of Buck and his mates.

Mr. Looker replied, denying that his son was at all implicated in the matter and refusing to pay. Mr. Layton admitted that his son had been throwing snowballs in front of the store on the night in question, but he stated that he had not thrown the ball with a stone in it that broke the window. He added that any further communication regarding the matter could be sent to his lawyer.

Of the others involved, some had taken similar positions and others had ignored the matter altogether, leaving it to the insurance company to make the next move. And there for the time the matter rested.

The radio boys had missed Larry's performance on the night that he had opened with his new repertoire, but they were bound not to be cheated of the second, which took place only a few nights later.

They crowded eagerly about the radio set when their friend's turn was announced, and listened with a breathless interest, that was intensified by their warm personal regard for the performer, to the rendition of the cries of various animals with which Larry regaled them.

The imitations were so lifelike that the boys might well have imagined they were in a zoölogical garden. Lions, tigers, bears, elephants, snakes, moose, and other specimens of the animal and the reptile tribes were imitated with a fidelity that was amazing. In addition, the renditions were interspersed with droll and lively comments by Larry that added immensely to the humor of the performance. When at last it was over, the boys broke out into enthusiastic hand-clapping that would have warmed Larry's heart, had he been able to hear it.

"The old boy is all there!" chortled Bob enthusiastically.

"He's a wonder!" ejaculated Joe. "No question there of a square peg in a round hole. He's found exactly the work in life he's specially fitted for."

"And think of the audience he has," put in Jimmy. "At this very minute there are probably hundreds of thousands of people who have been tickled to death at his performance. Just suppose those people all clapped their hands at once just as we have done and we could hear it. Why, it would be like a young earthquake."

At this moment the doorbell rang, and Dr. Dale was announced. He spent a few minutes with Mr. and Mrs. Layton, and then came up to have a little chat with the boys. This was one thing he never overlooked. His interest in and sympathy with the young were unbounded, and accounted largely for the influence that he exerted in the community.

The radio boys greeted the minister warmly and gladly made room for him around the table. His coming was never felt by them to be an interruption. They regarded him almost as one of themselves. Apart, too, from the thorough liking they had for him as a man, they were exceedingly grateful to him for the help he had been to them in radio matters. He was their mentor, guide and friend.

"I knew I'd find you busy with the radio," he said, with a genial smile.

"We can't be torn away from it," replied Bob. "We think it's just the greatest thing that ever happened. Just now we've been listening to Larry Bartlett give his imitations of animals. You remember Larry?"

"I certainly do," replied Dr. Dale. "And I remember how you boys helped him get his present position. It was one of the best things you ever did. He's certainly a finished artist. I heard him on his opening night, and I've laughed thinking of it many times since. He's a most amusing entertainer."

It was the first opportunity the boys had had to tell the doctor of the night when Bob found that he was a human aerial, and he listened to the many details of the experiment with absorbed interest.

"It's something new to me," he said. "You boys have reason to be gratified at having had a novel experience. That's the beauty of radio. Something new is always cropping up. Many of the other sciences have been more or less fully explored, and while none of them will ever be exhausted, their limits have been to some extent indicated. But in radio we're standing just on the threshold of a science whose infinite possibilities have not even been guessed. One discovery crowds so closely on the heels of another that we have all we can do to keep track of them.

"I've just got back from a little trip up in New York State," he went on, as he settled himself more comfortably in his chair, "and I stopped off at Schenectady to look over the big radio station there. By great good luck, Marconi happened to be there on the same day --  -- "

"Marconi!" breathed Bob. "The father of wireless!"

"Yes," smiled Dr. Dale. "Or if you want to put it in another way, the Christopher Columbus who discovered the New World of radio. I counted it a special privilege to get a glimpse of him. But what attracted my special attention in the little while I could spend there was a small tube about eighteen inches long and two inches in diameter which many radio experts think will completely revolutionize long distance radio communication."

"You mean the Langmuir tube," said Joe. "I was reading of it the other day, and it seems to be a dandy."

"It's a wonderful thing," replied the doctor. "Likely enough it will take the place of the great transatlantic plants which require so much room and such enormous machinery. It's practically noiseless. Direct current is sent into the wire through a complicated wire system and generates a high frequency current of tremendous power. I saw it working when it was connected with an apparatus carrying about fifteen thousand volts of electricity in a direct current. A small blue flame shot through the tube with scarcely a particle of noise. The broken impulse from the electrical generators behind the tube was sent through the tube to be flung off from the antenna into space in the dots and dashes of the international code. That little tube was not much bigger than a stick of dynamite, but was infinitely more powerful. I was so fascinated by it and all that it meant that it was hard work to tear myself away from it. It marks a great step forward in the field of radio."

"It must have been wonderfully interesting," remarked Bob. "And yet I suppose that in a year or two something new will be invented that will put even that out of date."

"It's practically certain that there will be," assented the doctor. "The miracles of to-day become the commonplaces of to-morrow. That fifty-kilowatt tube that develops twelve horsepower within its narrow walls of glass, wonderful as it is, is bound to be superseded by something better, and the inventor himself would be the first one to admit it. Some of the finest scientific brains in the country are working on the problem, and he would be a bold prophet and probably a false prophet that would set any bounds to its possibilities.

"Radio is yet in its infancy," the doctor concluded, as he rose to go. "But one thing is certain. In the lifetime of those who witnessed its birth it will become a giant -- but a benevolent giant who, instead of destroying will re-create our civilization."



Chapter VI

The Forest Ranger


Some days later Bob and Herb and Joe were on their way to Bob's house to do a little experimenting on the latter's set, when they were surprised at the alacrity with which Jimmy turned a corner and came puffing up to them.

"Say, fellows!" he yelled, as he came within earshot, "I've got some mighty interesting news for you."

"Let's have it," said Bob.

"It's about the snowball Buck fired through the window," panted Jimmy, falling into step beside them. "I met a man who's staying up at the Sterling House. He says Buck's the boy who did it, all right."

"How does he know?" all of the others asked with interest.

"Saw Buck pick up a stone and pack the snow hard around it," said Jimmy importantly. "He saw it himself, so we've got one witness for our side, all right."

"That's good," said Bob, adding, with a glint in his eye: "Say, wouldn't I like to get my hands on Buck, just for about five minutes!"

"Well, you won't have a chance," said Jimmy, enjoying being the bearer of so much news. "Buck's gone with his father to a lumber camp up in Braxton woods."

"How do you know all this?" inquired Herb curiously. "You seem to be chock full of information to-day."

"Oh, a little bird told me," said Jimmy, looking mysterious. However, as Herb made a threatening motion toward him, he hurried to explain. "I met Terry Mooney," he said. "I told him I knew all about who put the stone in the snowball and I told him that our crowd was going to make his look like two cents. He laughed and said swell chance we'd have. Said Buck had gone to the lumber camp with his father and that he and Carl Lutz were going to join him in a day or two. Just like Buck to run away when he knows there's a good licking coming to him!" added Jimmy, with a sneer.

"Oh, well, what do we care?" said Joe. "At least we sha'n't have those fellows around spoiling all the fun."

"I'm glad you found out about the snowball just the same," said Bob thoughtfully. "Every little bit helps when we have to fight against that crooked gang of Buck's."

"Here's hoping," said Herb fervently, "that they stay away all the rest of the spring."

By this time the lads had reached Bob's house. It was Saturday afternoon, and as the boys crowded noisily into the hall Bob noticed that his father was in the library and that he seemed to have company.

He was starting upstairs with the other lads when his father came out of the library and called to him.

"Come on in for a few minutes, boys," he said. "I have a friend here who is a man after your own hearts," and his eyes twinkled. "He's interested in radio."

The boys needed no second invitation, for they never missed an opportunity of meeting any one who could tell them something about the wonders of radio.

Mr. Layton's guest was lounging in one of the great chairs in the library, and from the moment the boys laid eyes on him they knew they were going to hear something of more than usual interest.

The stranger was big, over six feet, and his face and hands were like a Cuban's, they were so dark. Even his fair hair seemed to have been burnt a darker hue by the sun. There was a tang of the great out-of-doors about him, a hint of open spaces and adventure that fascinated the radio boys.

"This is my son, Mr. Bentley," said Mr. Layton to the lounging stranger, still with a twinkle in his eye. "And the other boys are his inseparable companions. Also I think they are almost as crazy about radio as you are."

The stranger laughed and turned to Bob.

"I've been upstairs to see your set," he said, adding heartily: "It's fine. I've seldom seen better amateur equipment."

If Bob had liked this stranger before, it was nothing to what he felt for him now. To the radio boys, if any one praised their radio sets, this person, no matter who it was, promptly became their friend for life.

"I'm glad you think it's pretty good," Bob said modestly. "We fellows have surely worked hard enough over it."

"This gentleman here," said Mr. Layton to the boys, "ought to know quite a bit about radio. He operates an airplane in the service of our Government Forestry."

"In the United States Forest Service?" cried Bob, breathlessly, eyeing the stranger with increasing interest. "And is your airplane equipped with radio?"

"Very much so," replied Mr. Bentley. "It seems almost a fairy tale -- what radio has done for the Forest Service."

"I've read a lot about the fighting of forest fires," broke in Joe eagerly. "But I didn't know radio had anything to do with it."

"It hadn't until the last few years," the visitor answered, adding, with a laugh: "But now it's pretty near the whole service!"

"Won't you tell us something about what you do?" asked Bob.

Mr. Bentley waved a deprecating hand while Mr. Layton leaned back in his chair with the air of one who is enjoying himself.

"It isn't so much what I do," protested this interesting newcomer, while the boys hung upon his every word. "It is what radio has done in the fighting of forest fires that is the marvelous, the almost unbelievable, thing. The man who first conceived the idea of bringing radio into the wilderness had to meet and overcome the same discouragements that fall to the lot of every pioneer.

"The government declared that the cost of carrying and setting up the radio apparatus would be greater than the loss occasioned every season by the terribly destructive forest fires. But there was a fellow named Adams who thought he knew better."

"Adams!" repeated Bob breathlessly. "Wasn't he the fellow who had charge of the Mud Creek ranger station at Montana?"

The visitor nodded and gazed at Bob with interest. "How did you know?" he asked.

"Oh, I read something about him a while ago," answered Bob vaguely. He was chiefly interested in having Mr. Bentley go on.

"I should think," said Herb, "that it would be pretty hard work carrying delicate radio apparatus into the lumber country."

"You bet your life it is," replied Mr. Bentley. "The only way the apparatus can be carried is by means of pack horses, and as each horse can't carry more than a hundred and fifty pounds you see it takes quite a few of the animals to lug even an ordinary amount of apparatus.

"The hardest part of the whole thing," he went on, warming to his recital as the boys were so evidently interested, "was packing the cumbersome storage batteries. These batteries were often lost in transit, too. If a pack horse happened to slip from the trail, its pack became loosened and went tumbling down the mountain side --  -- "

"That's the life!" interrupted Jimmy gleefully, and the visitor smiled at him.

"You might not think so if you happened to be the one detailed to travel back over the almost impassable trails for the missing apparatus," observed Mr. Bentley ruefully. "It wasn't all fun, that pioneer installation of radio. Not by any means."

"But radio turned the trick just the same," said Bob slangily. "I've read that a message that used to take two days to pass between ranger stations can be sent now in a few seconds."

"Right!" exclaimed Mr. Bentley, his eyes glinting. "In a little while the saving in the cost of forest fires will more than pay for the installation of radio. We nose out a fire and send word by wireless to the nearest station, before the fire fairly knows it's started."

"But just what is it that you do?" asked Joe, with flattering eagerness.

"I do scout work," was the reply. "I help patrol the fire line in cases of bad fires. The men fighting the fire generally carry a portable receiving apparatus along with them, and by that means, I, in my airplane, can report the progress of a fire and direct the distribution of the men."

"It must be exciting work," said Herb enviously. "That's just the kind of life I'd like -- plenty of adventure, something doing every minute."

"There's usually plenty doing," agreed Mr. Bentley, with a likable grin. "We can't complain that our life is slow."

"I should think," said Bob slowly, "that it might be dangerous, installing sets right there in the heavy timber."

"That's what lots of radio engineers thought also," agreed Mr. Bentley. "But no such trouble has developed so far, and I guess it isn't likely to now."

"Didn't they have some trouble in getting power enough for their sets?" asked Joe, with interest.

"Yes, that was a serious drawback in the beginning," came the answer. "They had to design a special equipment -- a sort of gasoline charging plant. In this way they were able to secure enough power for the charging of the storage batteries."

Bob drew a long breath.

"Wouldn't I have liked to be the one to fit up that first wireless station!" he cried enthusiastically. "Just think how that Mr. Adams must have felt when he received his first message through the air."

"It wasn't all fun," the interesting visitor reminded the boys. "The station was of the crudest sort, you know. The first operator had a box to sit on and another box served as the support for his apparatus."

"So much the better," retorted Bob stoutly. "A radio fan doesn't know or care, half the time, what he's sitting on."

"Which proves," said Mr. Bentley, laughing, "that you are a real one!" And at this all the lads grinned.

"But say," interrupted Joe, going back to the problem of power, "weren't the engineers able to think up something to take the place of the gasoline charging stations?"

"Oh, yes. But not without a good deal of experimenting. Now they are using two hundred and seventy number two Burgess dry batteries. These, connecting in series, secure the required three hundred and fifty-volt plate current."



Chapter VII

Radio And The Fire Fiend


"Well, I hope that the boys know what you're talking about," interrupted Mr. Layton at this point, his eyes twinkling, "for I'm sure I don't."

"They know what I'm talking about all right," returned his guest, admiration in his laughing eyes as he looked at the boys. "Unless I miss my guess, these fellows are the stuff of which radio experts are made. I bet they'll do great things yet."

"Won't you tell us more about your experiences?" begged Herb, while the other boys tried not to look too pleased at the praise. "It isn't often we have a chance to hear of adventures like yours first hand."

"Well," said Mr. Bentley, modestly, "I don't know that there's much to tell. All we scouts do is to patrol the country and watch for fires. Of course, in case of a big fire, our duties are more exciting. I remember one fire," he leaned back in his chair reminiscently and the boys listened eagerly, hanging on every word. "It was a beauty of its kind, covering pretty nearly fourteen miles. Thousands of dollars' worth of valuable timber was menaced. It looked for a time as if it would get the better of us, at that.

"Men were scarce and there was a high wind to urge the fire on. A receiving set was rushed to the fire line, some of the apparatus in a truck and some carried by truck horses. My plane was detailed to patrol the fire line and give directions to the men who were fighting the fire."

He paused, and the boys waited impatiently for him to go on.

"The good old plane was equipped for both sending and receiving, and I tell you we patrolled that fourteen miles of flaming forest, sometimes coming so close to the tree tops that we almost seemed to brush them.

"My duty, of course, was to report the progress of the fire. Controlled at one point, it broke out at another, and it was through the messages from my 'plane to the ground set stationed just behind the fire line that the men were moved from one danger point to the next.

"Finally, the fire seeming nearly out along one side of the ridge, I sent the men to fighting it on the other side, where it had been left to rage uncontrolled. No sooner had the men scattered for the danger point than the brooding fire broke out again and it was necessary to recall half the men.

"It was a long fight and a hard one, but with the aid of the blessed old wireless, we finally won out. As a matter of fact, the wireless-equipped airplane has become as necessary to the Forest Service as ships are to the navy.

"In the old days," he went on, seeing that the boys were still deeply interested, "when they depended upon the ordinary telephone to convey warnings of fires they were surely leaning upon a broken reed.

"Often, just when they needed the means of communication most, the fire would sweep through the woods, destroying trees to which the telephone wires were fastened, and melting the wires themselves. So the eyes of the Forest Service were put out and they were forced to work in the dark."

"But I should think," protested Bob, "that there would be times when even wireless would be put out of the job. Suppose the fire were to reach one of the stations equipped with wireless. What then?"

Mr. Bentley laughed as though amused at something.

"I can tell you an interesting incident connected with that," he said. "And one that shows the pluck and common sense of radio operators in general -- don't think that I'm throwing bouquets at myself, now, for first and last, I am a pilot, even if sometimes I find it necessary to employ radio.

"Well, anyway, this operator that I am speaking of, found himself in a perilous position. A fire had been raging for days, and now it was so close to his station that the station itself was threatened.

"One morning when he got up the smoke from the burning forest was swirling about the open space in front of the station and he knew that before long he would be seeing flame instead of smoke. The fire fighters had been working ceaselessly, fighting gallantly, but the elements were against them. The air was almost as dry and brittle as the wood which the flames lapped up and there was a steady wind that drove the fire on and on.

"If only there might come a fog or the wind change its direction! But the radio man had no intention of waiting on the elements. I don't believe he gave more than a passing thought to his own safety -- his chief interest was for the safety of his beloved apparatus.

"He decided to dismantle the set, build a raft and set himself and the apparatus adrift upon the water in the attempt to save it.

"And so he worked feverishly, while the fire came closer and he could hear the men who were fighting the fire shouting to each other. Finally he succeeded in dismantling the set and got it down to the water's edge.

"Here he built a rough raft, piled the apparatus upon it, jumped after it, and drifted out into the middle of the lake."

"Did the station burn down?" asked Jimmy excitedly.

"No, fortunately. The wind died down in the nick of time, giving the men a chance to control the blaze. When it was evident the danger was past, the operator set up his apparatus again and prepared to continue his duties, as though nothing had happened.

"There you have the tremendous advantage of radio. There were no wires to be destroyed. Only a radio set which could be dismantled and taken to safety while the fire raged."

"That operator sure had his nerve with him, all right," said Bob admiringly.

"More nerve than common sense perhaps," chuckled Mr. Bentley. "But you certainly can't help admiring him. He was right there when it came to grit."

After a while they began to discuss technicalities, and the boys learned a great many things they had never known before. The pilot happening to mention that there were sometimes a number of airplanes equipped with radio operating within a restricted district, Joe wanted to know if they did not have a good deal of trouble with interference.

"No. There was at first some interference by amateurs, but these soon learned to refrain from using their instruments during patrol periods.

"You see," he explained, "we use a special type of transmitting outfit aboard our fire-detection craft. It's called the SCR-Seventy-three. The equipment obtains its power from a self-excited inductor type alternator. This is propelled by a fixed wooden-blade air fan. In the steam-line casing of the alternator the rotary spark gap, alternator, potential transformer, condenser and oscillation transformer are self-contained. Usually the alternator is mounted on the underside of the fuselage where the propeller spends its force in the form of an air stream. The telegraph sending keys, field and battery switch, dry battery, variometer and antenna reel are the only units included inside the fuselage.

"The type of transmitter is a simple rotary gap, indirectly excited spark and provided with nine taps on the inductance coil of the closed oscillating circuit. Five varying toothed discs for the rotary spark gap yield five different signal tones and nine different wave lengths are possible.

"So," he finished, looking around at their absorbed faces, "you see it is quite possible to press into service a number of airplanes without being bothered by interference."

"It sounds complete," said Bob. "I'd like a chance to see one of those sets at close range sometime."

The time passed so quickly that finally the visitor rose with an apology for staying so late. The radio boys were sorry to see him go. They could have sat for hours more, listening to him.

"That fellow sure has had some experiences!" said Joe, as, a little later, the boys mounted the stairs to Bob's room. "It was mighty lucky we happened along while he was here."

"You bet your life," said Herb. "I wouldn't have missed meeting him for a lot."

"Say, fellows," Jimmy announced from the head of the stairs, "I know now what I'm going to do when I'm through school. It's me for the tall timber. I'm going to pilot an airplane in the service of my country."

"Ain't he noble?" demanded Herb, grinning, as the boys crowded into Bob's room.



Chapter VIII

Near Disaster


Several days later while the radio boys were experimenting with their big set and talking over their interesting meeting with the Forest Service ranger, Herb displayed an immense horseshoe magnet.

"Look what he's got for luck," chortled Jimmy. "The superstitious nut!"

"Superstitious nothing!" snorted Herb. "If I'd wanted it for luck I wouldn't have got a magnet, would I? Any old common horseshoe would have done for luck."

"Well, what's the big idea?" asked Bob, looking up from the audion tube he was experimenting with. "Or is there any?" he added, with a grin.

"You bet your life there is!" returned Herb. "It's got to do with that very audion tube you're fussing with."

"Ah, go on," jeered Joe, good-naturedly. "What's a magnet got to do with an audion tube, I'd like to know!"

"Poor old Herb," added Jimmy, with a commiserating shake of the head.

"Say, look here, all you fellows! Don't you go wasting any pity on me," cried Herb hotly. "If you don't look out, I won't show you my experiment at all."

"Go on, Herb," said Bob consolingly. "I'm listening."

"Well, I'm glad there's one sensible member of this bunch!" cried Herb, and from then on addressed himself solely to Bob. "Look here," he said. "You can make the audion tube ever so much more sensitive to vibration if you put this magnet near it."

"Who says so?" asked Bob, with interest.

"I do. Here, put on the headphones and listen. I'll prove it to you."

Bob obeyed and tuned in to the nearest broadcasting station where a concert was scheduled. As soon as he signified by a nod of his head that the connection was satisfactory Herb placed the big horseshoe magnet in such a position that the poles of the magnet were on each side of the tube.

Sure enough, Bob was amazed at the almost magical improvement in the sound. It was clearer, more distinct, altogether more satisfactory. He listened in for another moment then wonderingly took off the headphones while Herb grinned at him in triumph.

"Well, what do you think?" asked the latter while Joe and Jimmy looked at them curiously.

"Think?" repeated Bob, still wonderingly. "Why, there's only one thing to think, of course. That fool horseshoe of yours, Herb, is one wonderful improvement. I don't know how it works, but it surely is a marvel."

Herb glanced at Jimmy and Joe in triumph.

"What did I tell you?" he said. "Perhaps now you'll believe that my idea wasn't such a fool one after all."

"But what did it do, Bob?" asked Joe, mystified.

"It increased the sensitivity of that old audion tube, that's what it did," replied Bob, absently, his mind already busy with inventive thoughts. "I can't see yet just how it accomplished it, but the connection with the station was certainly clearer and more distinct than usual."

"But how can a magnet increase the sensitivity of a vacuum tube?" asked Jimmy, not yet wholly convinced. "It doesn't make sense."

"Well, I don't see why not," contradicted Joe slowly. "I suppose the improvement is due to the magnetic effect of the magnet upon the electrons flowing from the filament to the plate. I don't exactly see why it should be an improvement, but if it is, then there must be some reason for it."

"I wish we could find the reason!" cried Bob excitedly. "If we could make some improvement upon the vacuum tube --  -- "

"Don't wake him up, he is dreaming!" cried Herb. "If you don't look out, old boy, you'll have us all millionaires."

"Well, there are worse things," retorted Bob, taking the magnet from Herb's hand and placing it near the tube. "This has given us something to think about, anyway."

For a while they puzzled over the mystery, trying to find some way in which the discovery might be made to serve a practical purpose -- all except Herb, who retired to one corner of the "lab" to fuss with some chemicals which he fondly hoped might be used in the construction of a battery.

So engrossed were the boys in the problem of the magnet and vacuum tube that they forgot all about Herb and his experiments. So what happened took them completely off their guard.

There was a sudden cry from Herb, followed closely by an explosion that knocked them off their feet. For a moment they lay there, a bit dazed by the shock. Then they scrambled to their feet and looked about them. Herb, being the nearest to the explosion, had got the worst of it. His face and hands were black and he was shaking a little from the shock. He gazed at the boys sheepishly.

"Wh-what happened?" asked Jimmy dazedly.

"An earthquake, I guess," replied Bob, as he looked about him to see what damage had been done.

Some doughnuts, which their namesake had recently fetched from the store, lay scattered upon the floor, together with some rather dilapidated-looking pieces of candy, but aside from this, nothing seemed to have been damaged seriously.

Jimmy's followed Bob's gaze, and, finding his precious sweets upon the floor, began gathering them up hastily, stuffing a doughnut in his mouth to help him hurry. What mattered it to Jimmy that the floor was none too clean?

"Say, what's the big idea, anyway," Joe demanded of the blackened Herb. "Trying to start a Fourth of July celebration, or something?"

"I was just mixing some chemicals, and the result was a flare-up," explained Herb sulkily. "Now, stop rubbing it into a fellow, will you? You might know I didn't do it on purpose."

Bob began to laugh.

"Better get in connection with some soap and water, Herb," he said. "Just now you look like the lead for a minstrel show."

"Never mind, Herb," Joe flung after the disconsolate scientist as he made for the door. "As long as you don't hurt anything but Jimmy's doughnuts, we don't care. You can have as many explosions as you like."

"Humph, that's all right for you," retorted Jimmy. "But I'll have you know I spent my last nickel for those doughnuts."

"Just the same," said Bob soberly, as they returned to the problem of the vacuum tube, "we're mighty lucky to have come off with so little damage. Mixing chemicals is a pretty dangerous business unless you know just what you're doing."

"And even then it is," added Joe.



Chapter IX

A Happy Inspiration


The days passed by, the boys becoming more and more engrossed in the fascination of radio all the time. They continued to work on their sets, sometimes with the most gratifying results, at others seeming to make little headway.

But in spite of occasional discouragements they worked on, cheered by the knowledge that they were making steady, if sometimes slow, progress.

There were so many really worth-while improvements being perfected each day that they really found it difficult to keep up with them all.

"Wish we could hear Cassey's voice again," said Herb, one day when they had tuned in on several more or less interesting personal messages.

"I don't know what good it would do us," grumbled Joe. "If he speaks always in code he could keep us guessing till doomsday."

"He's up to some sort of mischief, anyway," said Bob; "and I, for one, would enjoy catching him at it again."

"We would be more comfortable to have Dan Cassey in jail, where he belongs," observed Jimmy.

But just at present the trailing of that stuttering voice seemed an impossible feat even for the radio boys. If they could only get some tangible clue to work on!

They saw nothing of Buck Looker or his cronies about town, and concluded that they were still at the lumber camp.

"Can't stay away too long to suit me," Bob said cheerfully.

It was about that time that Bob found out about Adam McNulty. Adam McNulty was the blind father of the washerwoman who served the four families of the boys.

Bob went to the McNulty cabin, buried in the most squalid district of the town, bearing a message from his mother. When he got there he found that Mr. McNulty was the only one at home.

The old fellow, smoking a black pipe in the bare kitchen of the house, seemed so pathetically glad to see some one -- or, rather, to hear some one -- that Bob yielded to his invitation to sit down and talk to him.

And, someway, even after Bob reached home, he could not shake off the memory of the lonesome old blind man with nothing to do all day long but sit in a chair smoking his pipe, waiting for some chance word from a passer-by.

It did not seem fair that he, Bob, should have all the good things of life while that old man should have nothing -- nothing, at all.

He spoke to his chums about it, but, though they were sympathetic, they did not see anything they could do.

"We can't give him back his eyesight, you know," said Joe absently, already deep in a new scheme of improvement for the set.

"No," said Bob. "But we might give him something that would do nearly as well."

"What do you mean?" they asked, puzzled.

"Radio," said Bob, and laid his hand lovingly on the apparatus. "If it means a lot to us, just think how much more it would mean to some one who hasn't a thing to do all day but sit and think. Why, I don't suppose any of us who can see can begin to realize what it would mean not to be able even to read the daily newspaper."

The others stared at Bob, and slowly his meaning sank home.

"I get you," said Joe slowly. "And say, let me tell you, it's a great idea, Bob. It wouldn't be so bad to be blind if you could have the daily news read to you every day --  -- "

"And listen to the latest on crops," added Jimmy.

"To say nothing of the latest jazz," finished Herb, with a grin.

"Well, why doesn't this blind man get himself a set?" asked Jimmy practically. "I should think every blind person in the country would want to own one."

"I suppose every one of them does," said Bob. "And Doctor Dale said the other day that he thought the time would come when charities for the blind would install radio as a matter of humanity, and that prices of individual sets would be so low that all the blind could afford them. The blind are many of them old, you know, and pretty poor."

"You mean," said Herb slowly, "that most of the blind folks who really need radio more than anybody else can't afford it? Say, that doesn't seem fair, does it?"

"It isn't fair!" cried Bob, adding, eagerly: "I tell you what I thought we could do. There's that old set of mine! It doesn't seem much to us now, beside our big one, but I bet that McNulty would think it was a gold mine."

"Hooray for Bob!" cried Herb irrepressibly. "Once in a while he really does get a good idea in his head. When do we start installing this set in the McNulty mansion, boys?"

"As soon as you like," answered Bob. "Tomorrow's Saturday, so we could start early in the morning. It will probably take us some time to rig up the antenna."

The boys were enthusiastic about the idea, and they wasted no time putting it into execution. That very night they looked up the old set, examining it to make sure it was in working order.

When they told their families what they proposed to do, their parents were greatly pleased.

"It does my heart good," said Mr. Layton to his wife, after Bob had gone up to bed, "to see that those boys are interested in making some one besides themselves happy."

"They're going to make fine men, some day," answered Mrs. Layton softly.

The boys arrived at the McNulty cottage so early the next morning that they met Maggie McNulty on her way to collect the day's wash.

When they told her what they were going to do she was at first too astonished to speak and then threatened to fall upon their necks in her gratitude.

"Shure, if ye can bring some sunshine into my poor old father's dark life," she told them in her rich brogue, tears in her eyes, "then ye'll shure win the undyin' gratitude uv Maggie McNulty."

It was a whole day's job, and the boys worked steadily, only stopping long enough to rush home for a bit of lunch.

They had tried to explain what they were doing to Adam McNulty, but the old man seemed almost childishly mystified. It was with a feeling of dismay that the boys realized that, in all probability, this was the first time the blind man had ever heard the word radio. It seemed incredible to them that there could be anybody in the world who did not know about radio.

However, if Adam McNulty was mystified, he was also delightedly, pitifully excited. He followed the boys out to the cluttered back yard where they were rigging up the aerial, listening eagerly to their chatter and putting in a funny word now and then that made them roar with laughter.

Bob brought him an empty soap box for a seat and there the old man sat hour after hour, despite the fact that there was a chill in the air, blissfully happy in their companionship. He had been made to understand that something pleasant was being done for him, but it is doubtful if he could have asked for any greater happiness than just to sit there with somebody to talk to and crack his jokes with.

They were good jokes too, full of real Irish wit, and long before the set was ready for action the boys had become fond of the old fellow.

"He's a dead game sport," Joe said to Bob, in that brief interval when they had raced home for lunch. "I bet I'd be a regular old crab, blind like that."

Mrs. Layton put up an appetizing lunch for the blind man, topping it off with a delicious homemade lemon pie and a thermos bottle full of steaming coffee.

The way the old man ate that food was amazing even to Jimmy. Maggie was too busy earning enough to keep them alive to bother much with dainties. At any rate, Adam ate the entire lemon pie, not leaving so much as a crumb.

"I thought I was pretty good on feeding," whispered Joe, in a delighted aside, "but I never could go that old bird. He's got me beat a mile."

"Well," said Jimmy complacently, "I bet I'd tie with him."

If the boys had wanted any reward for that day of strenuous work, they would have had it when, placing the earphones upon his white head, they watched the expression of McNulty's face change from mystification to wonder, then to beatific enjoyment.

He listened motionless while the exquisite music flooded his starved old soul. Toward the end he closed his eyes and tears trickled from beneath the lids down his wrinkled face. He brushed them off impatiently and the boys noticed that his hand was trembling.

It was a long, long time before he seemed to be aware that there was any one in the room with him. He seemed to have completely forgotten the boys who had bestowed this rare gift upon him.

After a while, coming out of his dream, the old man began fumbling with the headphones as if he wanted to take them off, and Bob helped him. The man tried to speak, but made hard work of it. Emotion choked him.

"Shure, an' I don't know what to make of it at all, at all," he said at last, in a quivering voice. "Shure an' I thought the age of miracles was passed. I'm only an ignorant old man, with no eyes at all; but you lads have given me something that's near as good. Shure an' it's an old sinner I am, for shure. Many's the day I've sat here, prayin' the Lord would give me wan more minute o' sight before I died, an' it was unanswered my prayers wuz, I thought. It's grateful I am to yez, lads. It's old Adam McNulty's blessin' ye'll always have. An' now will yez put them things in my ears? It's heaven's own angels I'd like to be hearin' agin. That's the lad -- ah!"

And while the beatific expression stole once more over his blind old face the boys stole silently out.



Chapter X

The Escaped Convict


The boys saw a good deal of Adam McNulty in the days that followed, and the change in the old man was nothing short of miraculous.

He no longer sat in the bare kitchen rocking and smoking his pipe, dependent upon some passer-by for his sole amusement. He had radio now, and under the instruction of the boys he had become quite expert in managing the apparatus. Although he had no eyes, his fingers were extraordinarily sensitive and they soon learned to handle the set intelligently.

His daughter Maggie, whose gratitude to the boys knew no bounds, looked up the radio program in the paper each day and carefully instructed her father as to just when the news reports were given out, the story reading, concerts, and so forth.

And so the old blind man lived in a new world -- or rather, the old world which he had ceased to live in when he became blind -- and he seemed actually to grow younger day by day. For radio had become his eyes.

Doctor Dale heard of this act of kindness on the part of the boys and he was warm in his praise.

"Radio," he told the boys one day when he met them on the street, "is a wonderful thing for those of us that can see, but for the blind it is a miracle. You boys have done an admirable thing in your kindness to Adam McNulty, and I hope that, not only individuals, but the government itself will see the possibilities of so great a charity and follow your example."

The boys glowed with pride at the doctor's praise, and then and there made the resolve that whenever they came across a blind person that person should immediately possess a radio set if it lay within their power to give it to him.

On this particular day when so many things happened the boys were walking down Main Street, talking as usual of their sets and the marvelous progress of radio.

Although it was still early spring, the air was as warm almost as it would be two months later. There was a smell of damp earth and pushing grass in the air, and the boys, sniffing hungrily, longed suddenly for the freedom of the open country.

"Buck and his bunch have it all their own way," said Herb discontentedly. "I wouldn't mind being up in a lumber camp myself just now."

"Too early for the country yet," said Jimmy philosophically. "Probably be below zero to-morrow."

"What you thinking about, Bob?" asked Joe, noticing that his chum had been quiet for some time.

"I was thinking," said Bob, coming out of his reverie, "of the difference there has been in generators since the early days of Marconi's spark coil. First we had the spark transmitters and then we graduated to transformers --  -- "

"And they still gave us the spark," added Joe, taking up the theme. "Then came the rotary spark gap and later the Goldsmith generator --  -- "

"And then," Jimmy continued cheerfully, "the Goldsmith generator was knocked into a cocked hat by the Alexanderson generator."

"They'll have an improvement on that before long, too," prophesied Herb.

"They have already," Bob took him up quickly. "Don't you remember what Doctor Dale told us of the new power vacuum tube where one tube can take care of fifty K. W.?"

"Gee," breathed Herb admiringly, "I'll say that's some energy."

"Those same vacuum tubes are being built right now," went on Bob enthusiastically. "They are made of quartz and are much cheaper than the alternators we're using now."

"They are small too, compared to our present-day generators," added Joe.

"You bet!" agreed Bob, adding, as his eyes narrowed dreamily: "All the apparatus seems to be growing smaller these days, anyway. I bet before we fellows are twenty years older, engineers will have done away altogether with large power plants and cumbersome machinery."

"I read the other day," said Joe, "that before long all the apparatus needed, even for transatlantic stations, can be contained in a small room about twenty-five feet by twenty-five."

"But what shall we do for power?" protested Herb. "We'll always have to have generators."

"There isn't any such word as 'always' in radio," returned Bob. "I shouldn't wonder if in the next twenty or thirty years we shall be able, by means of appliances like this new power vacuum tube, to get our power from the ordinary lighting circuit."

"And that would do away entirely with generators," added Joe triumphantly.

"Well, I wouldn't say anything was impossible," said Herb doubtfully. "But that seems to me like a pretty large order."

"It is a large order," agreed Bob, adding with conviction: "But it isn't too large for radio to fill."

"Speaking of lodging all apparatus in one fair-sized room," Joe went on. "I don't see why that can't really be done in a few years. Why, they say that this new power vacuum tube which handles fifty K. W. is not any larger than a desk drawer."

"I see the day of the vest-pocket radio set coming nearer and nearer, according to you fellows," announced Herb. "Pretty soon we'll be getting our apparatus so small we'll need a microscope to see it."

"Laugh if you want to," said Bob. "But I bet in the next few years we're going to see greater things done in radio than have been accomplished yet."

"And that's saying something!" exclaimed Joe, with a laugh.

"I guess," said Jimmy thoughtfully, "that there have been more changes in a short time in radio than in any other science."

"I should say so!" Herb took him up. "Look at telephone and telegraph and electric lighting systems. There have been changes in them, of course, but beside the rapid-fire changes of radio, they seem to have been standing still."

"There haven't been any changes to speak of in the electric lighting systems for the last fifteen years or more," said Bob. "And the telephone has stayed just about the same, too."

"There's no doubt about it," said Joe. "Radio has got 'em all beat as far as a field for experiment is concerned. Say," he added fervently, "aren't you glad you weren't born a hundred years ago?"

The boys stopped in at Adam McNulty's cabin to see how the old fellow was getting along. They found him in the best of spirits and, after "listening in" with him for a while and laughing at some of his Irish jokes, they started toward home.

"I wish," said Bob, "that we could have gotten a line on Dan Cassey. It seems strange that we haven't been able to pick up some real clue in all this time."

For, although the boys had caught several other mysterious messages uttered in the stuttering voice of Dan Cassey, they had not been able to make head nor tail of them. The lads liked mysteries, but they liked them chiefly for the fun of solving them. And they seemed no nearer to solving this one than they had been in the beginning.

"I know it's a fool idea," said Herb sheepishly. "But since we were the ones that got Cassey his jail sentence before, I kind of feel as if we were responsible for him."

"It's pretty lucky for us we're not," remarked Joe. "We certainly would be up against it."

On and on the boys went. Presently Joe began to whistle and all joined in until suddenly Jimmy uttered a cry and went down on his face.

"Hello, what's wrong?" questioned Bob, leaping to his chum's side.

"Tripped on a tree root," growled Doughnuts, rising slowly. "Gosh! what a spill I had."

"Better look where you are going," suggested Herb.

"I don't see why they can't chop off some of these roots, so it's better walking."

"All right -- you come down and do the chopping," returned Joe, lightly.

"Not much! The folks that own the woods can do that."

"Don't find fault, Jimmy. Remember, some of these very roots have furnished us with shinny sticks."

"Well, not the one I tripped over."

It was some time later that the boys noticed that they had tramped further than they had intended. They were on the very outskirts of the town, and before them the heavily-wooded region stretched invitingly.

Jimmy, who, on account of his plumpness, was not as good a hiker as the other boys, was for turning back, but the other three wanted to go on. And, being three against one, Jimmy had not the shadow of a chance of getting his own way.

It was cool in the shadows of the woods, and the boys were reminded that it was still early in the season. It was good to be in the woods, just the same, and they tramped on for a long way before they finally decided it was time to turn back.

They were just about to turn around when voices on the path ahead of them made them hesitate. As they paused three men came into full view, and the boys stood, staring.

Two of the men they had never seen before, but the other they knew well. It was the man whose voice they had been trailing all these weeks -- Dan Cassey, the stutterer!



Chapter XI

Down The Trap Door


It seemed that in the semi-darkness of the woods Cassey did not at once recognize the radio boys. He was talking excitedly to his companions in his stuttering tongue and he was almost upon the boys before he realized who they were.

He stopped still, eyes and mouth wide open. Then, with a stuttered imprecation, he turned and fled. The men with him stayed not to question, but darted furtively into the woods.

"Come on, fellows!" cried Bob, with a whoop of delight. "Here's where we nail Dan Cassey, sure."

The boys, except poor Jimmy, were unusually fleet, and they soon overtook Cassey. Bob's hand was almost upon him when the man doubled suddenly in his tracks and darted off into the thick underbrush.

Bob, with Herb and Joe close at his heels, was after him in a minute. He reached a clearing just in time to see Cassey dash into an old barn which had been hidden by the trees.

The boys plunged into the barn with Jimmy pantingly bringing up the rear. In Bob's heart was a wild exultation. They had Cassey cornered. Once more they would bring this criminal to justice.

"You guard the door," he called in a low tone to Joe. "See that Cassey doesn't get out that way, and Herb and I will get after him in here."

The barn was so dark that they could hardly see to move around. There was a window high up in the side wall, but this was so covered with dirt and cobwebs that it was almost as though there was none.

However, Cassey must be lurking in one of those dark corners, and if they moved carefully they were sure to capture him!

There was a loft to the barn, but if there had been a ladder leading up to it it had long since rotted and dropped away, so that Bob was reasonably sure the man could not be up there.

It was eery business, groping about in the musty darkness of the old barn for a man who would go to almost any lengths of villainy to keep from being caught.

Suddenly Bob saw something move, and, with an exultant yell, jumped toward it. Once more he almost had his hand upon Cassey when -- something happened.

The floor of the barn seemed to open and let him through, and his chums with him. As he fell through the hole into blackness he had confused thoughts of an earthquake. Then he struck bottom with a solid thump that almost made him see stars.

He heard similar thumps about him and realized that Herb and Jimmy had followed him. Whatever it was they had shot through had evidently magically closed up again, for they were in absolute darkness.

"Well," came in a voice which Bob recognized as Jimmy's, "I must say, this is a nice note!"

"We've been pushed off the end of the world, I guess," said Herb, with a sorry attempt at humor. "Who all's in this party anyway? Are we all here?"

"I guess so," said Joe, and at the sound of his voice Bob jumped.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought you were going to guard the door."

"That's what I should have done, but I played the big idiot," retorted Joe bitterly. "I couldn't resist coming after you fellows to be in on the big fight. I suppose while I was trailing you boys somebody sneaked in the door and signed our finish."

"Looks like it," said Bob, feeling himself to make sure there were no bones broken. "And now, instead of delivering Cassey to justice we're prisoners ourselves. Say, I bet the old boy isn't laughing at us or anything just now."

"I'm awful sorry, Bob," said Joe penitently. "I thought if I kept my eye on the door --  -- "

"Oh, it's all right," said Bob generously. "Accidents will happen and there's no use crying over spilled milk. I suppose the most sensible thing for us to do right now is to hustle around and find a way out of this place."

"Maybe there isn't any," said Jimmy dolefully. "Then what'll we do?"

"Stay here and let the rats eat us, I guess," said Herb cheerfully, and Jimmy groaned.

"Gosh, don't talk about eating, old boy," he pleaded. "I'm just about starved this minute."

"You'll probably stay starved for some little time longer," said Bob unfeelingly. He had risen cautiously to his feet, and finding that their prison was at least high enough for them to stand up in, reached his hands tentatively above his head.

As, even by standing on tiptoe, his fingers encountered nothing but air, he decided that they must have dropped further than he had thought at the time.

A hand reached out and took hold of him and he realized that Joe was standing beside him.

"Must have been some sort of trap door opening inward, I guess," said the latter. "You didn't see anything, did you, Bob?"

"No. It happened too suddenly. One minute I was reaching forward to grab hold of Cassey and the next moment I found myself flying through space."

"Humph," grunted Joe. "It was lucky for Cassey that we all happened to be in a bunch," he said. "He couldn't have gotten rid of us so quickly if we'd been scattered about --  -- "

"As we should have been," added Bob. "Just the same," he added, after a minute, "I don't suppose it would have done any good if one of us had been left up there. It must have been the men who were with Cassey who sprang the trap on us; and if that's so, the fight would have been three to one."

"I'd like to have tried it just the same," said Joe belligerently. "I bet Cassey would have got a black eye out of it, anyway."

For some time they groped around the black hole of their prison, hoping to find some way of escape, but without success. They were beginning to get tired and discouraged, and they sat down on the floor to talk the situation over.

The queer thing about this hole in the ground was that it possessed a flooring where one would have expected to find merely packed-down dirt. The flooring consisted of rough boards laid side by side, and when the boys moved upon it it sounded like the rattling of some rickety old bridge.

"There's some mystery about this place," said Bob. "I bet this is a regular meeting place for Cassey and whoever his confederates may be. In case of pursuit all they would have to do would be to hide in this hole and they'd be practically safe from discovery."

"I wonder," said Herb, "why Cassey didn't do that now."

"Probably didn't have time," said Bob. "I was right on his heels, you know, and probably he didn't dare stop for anything."

"And so they turned the trick on us," said Joe. "And it sure was a neat job."

"Too neat, if we don't get out of here soon," groaned Jimmy. "I bet they've just left us here to starve!"

"I wouldn't put it beyond Cassey," said Herb gloomily. "It would be just the kind of thing he'd love to do. He's got a grudge against us, anyway, for doing him out of Miss Berwick's money and landing him in jail, and this would be a fine way to get even."

"Well, if that's his game, he's got another guess coming," said Bob, adding excitedly: "Say, fellows, if that was a trap door that let us down into this hole, and it must have been something of that sort, we'll probably be able to get out the same way."

"But it's above our heads," protested Herb.

"What difference does that make?" returned Bob impatiently. "One of us can stand on the other's back, and we can haul the last fellow out by his hands."

"Simple when you say it quick," said Joe gloomily. "But I bet that trap door is bolted on the outside. You don't think Cassey's going to let us off that easy, do you?"

"Well, we could see anyway," returned Bob. "Anything's better than just sitting here. Come on, let's find that trap door."

This feat, in itself, was no easy one. They had wandered about in the dark so much that they had become completely confused.

Since Herb was the slightest, he was hoisted up on Bob's shoulders and they began the stumbling tour of their prison. It seemed ages before Herb's glad cry announced a discovery of some sort.

"I've found a handle," he said. "Steady there, Bob, till I give it a pull."



Chapter XII

Groping In Darkness


Herb tugged gently and gave another yell of delight when whatever was attached to the handle yielded grudgingly to the pull.

"It's the trap door, fellows!" he cried. "Move over a bit, Bob, till I pull the thing down."

Bob, who, about this time, was finding Herb's weight not any too comfortable, moved over, and, in doing so, stumbled, nearly pitching himself and Herb to the floor.

As it was, Herb lost his balance and leaped wildly. He landed on his feet and reached out a hand to find Bob.

"Of all the tough luck," he groaned. "There I had the thing in my hand and now we've gone and lost it again."

"Sorry. But stop your groaning and get busy," Bob commanded him. "I haven't moved from this spot, so if you get up on my shoulders again you ought to be able to get hold of the handle easily enough."

So, hoisted and pushed by Joe and Jimmy, Herb finally regained his perch and felt for the handle. He found it, and this time pulled the door so far open that the boys could see through the opening in the barn floor.

"If somebody can hold that door," panted Herb, "I think I can get through this hole. Grab hold, boy. It sure is heavy."

So Joe caught the door as it swung downward and Herb scrambled through the aperture. Bob gave a grunt of relief as the weight was taken from his shoulders.

"You're next, Joe," Bob was saying when Jimmy came stumbling up, carrying something that banged against Bob's legs.

"I've got it," he panted. "Had an idea I might find something like it. Trust your Uncle Jimmy --  -- "

"For the love of butter, what are you raving about?" interrupted Joe, and Jimmy proudly exhibited his prize.

"A soap box," he said. "And a good big one, too. If we stand on that we can reach the opening easily."

"Good for you, Doughnuts," cried Bob, joyfully seizing upon the soap box. "This beats playing the human footstool all hollow. Jump up on it, Jimmy, and see how quick you can get out of here."

Jimmy needed no second invitation. He scrambled up on the tall box, and by stretching up on tip toe could just manage to get his fingers over the edge of the flooring above.

"Give me a boost, some one," he commanded, and Bob obligingly administered the boost.

Joe was next. Bob went last, holding the trap door with his foot to keep it from closing too quickly. Once upon the floor of the barn he took his foot away and the door banged to with a snap, being balanced by a rope and weight above.

"Well, there's that!" exclaimed Bob, eyeing the closed door with satisfaction. "If Cassey thought he was going to fool us long, he sure was mistaken."

"Maybe he's hiding around here somewhere," suggested Herb, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"No such luck," replied Bob. "I'd be willing to wager that the moment we struck bottom there, Cassey and his friends beat it away from here as fast as their legs could take them."

"Don't you think we'd better look around a little bit, anyway?" suggested Joe.

"It wouldn't do any harm," agreed Bob. "But first let's have a look outside. We don't want to overlook any clues."

The boys thrashed around the bushes about the barn until they were satisfied no one was hiding there and then returned to the barn. They were curious to find out just how they had been shot through that trap door.

They thought at first that it was perhaps worked by some sort of apparatus, but they found that this was not the case. They found by experimenting that the trap door yielded easily to their weight, and decided that it had been their combined rush upon Cassey that had done the trick. The weight of the four of them upon it had shot the door down so rapidly that they had not had time even to know what was happening to them, much less scramble to safety. Then it had shut on them.

"It couldn't have worked better for them," said Herb, as they turned toward the door of the barn. "I bet they're laughing yet at the way they put things over."

"Let 'em laugh," said Bob, adding fiercely: "But I bet you anything that the last laugh will be ours!"

"I wonder what Cassey was doing here, anyway," said Jimmy, as they walked slowly homeward. "It was lucky, wasn't it, that we happened along when we did?"

"I don't see where it's so lucky," grumbled Joe. "We're no nearer catching him now than we ever were."

"Except that we know he's around this locality," put in Bob. "I guess the police will be glad to know that."

"Oh! are you going to tell the police?" asked Jimmy, whose thoughts had been upon what he was going to get for dinner.

"Of course," said Bob. "He's an escaped criminal, and it's up to us to tell the police all we know about him."

"I only wish we knew more to tell," said Joe disconsolately.

Since they had been flung through the trap door, Joe had called himself every unpleasant name he could think of for his carelessness. If he had stayed at the door where he belonged, there would have been one of them left to grapple with Dan Cassey. Probably the two men who had been with Cassey when they had surprised him had not been anywhere around. They belonged to the type of criminal that always thinks of its own safety first. Probably they had not been anywhere near the barn. And if it had been only Dan Cassey and himself, well, he, Joe, could at least have given the scoundrel a black eye -- maybe captured him.

He said something of this to his chums, but they laughed at him.

"Stop your grouching," said Bob. "Haven't we already agreed that there's no use crying over spilled milk? And, anyway, you just watch out. We'll get Cassey yet."

As soon as the boys reached town they went straight to the police station and told the story of their encounter with Cassey to the grizzled old chief, who nodded his head grimly and thanked them for the information.

"I'll send some men out right away," he told them. "If there's a criminal in those woods, they're sure to get him before dark. It's too bad you lads couldn't have got him yourselves. It would sure have been a feather in your caps!"

"Why doesn't he rub it in?" grumbled Joe, as they turned at last toward home and dinner. "He ought to know we feel mad enough about it."

"Well," said Bob, "if the police round him up, because of our information, it will be almost as good as though we'd caught him ourselves. I wouldn't," he added, with a glint in his eye, "exactly like to be in Cassey's shoes, now."



Chapter XIII

Cunning Scoundrels


But, contrary to the expectations of the radio boys, the police were not able to locate Cassey nor any of the rest of the gang. They searched the woods for miles around the old barn about which the boys had told them, even carrying their search into the neighboring townships, but without any result. It seemed as though the earth had opened and swallowed up Cassey together with his rascally companions. If such a thing had actually happened, their disappearance could not have been more complete.

"They must be experts in the art of hiding," grumbled Bob, upon returning from a visit to the chief of police. "I was certain they would be rounded up before this."

"Guess they must have made a break for the tall timber," said Joe.

"Decided, maybe, it isn't just healthy around here," added Herb, with a grin.

And then, just when they had decided that Cassey and his gang had made a masterly getaway, the radio boys got on their trail once again.

That very evening, when tuning in for the concert, they caught another of those mysterious, stuttering messages in the unmistakable voice of Dan Cassey!

"Rice, rats, make hay," was the substance of this message, and the boys would have laughed if they had not been so dumbfounded.

"What do you know about that?" gasped Jimmy. "That old boy sure has his nerve with him."

"They're still hanging around here somewhere!" cried Bob excitedly. "They've probably got a hiding place that even the police can't find."

"Oh, if we could only make sense of this!" exclaimed Herb, staring at the apparently senseless message which he had written down. "If we only had their code the whole thing would be simple."

"Oh, yes, if we only had a million dollars, we'd be millionaires!" retorted Jimmy scornfully. "Where do you get that stuff, anyway?"

"Well," said Bob, temporarily giving up the problem, "as far as I can see, all there is for us to do is to keep our eyes and ears open and trust to luck. Now what do you say we listen in on the concert for a little while?"

In the days that followed Cassey's voice came to them several times out of the ether, and always in that same cryptic form that, try as they would, they could not make out.

It was exasperating, that familiar voice coming to them out of the air day after day without giving them the slightest clue to the whereabouts of the speaker.

And then, while they were in town one day, they quite unexpectedly ran into their old friend, Frank Brandon, the wireless inspector, whose work for some time had taken him into another district.

However, he was to stay in Clintonia for a few days on business now, and since he had nothing particular to do that day, Bob enthusiastically invited him up to his home for a visit.

"Maybe you can give us some tips on our set," Bob added, as Mr. Brandon readily accepted the invitation. "We're not altogether satisfied with our batteries. For some reason or other they burn out too quickly."

"Yes, I'll take a look at it," agreed Mr. Brandon good-naturedly. "Although I imagine you boys are such experts by this time I can't tell you very much. What have you been doing with yourselves since we last met?"

The boys told him something of their experiences, in which he showed intense interest, and in return he told them some interesting things that had happened to him.

And when he spoke of catching mysterious messages in the stuttering voice of Dan Cassey, Bob broke in upon him eagerly.

"We've caught a good many such messages too," he said. "Have you managed to make anything of them?"

"Not a thing," said Mr. Brandon, shaking his head. "If it is a criminal code, and I am about assured that it is, then it is a remarkably clever one and one that it is almost impossible to decipher without a key. I've just about given up trying."

Then the boys told of their encounter with Cassey in the woods and their adventure in the old barn, and Frank Brandon was immensely excited.

"By Jove," he said, "the man is up to his old tricks again! I'd like to get hold of him before he does any serious harm. That sort of criminal is a menace to the community.

"The funny part of it," he continued, as they turned the corner into Bob's block, "is that these messages are not all in Cassey's voice. Have you noticed that?"

It was the boys' turn to be surprised.

"That's a new one on us," Bob confessed. "The only messages we have caught so far have been in Cassey's voice."

Frank Brandon slowly shook his head.

"No," he said, "I have caught a couple in a strange voice, a voice I never heard before."

"The same kind of message?" asked Herb eagerly.

"The same kind of message," Brandon affirmed. "I have taken it for granted that the owner of the strange voice is a confederate of Cassey's."

"Maybe one of the fellows who was with him in the woods," said Jimmy, and Mr. Brandon nodded gravely.

"It's possible," he said. "I don't know, of course, but I imagine that there are several in Cassey's gang."

By this time they had reached Bob's home, and as it was nearly lunch time, Mrs. Layton insisted that they all stay to lunch. The boys, not liking to make her trouble, said they would go home and come back later, but the lady of the house would have none of it.

"Sit down, all of you," she commanded, in her cheerful, hospitable way. "I know you're starved -- all but Jimmy -- " this last with a smile, "and there's plenty to eat."

Frank Brandon was very entertaining all during the meal and kept them in gales of laughter. Mrs. Layton found him as amusing as did the boys.

At last the lunch came to an end and Mr. Brandon professed himself ready to talk shop.

He was enthusiastic over the radio set the boys showed him and declared that he could see very little improvement to suggest.

"You surely have kept up with the march," he said admiringly. "You have pretty nearly all the latest appliances, haven't you? Good work, boys. Keep it up and you'll be experts in earnest."

"If we could only find some way to lengthen the life of our storage batteries," said Bob, not without a pardonable touch of pride, "we wouldn't have much to complain about. But that battery does puzzle us."

"Keep your battery filled with water and see if it doesn't last you about twice as long," suggested the radio expert. "Don't add any acid to your battery, for it's only the water that evaporates."

"Will that really do the trick?" asked Joe, wondering. "I don't just see how --  -- "

"It does just the same," Brandon interrupted confidently. "All you have to do is to try it to find out. Don't use ordinary water though. It needs to be distilled."

"That's a new one on me, all right," said Bob, adding gratefully: "But we're obliged for the information. If distilled water will lengthen the life of our battery, then distilled water it shall have."

"It seems queer," said Mr. Brandon reflectively, "how apparently simple things will work immense improvement. Marconi, for instance, by merely shortening his wave length, is discovering wonderful things. We cannot even begin to calculate what marvelous things are in store for us when we begin to send out radio waves of a few centimeters, perhaps less. We have not yet explored the low wave lengths, and when we do I believe we are in for some great surprises."

"Go on," said Joe, as he paused. "Tell us more about these low wave lengths."



Chapter XIV

A Daring Holdup


Frank Brandon shook his head and smiled.

"I'm afraid I don't know much more to tell," he said. "As I have said, what will happen when we materially decrease the wave length, is still in the land of conjecture. But I tell you," he added, with sudden enthusiasm, "I'm mighty glad to be living in this good old age. What we have already seen accomplished is nothing to what we are going to see. Why," he added, "some scientists, Steinmetz, for instance, are even beginning to claim that ether isn't the real medium for the propagation of radio waves."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Bob, with interest. "Is it some sort of joke?"

"Joke, nothing!" replied Frank Brandon. "As a matter of fact, I fully believe that electro-magnetic waves can as easily be hurled through a void as through ether."

The boys were silent for a moment, thinking this over. It sounded revolutionary, but they had great respect for Frank Brandon's judgment.

"There's the Rogers underground aerial," Bob suggested tentatively, and Brandon took him up quickly.

"Exactly!" he said. "That leans in the direction of what I say. Why, I believe the day is coming -- and it isn't so very far in the future, either -- when no aerial will be used.

"Why, I believe," he added, becoming more and more enthusiastic as he continued, "that ten years from now we shall simply attach our receiving outfits to the ground and shall be able to receive even more satisfactorily than we do to-day." He laughed and added lightly:

"But who am I to assume the rôle of prophet? Perhaps, like a good many prophets, I see too much in the future that never will come true."

"I don't believe it," said Bob. "I shouldn't wonder if all your prophesy will come true in a few years."

"Well," said Herb, with a grin, "it will be a relief not to get any more broken shins putting up aerials."

Mr. Brandon laughed.

"I'm with you," he said. "I've been there myself."

"Have you read about that radio-controlled tank?" Joe asked. "The one that was exhibited in Dayton, I mean?"

"I not only read about it, I saw it," Mr. Brandon answered, and the boys stared at him in surprise. "I happened to be there on business," he said; "and you can better believe I was on hand when they rolled that tank through the traffic."

"What did it look like?" asked Jimmy eagerly.

"The car was about eight feet long and three feet high," responded Brandon. "It was furnished with a motor and storage batteries, and I guess its speed was about five or six miles an hour."

"And was it really controlled by radio?" put in Herb, wishing that he had been on the spot.

"Absolutely," returned Brandon. "An automobile followed along behind it and controlled it entirely by wireless signals. The apparatus that does all the work is called the selector, and it's only about the size of a saucer. It decodes the dots and dashes and obeys the command in an inconceivably short time -- about a quarter of a second."

"It can be controlled by an airplane, too, can't it?" asked Bob, and the radio inspector nodded.

"In case of war," he said slowly, "I imagine these airplane-controlled tanks could do considerable damage."

Their guest left soon after that, and, of course, the boys were sorry to have him go. His last words to them were about Cassey.

"Keep your eyes open for that scoundrel," he said, "and we'll find out what he's up to yet."

But in the next few days so many alarming things happened that the boys had little time to think about Dan Cassey. The alarming happenings consisted of a series of automobile robberies in neighboring towns, robberies committed so skillfully that no hint nor clue was given of the identity of the robbers.

And then the robberies came nearer home, even into Clintonia itself. The president of one of the banks left his machine outside the bank for half an hour, and when he came out again it was gone. No one could remember seeing any suspicious characters around.

Then Raymond Johnston, a prominent business man of the town, had his car taken in the same mysterious manner from in front of his home. As before, no one could give the slightest clue as to the identity of the thieves.

The entire community was aroused and the police were active, and yet the mystery remained as dark as ever.

Then, one day, Herb came dashing over to Bob's home in a state of wild excitement. Joe and Jimmy were already there, and Herb stopped not even for a greeting before he sprang his news.

"Say, fellows!" he cried, sprawling in a chair and panting after his run, "it's time somebody caught those auto thieves. They are getting a little too personal."

"What's up?" they demanded.

"One of dad's trucks has been held up!" gasped Herb. "In broad daylight, too!"

"Was anything taken?" asked Joe.

"Anything? Well, I should say! They looted the truck of everything. It's a wonder they didn't steal the machinery."

"That's a pretty big loss for your dad, isn't it?" said Bob gravely.

"It is!" replied Herb, running his fingers through his hair. "He's all cut up about it and vows he'll catch the ruffians. Though he'll have to be a pretty clever man if he does, I'll say."

"They do seem to be pretty slick," agreed Bob.

"I wonder if the same gang is responsible for all the robberies," put in Joe.

"It looks that way," said Jimmy. "It looks as if there were a crook at the head of the bunch who has pretty good brains."

"A regular master criminal, Doughnuts?" gibed Herb, then sobered again as he thought of his father's loss.

"It's bad enough," he said gloomily, "to hear of other people's property being stolen, but when it comes right down to your own family, it's getting a little too close for comfort."

"What is your dad going to do about it?" asked Bob.

Herb shrugged his shoulders in a helpless gesture.

"What can he do?" he asked. "Except what everybody else has done -- inform the police and hope the rascals will be caught. And even if they are caught," he added, still more gloomily, "it won't do dad much good, except that he'll get revenge. The crooks will probably have disposed of all their stolen property before they're caught."

"Well, I don't know," said Bob hopefully. "Those fellows are getting a little bit too daring for their own good. Some day they'll go too far and get caught."

"I hope so. But crooks like that are pretty foxy," returned Herb, refusing to be cheered. "They're apt to get away with murder before they're caught."

The lads were silent for a moment, trying to think things out, and when Bob spoke he unconsciously put into words something of what his comrades were thinking.

"It seems as if radio ought to be able to help out in a case like this," he said, with a puzzled frown. "But I must say I don't see how it can."

"It can't," returned Herb. "If some one had been lucky enough to get a glimpse of one of the thieves, then good old radio would have its chance. We could wireless the description all over the country and before long somebody would make a capture."

Bob nodded.

"That's where the cunning of these rascals comes in," he said. "Either nobody sees them at all, or when they do the thieves are so well disguised by masks that a useful description isn't possible."

"Were the fellows who held up your father's truck masked?" asked Jimmy with interest.

Herb nodded.

"From all I can hear," he said. "It was a regular highway robbery affair -- masks, guns, and all complete. The driver of the truck said there were only two of them, but since they had guns and he was unarmed, there wasn't anything he could do.

"They made him get down off the truck, and then they bound his hands behind him and hid him behind some bushes that bordered the road. He would probably be there yet if he hadn't managed to get the gag out of his mouth and hail some people passing in an automobile. Poor fellow!" he added. "Any one might have thought he had robbed the truck from the way he looked. He was afraid to face dad."

"Well, it wasn't his fault," said Joe. "No man without a weapon is a match for two armed rascals."

"Didn't he say what the robbers looked like?" insisted Jimmy. "He must have known whether they were short or tall or fat or skinny."

"He said they were about medium height, both of them," returned Herb. "He said they were both about the same build -- rather thin, if anything. But their faces were so well covered -- the upper part by a mask and the lower by bandana handkerchiefs -- that he couldn't give any description of them at all."

"I bet," Bob spoke up suddenly, "that whoever is at the head of that rascally gang knows the danger of radio to him and his plans. That's why his men are so careful to escape recognition."

The boys stared at him for a minute and then suddenly the full force of what he intimated struck them.

At the same instant the name of the same man came into their minds -- the name of a man who used radio for the exchange of criminal codes, a man who stuttered painfully.

"Cassey!" they said together, and Herb added, thoughtfully:

"I wonder!"



Chapter XV

Off To The Woods


For days the town hummed with the excitement that followed the daring robbery of the truck belonging to Mr. Fennington, but as time passed and there seemed little prospect of bringing the robbers to justice, interest died down. But the radio boys never abated their resolve to do all in their power to recover the stolen merchandise, although at that time they were kept so busy in high school, preparing for a stiff examination, that they had little time for anything else.

"It's getting so bad lately that I don't even get time to enjoy my meals," grumbled Jimmy, one sunny spring afternoon. "Swinging an oar a la Ben Hur would be just a little restful exercise after the way we've been drilling the last week."

"Get out!" exclaimed Joe. "Why, you wouldn't last two hours in one of those galleys, Doughnuts. They'd heave you over the side as excess baggage once they got wise to you."

"After two hours of rowing in one of those old galleys, he'd be glad to get heaved overboard, I'll bet," put in Herb, grinning. "I think Jimmy would rather drown any day than work that hard."

"Huh! I don't see where you fellows get off to criticize," retorted the harassed youth. "I never saw any of you win gold medals for hard and earnest work."

"Lots of people deserve medals who never get them," Bob pointed out.

"Yes. But, likewise, lots of people don't deserve 'em who don't get 'em," retorted Jimmy, and for once appeared to have won an argument.

"I guess you're right at that," conceded Bob. "But, anyway, I'm going to pass those examinations no matter how hard I have to work. It will pretty near break my heart, but it can't be helped."

The others were equally determined, and they dug into the mysteries of Horace and Euclid to such good effect that they all passed the examinations with flying colors. After that came a breathing space, and just at that time a golden opportunity presented itself.

Mr. Fennington, Herbert's father, had become interested, together with several other business men of Clintonia, in a timber deal comprising many acres of almost virgin forest in the northern part of the state. He was going to look over the ground personally, and when Herb learned of this, he urged his father to take him and the other radio boys along for a brief outing over the Easter holiday. When his father seemed extremely dubious over this plan, Herb reminded him that Mr. Layton had taken them all to Mountain Pass the previous autumn, and that it would be only fair to reciprocate.

"But the Lookers are up in that part of the country, too," said Mr. Fennington. "Aren't you fellows scared to go where Buck Looker is?" he added, with a smile lurking about his mouth.

"Oh, yes, we're terribly afraid of that!" answered Herb sarcastically. "We'll take our chances, though, if you'll only let us go with you."

"Well, well, I'll see," said his father, and Herb knew that this was practically equivalent to surrender. Accordingly he hunted up his chums and broached the project to them.

"Herb, your words are as welcome as the flowers in May," Bob told him, with a hearty slap on the back. "If this trip actually works out, we'll forgive you all last winter's jokes, won't we, fellows?"

"It's an awful lot to ask of a fellow, but I suppose we can manage it," said Joe, and Jimmy, after pretending to think the matter over very seriously, finally said the same.

They were all overjoyed at the prospect of such a trip, and had little difficulty in getting the consent of their parents. Mr. Fennington eventually consented to take the radio boys with him, and there ensued several days of bustle and excited packing. At length all was ready, and they found themselves, one bright spring morning, installed in a big seven-passenger touring car en route for Braxton Woods, as the strip of timberland was called.

"This is the life!" chortled Jimmy, as the miles rolled away behind. "Fresh air, bright sun, the song of birds, and -- doughnuts!" and he produced a bulging paper bag full of his favorite dainty.

"How do you get that way?" asked Joe severely, although he eyed the bag hungrily. "The 'song of doughnuts!' You're the only Doughnut that I ever heard of that could sing, and you're no great shakes at it."

"Oh, you know what I meant!" exclaimed Jimmy. "At least, you're thicker than usual if you don't."

"Do you hear that, Joe?" laughed Bob. "The boy's telling you that you're thick. Are you going to stand for that?"

"He knows it's true. And, anyway, he doesn't dare talk back for fear I won't give him one of these delicious little morsels," said Jimmy placidly. "How about it, Joe?"

"That's taking mean advantage of a poor fellow who's practically dying of starvation," said Joe. "Give me a doughnut, and I won't talk back -- until after I've eaten it, anyway."

"That's all right then," said his plump friend. "After you've eaten one, you'll feel so grateful to me that you'll regret all the low-down things you've ever said about me."

"Oh, you're the finest pal any fellow ever had," declared Joe. "How many doughnuts have you left, Jimmy?"

"Something tells me that you don't mean all you say," said Jimmy suspiciously. "Just the same, I'll take a chance and give you another one. They won't last long at the rate they're going; I can tell that without half trying."

"Well, a short life but a merry one," said Bob. "Come across with another, Jimmy, will you?"

"You know I love you too much to refuse you anything, Bob," said Jimmy. "Just the same, I'm going to hold out another for myself, and then you big panhandlers can finish them up. I've just had four, but I suppose those will have to last me for the present."

"Say, that's tough -- only four!" exclaimed Herb, in mock sympathy. "What will you ever do until lunch time, I wonder?"

"I'm wondering the same thing myself; but I'm used to suffering whenever I'm with you fellows, so I suppose I'll have to grin and bear it somehow."

"I don't see why you didn't bring some more, while you were about it," complained Bob. "You might have known that wouldn't be half enough."

"It will be a long time before I buy any more for you Indians, you can bet your last dollar on that," said Jimmy, in an aggrieved voice. "You've been going to school a number of years, now, but you still don't know what 'gratitude' means."

"The only one that should be grateful is yourself, Doughnuts," Joe assured him. "You know if you had eaten that whole bag full of doughnuts that you'd have been heading a funeral to-morrow or next day. It's lucky you have us around to save you from yourself."

While Jimmy was still framing an indignant reply to this there was a loud report, and the driver quickly brought the big car to a halt.

"Blowout," he remarked laconically, walking around to view a shoe that was flat beyond the possibility of doubt. It was not an unmixed evil to the boys, however, for they welcomed the chance to get out and stretch their cramped muscles. They helped the driver jack up the wheel and change shoes, and in a short time they were ready to proceed.

Back they climbed into their places, and with a rasp of changing gears they were on their way once more.

Braxton Woods lay something over a hundred miles from Clintonia, but the roads were good most of the way, and they had planned to reach their destination that evening. When they had covered sixty miles of the distance, Mr. Fennington consented to stop for the lunch for which the boys had been clamoring for some time. They took their time over the meal, building a fire and cooking steak and frying potatoes.

"Gee, this was a feast fit for a king!" exclaimed Jimmy, when it was over.

The boys lay down on the newly sprouted grass, but had hardly got settled when the driver, who appeared restless, summoned them to proceed.

"We've got a long way to go yet," he said, "and the last fifteen miles are worse than all the rest of the trip put together. The road is mostly clay and rocks, and at this time of year it's apt to be pretty wet. I don't want to have to drive it after dark."

Mr. Fennington was also anxious to get on, so their rest was a brief one, and they were soon on their way again.

The radio boys laughed and sang, cracked jokes, and waved to passing cars, while the mileage record on the speedometer mounted steadily up. The sun was still quite a way above the western horizon when they reached the place where the forest road branched off from the main highway. The driver tackled this road cautiously, and they soon found that his description of it had not been overdrawn. It was a narrow trail, in most places not wide enough for two cars to pass, and they wondered what would happen should they meet another car going in the opposite direction. But in the whole fifteen miles they met only one other motor, and fortunately that was at a wide place in the road.

The scent of spring and growing things was strong in the air, and compensated somewhat for the atrocious road. The boys were often tossed high in the air as the car bumped over logs and stones, or came up with a lurch out of some deep hole. But they hung on to each other, or whatever else was most convenient, and little minded the rough going.

After one particularly vicious lunge, however, the heavy car came down with a slam, and there was a sharp noise of snapping steel. With a muttered exclamation the driver brought his car to a halt and climbed out.

"Just as I thought!" he exclaimed. "A spring busted, and the nearest garage twenty miles away. Now we're up against it for fair!"

"Do you mean that we can't go on?" asked Mr. Fennington anxiously. "It will be dark in another hour."

"I know it will," replied the chauffeur. "But what can we do about it?"

"Can't we make a temporary repair?" suggested Bob. "We can't have much further to go now."

"Well, I'm open to suggestions, young fellow," growled the driver. "If you can tell me how to fix this boiler up, go to it. It's more than I can do."

Bob and the others made a thorough examination of the damage, and they were not long in concocting a plan. Bob had brought with him a small but very keen-edged ax, and it was the work of only a few minutes to cut a stout limb about six inches in diameter from a tree.

With this, and a coil of heavy rope that was carried in the car for emergencies, they proceeded to make the temporary repair.



Chapter XVI

Put To The Test


First of all the boys trimmed the branch to a length slightly greater than the distance between axle and axle of the car. Then, near each end, they cut a notch about two inches deep, one to fit over the front and one over the rear axle. Next they placed the branch in position, and with the heavy rope lashed it securely into position. Thus the front and rear axles were kept at the proper distance from each other, and, moreover, the side of the car that was over the broken spring could rest on the stout pole.

The driver, who at first had watched their efforts with a derisive grin, took their plan more seriously as he realized the scheme, and now he examined the completed job with an air of surprised respect.

"I've got to admit that that looks as though it might do the trick," he admitted, at length. "I've seen a lot of roadside repairs in my time, but blest if that hasn't got 'em all beat. I'll take it at slow speed the rest of the way, and we'll see if it will stand up long enough to get us in."

And get them in it did, in spite of much creaking and groaning and bumping.

The automobile drew up before a long one-story building, constructed roughly but substantially of unpainted boards. Supper was being served, and they were just in time to partake of a typical lumber camp meal. The big table was laden with huge joints of meat, platters of biscuits and vegetables, while strong, black coffee was served in abundance. After this plates of doughnuts were passed around, greatly to Jimmy's delight, and for once he could eat all he wanted with nobody to criticize, for the lumbermen were no tyros at this sort of thing, and packed away food in quantities and at a speed that made the boys gape.

"Gee!" exclaimed Bob, after they had emerged into the balmy spring air outside, "I used to think that Jimmy could eat; but he can't even make the qualifying heats with this crowd. You're outclassed, Doughnuts, beyond the chance of argument."

"I don't see but what I'll have to admit it," sighed his rotund friend. "But I don't care. It seems like Heaven to be in a place where they serve doughnuts like that. There's none of this 'do-have-a-doughnut' business. Some big husky passes you a platter with about a hundred on it and says, 'dig in, young feller.' Those are what I call sweet sounding words."

"And you dug, all right," remarked Joe, grinning. "I saw you clean one platter off all by your lonesome -- at least, you came pretty near it," he qualified, with some last lingering regard for the truth.

"I didn't anything of the kind! But I only wish I could," lamented Jimmy.

"Never mind, Doughnuts, nobody can deny that you did your best," laughed Herb. "After you've had a little practice with this crowd, I'll back you against their champion eater any day."

"So would I," said Bob. "We've often talked about entering Jimmy in a pie-eating contest, but I never before thought we could find anybody who would even stand a chance with him. Up here, though, there's some likely-looking material. Judging from some of those huskies we saw to-night, they might crowd our champion pretty hard."

"You can enter me any time you want to," said Jimmy. "Even if I didn't win, I'd have a lot of fun trying. I never really got enough pie at one time yet, and that would be the chance of a lifetime."

At first the boys were more than half joking, but after they had been at the camp a few days and had begun to get acquainted, they let drop hints regarding Jimmy's prowess that aroused the interest of the lumbermen. He was covertly watched at meal times, and as the bracing woodland air and long hikes combined to give an added edge to his appetite, his ability began to command attention. There were several among the woodsmen who had a reputation for large capacity, but it was soon evident that Jimmy was not to be easily outdistanced in his own particular department.

At length interest became so keen that it was decided to stage a real old-fashioned pie-eating contest, to determine whether the champions of the camp were to be outdistanced by a visitor from the city. The cook was approached, and agreed to make all the pies that, in all human probability, would be needed.

"Jimmy, you're in for it now!" exclaimed Herb, dancing ecstatically about his plump friend. "Here's your chance to make good on all the claims we've ever advanced for you. You're up against a strong field, but my confidence in you is unshaken."

"It simply isn't possible that our own Jimmy could lose," grinned Bob. "I've seen him wade into pies before this, and I know what he can do."

"I appreciate your confidence, believe me," said Jimmy. "But I don't care much whether I win or not. I know I'll get enough pie for once in my life, and that's the main thing."

The time for the contest was set for the following evening, the third of their stay. Five lumbermen had been put forward to uphold the reputation of the camp, and they and Jimmy ate no supper that night, waiting until the others had finished. Then the board was cleared, and the cook and his helper entered, bringing in several dozen big pies of all varieties. One of these was placed before each of the contestants, and they could help themselves to as many more as their capacity would admit.

The cook, as having the best knowledge of matters culinary, was appointed judge, and was provided with a pad and pencil to check up each contestant. A time limit of two hours was set, the one having consumed the greatest amount of pie in that time to be declared the winner.

The cook gave the signal to start, and the contest was on.

The lumbermen started off at high speed, and at first wrought tremendous havoc among the pies, while Jimmy ate in his usual calm and placid manner, evidently enjoying himself immensely. Each of the lumbermen had his following, who cheered him on and urged him to fresh endeavors. Bob and Joe and Herb said little, for they had observed Jimmy's prowess over a period of several years, and knew his staying qualities.

At the end of the first half hour their friend was badly outdistanced, but the other contestants had slowed up noticeably, while Jimmy still ate calmly on, no faster and no slower than when he had started. He was only starting on his second pie when all the others were finishing theirs, but the confidence of his three comrades remained unshaken. They observed that the lumbermen chose their third pies very carefully, and started to eat them in a languid way. They were only about half through when Jimmy disposed of his second one, and started on a third.

"How do you feel, Jimmy?" asked Herb, with a grin. "Are you still hungry?"

"No, not exactly hungry, but it still tastes good," replied Jimmy calmly. "You sure can make good pies, Cook."

The other contestants essayed feeble grins, but it was easy to see that their pies no longer tasted good to them. More and more slowly they ate, while Jimmy kept placidly on, his original gait hardly slackened. He finished the third pie and started nonchalantly on a fourth. At sight of this, and his confident bearing, two of the other contestants threw up their hands and admitted themselves beaten.

"I used to like pie," groaned one, "but now I hope never to see one again. That youngster must be made of rubber."

"I've often said the same thing myself," chortled Bob. "Just look at him! I believe he's good for a couple more yet."

Excitement ran high when two of the remaining lumbermen were forced out toward the middle of their fourth pie, leaving only Jimmy and a jolly man of large girth, who before the start had been picked by his companions as the undoubted winner.

"Go to it, Jack!" the lumbermen shouted now. "Don't let the youngster beat you out. He's pretty near his limit now."

It was true that flaky pie crust and luscious filling had lost their charm for Jimmy, but his opponent was in even worse plight. He managed to finish his fourth pie, but when the cook handed him a fifth, the task proved to be beyond him.

"I've reached my limit, fellers," he declared. "If the youngster can go pie number five, he'll be champion of the camp."

Excitement ran high as Jimmy slowly finished the last crumbs of his fourth pie, and the cook handed him a fifth. Would he take it, or would the contest prove to be a draw?



Chapter XVII

The Bully Gets A Ducking


"Our man doesn't have to eat another whole pie," protested Bob. "If he just eats some of it he'll win, Mr. Judge."

"That's right," nodded the cook. "How about you, young feller? Are you able to tackle it?"

"Sure thing," responded Jimmy. "Hand it over."

He forced himself to cut and eat a small piece, and when he had finished, pandemonium broke loose. The judge declared him undisputed champion of the camp, and he was caught up and elevated to broad shoulders while an impromptu triumphal procession was organized that circled the camp with much laughter and many jokes at the expense of the defeated aspirants for the title.

After this was over, the boys held a little private jubilation of their own in the little cabin where they were quartered with Mr. Fennington. He had been away during the contest, but he returned shortly afterward, and laughingly congratulated Jimmy on his newly won honors.

"How do you feel?" he inquired. "Do you think you could manage another piece of pie? I'll see that you have a large piece if you think you can."

"No, sir! I've had enough pie to last me for a good while to come," declared Jimmy positively. "I'll be ashamed to look a pie in the face. For the next week or so I'll have to stick to my favorite doughnuts for dessert."

"Well, you did nobly, Doughnuts, and I love you more than ever," declared Bob. "You were up against a field that anybody might be proud to beat."

"And the best part of it, to me, is the feeling that our confidence in Jimmy's eating powers was justified," declared Joe. "After all the wonderful exhibitions he's given in the past, it would have been terrible if he hadn't come up to scratch to-night."

"The way that fellow they call Jack started off, I never thought you had a chance, Jimmy," confessed Herb.

"If he could have held that pace, I wouldn't have had a look-in," admitted Jimmy. "I figured he'd have to slow down pretty soon, though. 'Slow but sure' is my motto."

"How would you like to take a nice three-mile sprint now?" asked Herb mischievously.

"Three mile nothing!" exclaimed Jimmy scornfully. "I couldn't run three yards right now. I think I'll lie down and give my digestion a chance," and in a few minutes he was peacefully snoring.

The next morning he showed no ill effects from the prodigious feast, but ate his usual hearty breakfast. The others were forced to the conclusion that his table ability was even greater than they had suspected, and from that time on they firmly believed him to be invincible in his particular department.

By this time they were thoroughly familiar with the camp, and decided to make an excursion into the woods the following day, taking lunch with them and making it a day's outing. The cook so far departed from his usual iron-clad rules as to make them up a fine lunch, making due allowance for Jimmy's proven capacity.

They started out immediately after breakfast. Not being particular as to direction, they followed the first old logging road that they came to. It led them deeper and deeper into the forest that was alive with the sounds and scents of spring. Last year's fallen leaves made a springy carpet underfoot, while robins sang their spring song in the budding branches overhead.

For some time the boys tramped in silence, breathing deeply of the exhilarating pine and balsam atmosphere and at peace with all the world. Soon there was a glint of water through the trees, and the boys, with one accord, diverged from the faint trail that they had been following and were a few minutes later standing at the water's edge.

They found themselves on the shore of a large lake. It was ringed about with big trees, many of which leaned far out over it as though to gaze at their reflections in the water. The ripples lapped gently on a sloping sandy beach, and the invitation to swim proved irresistible to all but Jimmy.

"I know what lake water is like at this time of year," he said. "You fellows can go in and freeze yourselves all you like, but I'll stay right here and look after the things. Just dive right in and enjoy yourselves."

"Well, we won't coax you," said Bob. "But that water looks too good to miss. It is pretty cold, but I guess that won't kill us."

Off came their clothes, and with shouts and laughter they splashed through the shallow water and struck out manfully. The icy water made them gasp at first, but soon the reaction came, and they thoroughly enjoyed their swim. They tried to coax Jimmy in, but he lay flat on his back under a tree and was adamant to all their pleadings.

The others did not stay in very long, but emerged glowing from the effects of exercise and the cold water. As they were getting into their clothes they heard voices coming toward them, and they had hardly finished dressing when the voices' owners came crashing through the underbrush close to where the boys were standing.

The two groups stared in astonishment for a few moments, for the newcomers were none other than Carl Lutz, Buck Looker, Terry Mooney, and another older fellow, who was a stranger to the radio boys.

Buck's expression of surprise quickly gave place to an ugly sneer, and he turned to his friends.

"Look who's here!" he cried, in a nasty tone. "I wonder what they're up to now, Carl?"

"We're not hiding from the cops because we broke a plate glass window and were afraid to own up to it," Bob told him.

"Who broke a window?" demanded Buck. "You can't prove that it wasn't a snowball that one of your own bunch threw that broke that window."

"We don't throw that kind of snowballs," said Joe.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Buck.

"Are you trying to say that we put stones in our snowballs?"

"I don't have to say it," retorted Joe. "You just said it yourself."

Too late Buck realized his mistake, and his coarse red face grew purple as Herb and Jimmy grinned at him in maddening fashion.

"Don't you laugh at me, Jimmy Plummer!" he exclaimed, picking on Jimmy as being the least warlike of the radio boys. "I'll make you laugh out of the other side of your mouth in a minute," and he started to dash past Bob to reach his victim.

But to do so he had to pass between Bob and the bank of the lake, which just at this point was a foot or so above the water.

As he rushed past, Bob adroitly shot out a muscular arm and his elbow caught the bully fair in the side. Buck staggered, made a wild effort to regain his balance, and with a prodigious splash disappeared in the icy waters of the lake.

For a few seconds friend and enemy gazed anxiously at the spot where he had gone under, but he soon came to the surface, and, sputtering and fuming, struck out for the shore and dragged himself out on to dry land.

He made such a ludicrous figure that even his cronies could not forbear laughing, but he turned on them furiously and their laughter suddenly ceased. Then he turned to Bob.

"If I didn't have these wet clothes on, I'd make you pay for that right now, Bob Layton," he sputtered. "I'll make you sorry for that before you're much older."

"Why not settle it right now?" offered Bob. "Your clothes will dry soon enough, don't worry about that."

"Yes, I know you'd like nothing better than to see me get pneumonia," said Buck. "You wait here till I go home and get dry clothes on, and I'll come and give you the licking that you deserve."

"That's only a bluff, and you know it," said Bob contemptuously. "But if any of your friends would like to take your place, why, here I am. How about you, Lutz?"

But Carl muttered something unintelligible, and backed away. The others likewise seemed discouraged by the mischance to their leader, for they turned and followed his retreating form without another word.

"Some sports!" commented Joe.

"Game as a mouse," supplemented Herb.

"That was a swell ducking you gave Buck," chuckled Jimmy. "Just when he was going to pick on me, too. I owe you something for that, Bob."

"Pay me when you get rich and famous," laughed his friend. "You don't owe me anything, anyway. It was a pleasure to shove Buck into the lake. I'm perfectly willing to do it again any time I get the chance."

"Oh, it's my turn next time," said Joe. "I can't let you hog all the fun, Bob."

"All right," replied his friend. "If we run into him again, I'll leave him to your tender mercies. But I don't imagine he or his friends will bother us any more to-day, so why not have lunch?"

"I was thinking the same thing," remarked Jimmy, and they forthwith set to work to prepare what Jimmy termed a "bang-up lunch."



Chapter XVIII

A Startling Discovery


The cook had supplied the radio boys with a lavish hand, but their long walk and the swim had given them ravenous appetites, and by the time they finished there was little left of the lunch. Even this little was soon disposed of by the bright-eyed birds that ventured close in pursuit of the tempting bits. By sitting as still as statues the boys succeeded in enticing the little fellows almost within arm's length, and derived no little amusement at the evident struggle between greed and caution.

But soon the last crumb was gone, and after a short rest the lads began to think of returning to camp. They did not want to go back by the same road over which they had come, however, so decided to follow the shores of the lake until they should find some other path. This was, of course, a roundabout way of getting home, but they had the better part of the afternoon before them, and were in no particular hurry.

"Come on over to the north," suggested Joe. "I think there is another trail in that direction."

"Yes, and I imagine the walking is better," put in Herb.

"Say, you don't want to go too far out of the way," came hastily from Jimmy. "We've got to walk back remember."

"Forward it is!" cried Bob. "Come on, Jimmy, you've got to walk off that big lunch you stowed away."

"Gee, if I walk too far I'll be hungry again before I get home," sighed the stout youth.

"Wow! hear Jimmy complain," burst out Joe. "He hardly has one meal down than he's thinking of another."

To find another trail was not as simple a matter as it had seemed, and they must have traveled over two miles before Bob's keen eyes detected a slight break in the dry underbrush that might denote a path such as they sought. They found a dim trail leading in the general direction in which they wished to go, and set out at a brisk pace, even Jimmy being willing to hurry as visions of the loaded supper table floated before him.

Gradually the path widened out, as others ran into it, until it became a fairly well-defined woods road. It was thickly strewn with last year's soft and rotting leaves, and the boys made little sound in spite of the rapidity of their pace. Bob and Joe and Herb were striding along in a group, Jimmy having dropped behind while he fixed a refractory shoe lace, when suddenly Bob halted abruptly and held up a warning hand. The others, scenting something amiss, stopped likewise, looking inquiringly at Bob.

Silently he pointed to a spot slightly ahead of them and several paces off the road. Even as the others gazed wonderingly, Bob beckoned them to follow and slipped silently into the brush that lined the road.

On the other side stood a big tree, its trunk and branches sharply outlined against the clear sky. At the base of this tree, with his back toward them, stood a man. Now, the surprising part of it all, and that which had caused the boys to proceed so cautiously, was the fact that the man wore headphones and was evidently receiving a message of some kind. Fastened to the tree was a box, which evidently contained telephonic apparatus. At first the boys thought he must be listening at an ordinary telephone, but the fact that he had no transmitter indicated that he was listening in on a radio receiving set.

The boys had hardly reached their place of concealment when the man turned sharply about, darting furtive glances here and there, evidently in search of possible intruders. The boys crouched lower behind the bushes and prayed fervently that Jimmy would not arrive before the man had gone. The fellow was of fair size, with a deeply tanned face, and wore a moustache. Fortunately, after they had been watching him a few minutes, he removed the earphones, placed them in the box, and, after locking it, started into the woods, following a dimly marked footpath.

It was well that he left when he did, for not two minutes later Jimmy came puffing along, looking anxiously for the others. He stopped in amazement when he saw his friends emerge from the bushes, and was about to raise his voice in vehement questionings when Bob leaped at him and clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Be quiet!" he hissed into his ear. "There's some funny work going on here, and we want to find out what it is."

Thus admonished, Jimmy was released, and in low tones the others told him of what they had seen and showed him the box fastened to the tree. While they were about it, they made a hasty search for the antenna, and found it strung close to the trunk of the tree, extending from the top almost to the roots. After this discovery they hurried after the man with the moustache, fearful lest they should lose his trail.

It was no easy matter to follow the dimly marked path, for it passed at times over stony ground and big boulders, where often it took much searching here and there before they picked up its continuation.

"We may be taking all this trouble for nothing," said Bob, after one of these searches. "Maybe he's just a lumberman receiving instruction by wireless from his employers. Big business firms are using radio more and more for such purposes."

"I didn't like the way he kept looking about him, as though he had something to conceal," objected Joe. "It can't do any harm to see where he goes, anyway. We may find out something important."

"His hands weren't those of a lumberman," observed Herb. "Those hands never saw rough work nor, judging from the man's face and manner, honest work. Come on, fellows."

Accordingly the boys followed the difficult trail with untiring patience, and at last their perseverance was rewarded. The path widened out into a little clearing, and at the further side of this was a rough log cabin. The little shack had two small windows, and with infinite caution the boys approached until they could see into the nearest one.

The interior was rudely furnished with a heavy table and two crudely fashioned chairs, while in the corner furthest from them two bunks had been built, one above the other. In another corner was a compact radio transmitting set.

At the table was seated the man with the moustache, intently studying a notebook propped up before him. From this he made notes on a sheet of paper, scowling at times like one engaged in a difficult task. At length he shoved back his chair, rose to his feet, and, striding across the little shack, carefully placed the notebook under a board on a shelf. Luckily he was so absorbed in what he was doing that he did not even glance toward the window where the radio boys were observing his every motion.

But Bob now judged that they had seen enough, and he wished to run no unnecessary risk of detection. At a signal from him they made for the underbrush at the edge of the clearing, where they could command a view of the door, and waited to see if the mysterious stranger would emerge.

In a few minutes the door opened and the man stepped out, stopping to fasten it securely behind him. Then, with a quick glance about the little clearing, he made for the path leading to the main road and in a short time the sound of his going died away.

The boys waited a few minutes, thinking that possibly he might return for something forgotten, but no further sound came from the path. At length they ventured to approach the deserted cabin.

The door had been fastened with a heavy padlock, but this was not sufficient to deter the radio boys. Searching through their pockets for some implement with which they could undo the lock, Jimmy discovered a stout fish-hook, and after they had ground off the barbs against a flat stone this made an ideal tool. With it Bob probed about in the interior of the padlock, and at length, with a sharp click, it sprung open. Ordinarily he would not have done this, but he had every reason to believe that he was dealing with a criminal and that he was justified in the interest of law and order in taking steps that would prevent any further depredations against society.

"More ways than one of killing a cat," remarked Bob, as he pushed open the heavy door and entered the cabin. "We've got to know what's in that notebook before we leave this place. Let's have a look."

The boys quickly brought the book from its place of concealment and carried it to the table, where they bent eagerly over it as Bob turned the pages.

"It doesn't look like sense to me," complained Jimmy. "I never saw such a lot of fool words jumbled together."

"Yes, but something tells me there's method in this madness," said Bob, his brows knit as he concentrated on the problem before him. "Say, fellows!" he exclaimed, as sudden excitement gripped him, "do you remember those nights we were listening to our big set and we heard the mysterious messages? They were just a lot of words, and we couldn't make anything out of them at the time."

"You bet I remember!" exclaimed Joe. "I think I could even tell you most of the words. Why, there's some of them in that book, right now!"

"Exactly," replied Bob, nodding. "I remember them, too, and this must be the key to the code. My stars, what luck! Let's see how close we can recall the words we caught, and then we'll see if we can make sense of them with the help of this key."

"I'll tell you the words as I remember them, and you check me up," suggested Joe, and this they accordingly did.

Between them they managed to get it straight, just as they had heard it, "Corn-hay-six-paint-water-slow-sick-jelly."

"I think that's right," said Bob. "Anyway, we'll see if it comes right with the key. You read the words, Joe, and I'll find them in this notebook and you can write them down. Shoot the first one."

"Corn," said Joe.

Bob hunted rapidly down the columns of code words and their equivalents, and soon found the one he was after.

"Motor truck," he read out.

"That sounds promising!" exclaimed Joe. "The next word I've got is 'hay.' What's the answer to that?"

"Silk," said Bob, after a shorter search this time.

"Six," read Joe.

"Castleton Road!" exclaimed Bob, his voice shaking with excitement as he traced down the columns of words. Herb and Jimmy were also excited; especially the former, as he realized better than the others how serious a loss the theft of his father's truckload of silk had been and now thought he saw some clue in this message that might throw light on the whereabouts of the stolen goods.



Chapter XIX

The Robbers' Code


"The next word is 'paint,'" said Joe. "What does that stand for, Bob?"

"Just a minute, till I find it," replied his friend, and after turning over several pages found the word he sought.

"It means 'to-night,'" he said. "Read what we've got so far."

"Motor truck -- silk -- Castleton Road -- to-night," read Joe. "That's clear enough so far. The next code word is water."

"'No guards,'" said Bob. And so they went, until the completed message read as follows:

"Motor truck -- silk -- Castleton Road -- to-night -- no guards -- hold up -- take everything to usual place -- notify when job is done."

"That's the message that caused the theft of my father's merchandise!" exclaimed Herb, jumping to his feet. "If we had only had the key then, when there was still time, we could have prevented the hold-up."

"Very likely we could," agreed Bob soberly. "But we may be able to do the next best thing, Herb -- get the stuff back again. If we make a copy of this key and then leave the book just where we found it, the thieves will never dream that anybody knows their secret, and they'll keep right on using the same code."

"I see," said Herb slowly. "And then if we hear any more code messages we can translate them with this key, and likely get on the trail of the crooks."

"Exactly!" replied Bob. "Now, I have a notebook here, and if one of you fellows will dictate that code, I'll copy it down and we'll get out of here while the getting's good. There's no telling what minute some of the gang will show up."

"I'll dictate," volunteered Joe. "But while you and I are doing that, Bob, why can't Jimmy and Herb act as lookouts? Then if any of the gang comes along they can give us warning and we'll clear out."

"That's good advice," agreed Bob, and Herb and Jimmy went outside and up the path a short distance, where they crouched, listening, with every muscle tense to warn their comrades if danger threatened.

Meanwhile, in the cabin, Bob's pencil flew at furious speed as Joe dictated. The code was very complete, and consisted of over two hundred words, each word, in some cases, standing for a whole phrase. Bob wrote as he had never written before, but in spite of his utmost efforts it took over an hour to copy the entire list. He and Joe expected every minute to hear Herb or Jimmy give the alarm, but the woods remained calm and peaceful, and they finished their task without interruption.

"There's the last word, Bob!" exclaimed Joe, with a sigh of relief. "Let's put that little book back on the shelf where we found it, and make a quick getaway."

"Yes, we've got to make tracks," agreed Bob. "It will be away after dark now when we get back to the camp. If we don't hurry they will be organizing searching parties for us."

With great care he placed the notebook back on the shelf, under the board, and then gazed searchingly around the cabin to make sure that no signs of their visit were left behind to warn the thieves. After assuring himself that everything was exactly as they had found it, he and Joe left the rude habitation, snapping the big padlock through the hasp.

"That's a swell lock," observed Joe, grinning. "It looks strong enough to discourage anybody, but Jimmy's fish-hook licked it to a frazzle in no time."

"That's the way with a lot of padlocks," said Bob, as the two started off in search of the others. "It would take dynamite to break them open, but they're easy enough to pick."

"If you know how, that is," supplemented Joe, with a grin.

"Oh, that's understood," replied Bob. "It's hard to do anything without the know-how."

They soon picked up the two sentinels, who were greatly relieved to see them.

"I thought you were going to spend the night there," grumbled Jimmy. "What happened? Did you both fall asleep in the middle of it?"

"You're an ungrateful rascal, Doughnuts," answered Joe. "Here Bob and I have worked like slaves for the last hour, while all you had to do was loaf around in the nice fresh air. Then instead of thanking us, you growl because we took so long."

"Well, don't get sore," protested Jimmy. "I suppose we should all be so happy over this discovery that we shouldn't mind anything. I'll bet your father will be tickled to death, Herb."

"I guess he will," agreed Herb. "Although we're still a long way from getting back the stolen silk. There's no doubt that we've struck a mighty promising clue, that much is sure."

Bob was about to make some remark when he checked himself and halted in a listening attitude.

"I think some one is coming!" he exclaimed, in a low tone. "I'm sure I heard voices. Let's duck into the underbrush, quick!"

They were not a moment too soon, for they had hardly reached a place of concealment behind a great fallen tree when two men appeared around a bend in the path. One was the same whom they had followed a few hours before, while the other was a stranger to them. This man was of a desperate and unprepossessing appearance, and a bulge under his coat suggested the possible presence of a weapon.

The boys congratulated themselves that this formidable looking personage had not arrived half an hour sooner, for they were of course unarmed and would have been hard put to it had they been caught in the cabin.

They lay snugly hidden in their retreat behind the fallen tree until the voices of the two men had died away in the direction of the lonely cabin. Then they returned cautiously to the path and hastened toward the main road. This they reached without meeting any one else, and set out for camp at a pace that caused Jimmy to cry for mercy. But the shadows lay long athwart the path, camp was still an indefinite distance away, and they hurried the unfortunate youth along at a great rate in spite of his piteous protests.

"It will be the best thing in the world for you, Doughnuts," said Joe unfeelingly. "What you need is plenty of exercise to take that fat off you."

"Besides, think of what a fine appetite you'll have when we reach camp," laughed Bob.

"I've got all the appetite now that I know how to have," groaned Jimmy. "You fellows haven't a heart between you. Where other people keep their hearts, you've all got chunks of Vermont granite."

"Flash a little speed, and don't talk so much," advised Herb. "Be like the tramp that the fellow met going down the street one day with an expensive rug."

"Who wants to be like a tramp?" objected Jimmy.

"You do, when you want to loaf all the time," retorted Herb. "But now I'll tell you a good joke to make the way seem shorter. Jimmy got me started, and now I'll have to get it out of my system."

"Is it about a tramp?" asked Jimmy suspiciously.

"Yes. And it's a pippin," Herb assured him. "It seems this tramp was running down the street with an expensive rug over his shoulder, and somebody stopped him and began to ask questions.

"'Where did you steal that rug from?' asked the suspicious citizen.

"'I didn't steal it,' answered the tramp, trying to look insulted. 'A lady in that big house down the street handed it to me and told me to beat it, and I am.'"

"Say, that's a pretty good joke, for you, Herb," said Bob, laughing with the others.

"Oh, that's nothing. I've got others just as good," said Herb eagerly. "Now, here's one that I made up myself the other day, but I forgot to tell it to you. Why --  -- "

"Suffering tomcats!" exclaimed Joe. "Don't tell us anything that you made up yourself, Herb! Or, at least, wait until we get back and have supper, so that we'll be strong enough to stand it."

"That's what I say," agreed Jimmy. "I'm so hungry that I can't think of anything but supper, anyway. I know your joke is as good as usual, Herb, but I wouldn't be able to appreciate it just now."

"It's discouraging to a high-class humorist to have to throw away his choice offerings on a bunch like this," said Herb, in an injured voice. "Some day, when I am far away, you'll wish you had listened to those gems of humor."

"I'd like to believe you, but that hardly seems possible," said Bob. "Can you imagine the day ever coming when we'd actually want to sit down and listen to Herb's line of humor?"

"My imagination isn't up to anything like that," replied Joe. "But, of course, you don't really ever have to ask Herb to spill some of those jokes. The hard thing is to keep him from doing it."

"Oh, all right," retorted Herb. "Only, remember that it is 'easier to criticize than to create.'"

For some time after this they plodded along hoping to reach camp before it got entirely dark. Bob was the first to see a distant point of light through the trees, and he emitted a whoop that startled the others.



Chapter XX

On The Trail


"I can see the lights from the camp!" Bob exclaimed. "Use your eyes, fellows. A little to the left of us, through the trees."

"Well, it's about time," groaned Jimmy, as they all looked in the direction indicated. "I was just getting ready to lie down and die peacefully. I couldn't travel another mile if you paid me for it."

"Oh, buck up, Doughnuts, and get a move on!" exclaimed Bob. "You never know what you can do until you try. Come on, let's take it on the double."

He and Joe and Herbert broke into a lively trot, and rather than be left behind Jimmy overcame his reluctance for further effort, and with much puffing and blowing and fragmentary complaint managed to hold the pace until they arrived at the mess house.

Luckily for them, supper had been delayed owing to the failure of some supplies to arrive on time, and the lumbermen had just started eating when the radio boys burst in through the door.

The lumbermen stopped eating long enough to welcome their arrival, and they found their places set as usual.

"Glory be!" exclaimed Jimmy, as he slid into his chair. "If there were a pie-eating contest on to-night, I could show you fellows some real class. I feel empty right down to my toes."

"It's lucky we got a head start, Champ," remarked one of the men, with a grin. "Pass everything down this way, you amateurs. There's a professional here wants to show us some fancy eating."

By this time Jimmy was too busily occupied to make any answer, and the other radio boys were also showing good appetites. The long trip and the excitement of their discovery of the secret code had sharpened their naturally keen appetites until for once they all felt on equal terms with the lumbermen. Jimmy surpassed himself, and great was the admiration expressed for his ability as a trencherman.

After supper the boys sought out Mr. Fennington and told him of their discovery in the lonely cabin. Then Bob showed him the copy he had made of the code, and Mr. Fennington studied this a long time with knit brows.

"There seems little doubt that you boys have unearthed an important clue, and one that may easily lead to the discovery of the crooks who stole my merchandise," he said, at length. "I suppose I should put this information in the hands of the police. And yet perhaps we had better say nothing until we learn something further. With your radio outfit you may be able to catch another code message that would give us more definite information, and then it would be time enough to call in the police."

"I think that would be the best thing to do, Dad," agreed Herb. "As soon as we get back home we'll fix it so one of us will be at the set a good part of every afternoon and evening, and we'll be almost certain to catch some more messages like the last one."

His father nodded, and was still considering the matter when there came a knock at the door. Herb crossed over and opened it, and he and his friends uttered exclamations of astonishment and delight as they recognized the visitor. He was none other than Frank Brandon, the government radio inspector.

On his part, he was no less pleased to see them, and they all shook hands heartily, with many questions and explanations, after which the radio inspector was introduced to Mr. Fennington.

"I suppose you're all wondering what I'm doing up here," he said, after the greetings were over.

"Yes, in a way," admitted Bob. "Although we know that your position calls you all over, and we may expect to meet you almost any old place."

"Yes, that's a fact," replied Brandon. "I'm up here on the same old business, too. Somewhere in this neighborhood there's an unauthorized sending station, but in these thick woods it may prove a rather difficult place to locate exactly. However, it will only be a matter of time when we nail it."

The boys glanced at one another, and the same thought was in all their minds. They remembered the radio apparatus they had seen in the lonely cabin, and had little doubt that this would prove to be the unauthorized station of which the radio man was in search.

He must have read something of this in their expression, for he looked searchingly from one to another.

"Looks to me as though you fellows knew something," he remarked. "I might have known if there was anything going on in the radio line within fifty miles of where you are that you'd know something about it."

"Well, I've got a hunch that we could lead you right to the place you're looking for," said Bob quietly.

"What?" shouted Brandon, leaping excitedly to his feet. "Do you really mean that? Tell me all about it."

For the second time that evening Bob recounted the happenings of their eventful excursion, while the radio inspector listened intently, throwing in a question here and there. When Bob had finished he made no comment for a few minutes.

Then he took the copy of the code and examined it intently, jotting down phrases here and there in his own notebook.

"Well," he said at length, "this looks to be a much bigger thing than I had supposed. Of course I heard of the robbery of the motor-truck, but I never for a moment connected that with this sending station we've been looking for. It seems fairly evident, though, that if we can lay our hands on the operators of the unauthorized sending outfit, we'll also have the perpetrators of that hold-up. This is a case where we'll have to think out every move before we act."

"Just before you arrived I was considering the advisability of putting the matter into the hands of the police," said Mr. Fennington. "What would you do?"

"Keep the whole thing to ourselves for the present," said Mr. Brandon decisively. "I'll send for a couple of good men to come up here and help me, and we'll keep a watch on that cabin for a few days. If this thing got into the papers, it would put the crooks on their guard, and probably spoil our chances of catching them and getting back the loot. I've got a small but extremely efficient receiving and sending set in my car, and if any more code messages are sent out we'll catch them."

His confidence was contagious, and the boys felt almost as though the capture of the criminals had already been accomplished.

"What puzzles me, though," remarked Mr. Fennington, "is how you knew that there was an unauthorized radio sending station in this neighborhood, Mr. Brandon. I should think it would be almost impossible to locate such a station, even approximately."

"On the contrary," replied Frank Brandon, "it is little more than a matter of routine. Probably any of these radio fiends here could explain the method as well as I can, but I'll try to make it plain to you.

"There is a certain type of aerial that has what we call 'directional' properties, that is, when it is shifted around, the incoming signals will be loudest when this loop aerial, as it is called, is directly in line with the sending station. The receiving antenna is wound on a square frame, and when the signals are received at their maximum strength, we know that the frame is in a practically straight line with the sending station we're after."

"Yes, but that still leaves you in the dark as to whether the station is one mile away or a hundred miles," observed Mr. Fennington, as Brandon paused.

"That's very true," answered the other. "And for that reason we can't stop at using just one loop aerial. What we actually do is to have three stations, each one equipped with a loop. These three stations are located a good many miles apart. Now, with these three loops, we have three lines of direction. We lay out these lines on a chart of the territory, and where they intersect, is the place where the unlicensed station is located. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly," said Mr. Fennington. "But what looks like a point on the map may be a large space on the actual territory."

"Oh, yes, our work isn't done by any means after we have got our first rough bearings," continued Brandon. "Having determined the approximate position, we take the loops and receivers to what we know is a place quite near the station we're after, and then we repeat the former process. This time it is much more accurate. Gradually we draw the net tighter until we find the antenna belonging to the offender, and then -- well, we make him wish he hadn't tried to fool the government."

"You certainly have it reduced to an exact science," acknowledged Mr. Fennington. "I don't wonder that everybody interested in radio gets to be a fanatic."

"We'll make a 'bug' out of you before we get through, Dad," declared Herb, grinning.

"If my load of silk is recovered through the agency of radio, I'll be enthusiastic enough over it to suit even you fellows," said his father. "It will mean the best set that money can buy for you if I get it back."

"We'll hold you to that promise," threatened Herb. "Radio can do anything," he added, with the conviction of a devotee.

"Well, pretty nearly everything," qualified Mr. Brandon. "A little while ago it was considered marvelous that we could transmit the voice by radio, and now the transmission of photographs by radio has been successfully accomplished."

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Fennington incredulously. "Do you mean to say that an actual recognizable photograph has been sent through the air by radio? That seems almost too much to believe."

"Nevertheless, it has been done," insisted Frank Brandon. "I saw the actual reproduction of one that had been sent from Italy to New York by the wireless route, and while I can't claim that it was perfect, still it was as plain as the average newspaper picture. And don't forget that this is a new phase of the game, and is not past the experimental stage yet."

"Well, after that, I am inclined to agree with Herbert that 'radio can do anything,'" admitted Mr. Fennington.

"I don't think we'll have much trouble making a convert of you," laughed the radio inspector. "No doubt the quickest way, though, will be to recover your stolen shipment, so we'll start working in that direction the first thing in the morning."

And in this he was as good as his word. He was up betimes, getting in touch with headquarters by means of his compact portable outfit. He kept at work until he had received the promise of two trustworthy men, who were to report to him at the lumber camp as soon as they could get there. Then he routed out the radio boys, and after a hasty breakfast they all set out to locate the cabin where the boys had found the code key.



Chapter XXI

The Glimpse Through The Window


The sun was just climbing above the treetops when the radio boys and Frank Brandon set out over the forest road, to the accompaniment of a full chorus of lusty feathered singers. Robin and starling and thrush combined to make the dewy morning gladsome, and the boys whistled back at them and wished Larry Bartlett were there to learn some new notes.

"This would be just his dish," commented Herb. "After he got warmed up, you wouldn't be able to tell him from the birds."

"The only difference is, that he's better," declared Joe. "If he were here now, he'd be teaching the dicky birds a new song or two. That boy is certainly a wonder."

"He's very clever," acknowledged Brandon. "He's getting along wonderfully well at the broadcasting station, and I understand he's had several good offers from the big vaudeville circuits."

"Why doesn't he accept one?" questioned Joe.

"He hasn't fully recovered from the effects of the accident yet. And, besides, he says he likes the radio work better. He can stay in one place, and cut out all the traveling. That seems to be a strong consideration with him."

"I don't know that I can blame him," commented Bob. "I should think that continual jumping around from place to place would get on anybody's nerves."

"Still, it gives one a fine chance to see the country," argued Frank Brandon. "If any of you fellows ever get into radio work in a commercial way, the chances are you won't be able to 'stay put' in one place very long."

"There's one great advantage about traveling, anyway," said Jimmy.

"What's that, Doughnuts?" queried Joe. "I should think that with your restful nature you'd rather stay in the same place and grow old and fat in perfect comfort."

"Oh, that part of it is all right," admitted Jimmy. "But don't forget that different parts of the country have different kinds of cooking. In New York the specialty is shore dinners; go a little South, and you get fried chicken and corn pone cooked by guaranteed southern mammies; go up North, and you get venison steaks; in the West they'll feed you mutton chops as big as a plate. And so it goes."

"You've even forgotten some places," laughed Bob. "How about a steaming dish of beans in Boston?"

"Yes, or frijoles and chile con carne in New Mexico," suggested Herb.

"Cease, cease!" groaned Jimmy. "Why talk about such things when we're such a long way from them? Every time you mention something new it makes me feel hungrier."

"Hungrier!" exclaimed Mr. Brandon. "Why, it's hardly half an hour since we finished breakfast!"

"What has breakfast got to do with it?" demanded the insatiable Jimmy. "That's past and done with. It's time to think of lunch, now."

"You win," laughed Brandon. "Your capacity will make you famous some day."

"It's made him famous already -- at least, up here," Bob informed the radio inspector. "Didn't you know that he is the undisputed champion pie eater of the camp?"

"No, I didn't know that, but it doesn't surprise me in the least to hear it," said Brandon, with a smile. "How did he gain his laurels?"

Then Bob told him about the contest, and when he had finished Mr. Brandon laughingly congratulated Jimmy.

"I always had a sneaking idea that you could do it," he admitted. "But after my experience with lumbermen's appetites, I realize that you must have been on your mettle all the way."

"It was rather hard at the end," admitted Jimmy, "but take it all together it was a real pleasure. That cook sure does know how to make good pies," and an expression of blissful reminiscence spread over his round countenance.

"He made a regular pig of himself, but we knew he would, and that's why we had such confidence in him," said Joe.

"Nothing of the kind!" protested Jimmy. "You know you fellows got me into it in the first place. You fixed it all up, and I only went in as a favor to you. But I might know better than to expect gratitude from this bunch."

"You'll find it in the dictionary," Joe informed him. "You ought to be grateful to us for providing you with a feed like that. It would have cost you a lot of money to buy all those pies back home."

"I think he came well out of it, at any rate," interposed the radio man. "But we must now be getting somewhere near that cabin, and we'd better go as quietly as we can. We know that there are two of the gang hanging out in it, and there's no telling how many more there may be."

"Not so very near the cabin yet," answered Bob. "Nearer that tree to which they had the receiving set attached."

Nevertheless, they advanced as silently as possible, keeping a sharp lookout for any sign of the black-moustached stranger and his friend. The woods seemed devoid of human presence other than their own, however, and they saw nothing to arouse suspicion until at length they reached the tree to which the receiving set was fastened. Frank Brandon examined this with interest. The box was securely locked, but the radio man drew a big bunch of various-sized keys from his pocket.

"I want to see what's in this box, but first I think we'd better post sentries," he said, in a low voice. "Suppose you go back a few hundred feet the way we came, Jimmy. You go the same distance in the other direction, Herb. And Joe can go a little way up the path that leads toward the cabin. You can stay here and help me get this box open, Bob. If any of you hear some one coming, imitate a robin's note three times, and then keep out of sight. We don't want the crooks to suspect yet that anybody is on their trail."

The three radio boys scattered to their appointed posts, and Frank Brandon proceeded to try key after key in the lock. He had to try fully a dozen before at last the lock clicked and the door of the box swung open.

Inside was a complete radio receiving set, with vacuum tube detector and batteries in perfect working order. Between the roots of the tree an iron pipe had been driven into the earth to act as a ground. The antenna was strung from top to bottom of the tree on the side away from the path, and there was nothing to differentiate the box from an ordinary wire telephone set, except that it was slightly larger. There were a number of regular wire telephones scattered throughout the woods, to aid in fighting forest fires, so that anybody traveling along the path would have been unlikely to give this outfit more than a passing glance, if they noticed it at all. Had the radio boys not chanced to see the black-moustached man listening, with wireless headphones over his ears, the fact that the box contained a wireless receiving outfit might never have been discovered.

Brandon and Bob went carefully over every article of the equipment. They were on the lookout for another notebook such as the boys had found in the cabin, but there was nothing of the kind in the box. When they were satisfied of this, Mr. Brandon carefully replaced everything as he had found it, and snapped the lock shut.

"So much for that!" he exclaimed. "Now, let's get hold of the others and we'll see what that mysterious cabin looks like."

Joe and Herb and Jimmy were soon recalled from their sentry duty, and all set out along the path to the cabin. When they got close to the clearing the three sentries were again posted, while Bob and the inspector made a detour through the woods so as to approach the cabin on the side away from the path, where there was little likelihood of those inside keeping a lookout. Very cautiously they advanced from the concealment of the woods, Frank Brandon with his right hand on the butt of a deadly looking automatic pistol. They crept close to the wall of the cabin, and listened intently for some sign of life within.

That there was at least one man in the cabin, and that he was still sleeping, soon became evident, for they heard the heavy breathing of one sound asleep. Mr. Brandon cautiously raised himself as high as the window, and peered within. From this position he could not see the sleeper, however, and he and Bob moved silently to the other side of the shack. From there they commanded a good view of the interior, and could plainly see the sleeping man, who was the same whom the boys had first encountered the day before.

His black-moustached face was toward them, and Brandon gave a start of recognition, while his fingers tightened on his pistol. For a few moments he stood tense, evidently deciding what to do. Then he beckoned to Bob to follow, and made for the path where the others anxiously awaited them.

"I know that man in there!" exclaimed Brandon excitedly. "He is known as 'Black' Donegan, on account of his black hair and moustache. He's wanted by the police of New York and Chicago, and I guess other cities, too. We could easily get him now, but if we did, the chances are the rest of the gang would take alarm, and we'd miss the chance of bagging them and getting back Mr. Fennington's stolen property. It's hard to say what is the best thing to do."

But on the instant a plan occurred to Bob, and he lost no time in communicating it to the others.



Chapter XXII

A Nefarious Plot


"If this fellow in the cabin is such a bad man, we can't afford to risk losing sight of him," said Bob. "Suppose Joe and Jimmy and I stay here, while Herb goes back with you, Mr. Brandon. We can stay here until your two regulars show up, and Herb can then bring them here to relieve us. How does that strike you?"

"It's a way out of the predicament," answered Frank Brandon, his frown vanishing. "You fellows are apt to have a long vigil, though. My men won't get to the camp until this afternoon, and after that it takes quite a while to reach this place."

"I guess we can stand it," said Bob. "Can't we, fellows?" he asked, glancing at the others.

Both Joe and Jimmy agreed, although the latter had secret misgivings as he thought regretfully of the dinner he would miss. However, such considerations were of little weight just then, and it was finally decided to adopt Bob's plan.

"I'll leave my pistol with you," said Brandon, as he and Herb prepared to leave. "But whatever else you do, steer clear of this gang and don't use firearms unless as a last resort. Remember, that if they once find out their hiding place is discovered, our whole scheme will be ruined."

The boys promised to exercise the greatest caution, and then Mr. Brandon and Herb started back toward camp.

Bob, after a brief inspection, dropped the deadly automatic pistol into his pocket, and then the three friends considered how they might best keep watch on the cabin without being discovered. First of all, at Joe's suggestion, they armed themselves with serviceable clubs, that might come in handy in time of necessity. Then they slipped silently into the underbrush, and worked their way along until they had attained a position where they commanded a view of the cabin's only door.

The spot they had chosen was surrounded by dense thickets, and one might have passed within ten feet without spying them. Bob carefully parted the bushes and broke off twigs here and there until they could see plainly enough, and yet were securely hidden from the cabin. This done, the boys made themselves as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, and prepared for a long vigil.

They had been in their retreat less than half an hour when the door of the shack was flung open, and the black-moustached man appeared on the threshold. He gazed searchingly about the little clearing, then glanced up at the mounting sun and stretched prodigiously. At length, apparently satisfied that all was as it should be, he turned back into the cabin, and soon the aroma of bacon and coffee came floating down the wind to where the boys lay. Jimmy's nose twitched and his mouth watered, but he thought of the importance of the mission that had been intrusted to them by the radio inspector and stifled his longings.

The man in the cabin ate a leisurely breakfast, and apparently was in no hurry. Indeed, from the way he loitered over the meal, the boys rather suspected that he was awaiting the arrival of some other members of the gang. Nor were they mistaken. After a time the lads could hear the sound of approaching voices, and soon three men entered the clearing and made for the cabin. At the first sound of their voices, the man inside had stepped swiftly to the door, one hand in the bulging pocket of his coat; but when he recognized the others an ugly grin spread over his face, while his hand dropped to his side.

"So you have got here at last, eh?" he snarled. "I'm glad to find you didn't hurry yourselves any. I thought I sent you a wireless message to get here early."

"So you did, chief," spoke up one of the newcomers. "But we couldn't get here no sooner."

"You couldn't?" snapped the other. "Why couldn't you?"

"We got word that one of the government radio inspectors was at the lumber camp, so we had to come here by the long way. We were afraid he might recognize one of us if we happened to bump into him."

"Well, the cops have photoed all of you so often that I don't wonder you're shy," sneered the leader. "But come on inside. There's no use of standing chinning here."

Two of the men muttered sullenly to themselves, but ceased abruptly as the leader's frowning gaze fell on them. They all shuffled into the cabin, and the black-moustached man shut the door with a bang.

"Say," whispered Bob, "we've got to listen in on this pow-wow, fellows. I'm going to sneak up to the window and try to hear what they're saying. They must have some purpose in meeting here like this."

"Well, be mighty careful, Bob," said Joe anxiously. "They're a tough crowd, and we've got to watch our step. If they discover you, head for here, and if we can't get away we'll put up a battle."

"If I have any kind of luck, they won't discover me," Bob assured him. "Just sit tight, and I'll be back in a jiffy."

Very cautiously he crept through the underbrush toward the cabin. In spite of all his care a branch snapped under him and the second time the door was flung wide and the ill-favored leader of the gang stepped out and peered about him.

Bob flattened out as close to the ground as he could get and lay tense, while the outlaw gazed suspiciously at the bushes amid which he was concealed.

"What's the matter, Blackie?" called one of the gang. "Did you think you heard somethin'?"

"I know I did!" exclaimed the other. "But I suppose it was only some animal prowling around."

"Bein' alone in this shack has got on your nerves, maybe," taunted one of the gang.

"Nerves, my eye!" exclaimed the other. "I don't own such things! But I've got a notion to take a look through those bushes, anyway," and he started in Bob's direction.

"Come on back, Blackie," urged another of the gang. "We can't be foolin' around here all day. Be yourself, can't you?"

The others chimed in to the same effect, and their leader reluctantly abandoned his search and returned to the cabin. Had he gone another twenty feet he would inevitably have discovered Bob, who had been on the point of springing to his feet and giving battle. It was a narrow escape, and the radio boys heaved sighs of relief as the door of the cabin closed on the formidable figure of the leader. They knew that these men were desperate criminals, heavily armed, who would not hesitate at murder to avoid capture.

Bob resumed his advance, an inch at a time, and at length reached the edge of the clearing. Before him lay a stretch of perhaps twenty feet of open ground, and should one of the desperados chance to open the door while he was crossing this space, discovery would be certain. However, this was a chance that Bob knew he must take, and without hesitation he sprang to his feet and ran swiftly but silently toward the cabin.

Fortunately he reached it unobserved, and crouched close to the wall beneath one of the little windows. There were numerous cracks in the side of the rude structure, and he had no difficulty in hearing what was going on inside.

The crooks were engaged in a heated debate, but soon the voice of their leader spoke out commandingly and the others fell silent.

"I tell you we haven't had a chance to get rid of that last load of silk we got near Castleton," he said, in an angry voice. "I couldn't get the price I wanted for it, and, besides, it will be just as easy to get rid of two loads as one, and no more risk. Now, I'm going to send out a radio message in code to the rest of the gang, and we'll pull off the job to-night, just as I've already told you."

There were no dissenting voices, and presently Bob heard the whirr of the sending set, followed by the voice of the leader.

"HDEA' HDEA'," he called again and again, switching over to the receiving set to get an answer. At length he evidently reached the station he was after, for he listened intently for a few minutes. Then the generator hummed again, and Bob heard the black-moustached man speaking again.

"Get this, and get it right," he commanded, and there followed a string of words that would have been mere gibberish to Bob had he not held the key to their meaning. He searched frantically in his pockets for a pencil, and scribbled the words down as the man spoke them. When he had finished, the leader of the gang shut down the generator, and turned to the others.

"That's fixed," he said. "There won't be much to do for the rest of the day but look over your guns and make sure they're in good working order. Since we got that last truck they've been putting guards on them, and we want to be prepared to shoot before they do."

There was a general pushing back of chairs, and Bob realized that at any moment the door might open. His mind worked quickly, and instead of going back to his friends the way he had come, he made a rush for the woods on the opposite side of the clearing. In this way the "blind," or windowless, end of the cabin was toward him, so that he would not be likely to be detected unless the robbers came out and walked around the house.

Lucky it was for Bob that he acted as he did, because he had barely started when the door was flung open and those inside came streaming out. For a few moments they stood in a group in front of the door, talking, and then scattered, some walking about, while others threw themselves on the ground and smoked.

But by this time Bob had reached the cover of the woods undiscovered, and set out to rejoin his friends. This necessitated a long detour, and it was a full hour later that he crept silently into their hiding place. So quietly did he come that Jimmy was on the point of uttering a startled exclamation, but checked himself just in time.



Chapter XXIII

Preparing An Ambush


"Say, you came as quietly as a shadow," whispered the plump youth. "How do you ever do it?"

"You don't expect me to blow a whistle under the circumstances, do you?" asked Bob.

"Never mind that, but tell us what you heard," said Joe impatiently. "What are they up to, Bob?"

"I can't tell you until I compare what I copied down with the code key," said Bob, as he fished in his pocket for the bit of paper on which he had noted down the robber's message. Having found this, he and Joe searched through the key and soon had the following message pieced together:

"Truck -- silk -- Barberton Road -- to-night. Meet me and others -- Hicks Bridge -- eight o'clock. Truck due -- ten o'clock."

Having deciphered the message, the boys gazed questioningly at one another.

"That doesn't give us much time to act," said Joe. "If we wait here it may be close to eight o'clock before the others come to relieve us, and then it will be too late to prevent the robbery."

"The answer is, that we won't wait here," said Bob decisively. "As long as we know their plans up until this evening, there's no need of watching this cabin any longer, anyway. We'd better start back right away, and tell Mr. Brandon what we've found out. He'll know the best thing to do then."

"That sounds all right to me," said Joe, and as Jimmy saw a chance of getting back to camp in time for dinner, he put in no objections.

"Now, for the love of butter, try to go quietly, Jimmy," warned Bob. "If those fellows hear a sound from this direction, they'll be right after us, because their suspicions are already aroused."

"I'll do the best I can," promised his rotund friend. "But I'm heavier than you fellows, and I can't slide around so easily."

"Well, go easy, anyway," said Bob. "Now, are we all ready?"

With infinite caution the boys wormed their way through the brushwood, Bob leading. By luck rather than good management Jimmy managed to be as quiet as his friends, and after almost an hour of this slow progress Bob judged that they were far enough away from the cabin to risk a faster pace. The shack was out of sight among the trees when he sprang to his feet, followed by the others, and in a short time they had reached the path leading to the main road. Here it was still necessary to be extremely careful, for they never knew at what moment some turn in the path would bring them face to face with some of the robber band. Fortunately nothing of the kind happened, and soon they reached the main road and started at high speed for camp.

"I wonder if we can't take some sort of a short cut," came from Joe as they raced along.

"That's the talk," puffed poor Jimmy, who had great difficulty in keeping up with his chums. "The shorter the better."

"We won't dare risk it," returned Bob. "Why we might get lost."

"Who's afraid of getting lost?"

"We are, for we might lose too much time and all our plans would go to smash. No, we've got to stick to the main road."

"How much further have we to go?"

"I don't know."

"We've got to chase along until we reach camp," put in Joe. "Hustle now, every minute may be precious."

"I can't hustle any more than I am hustling," panted poor Jimmy. "Do you want me to drop down of heart failure or something like that?"

"Maybe we'd better go along and leave Jimmy behind," suggested Joe, with a wink at Bob.

"Not much," cried the stout youth, and after that did his best to keep up with the others.

Not a great while later they came in sight of camp, much to their relief.

Mr. Brandon was astonished to see them back so soon, but as briefly as possible Bob told him of what they had learned and showed him the code message.

"You fellows have done a clever bit of detective work, and with reasonable luck it ought to be possible to bag the whole gang to-night," said Brandon. "I know where Hicks Bridge is. It's about five miles this side of Barberton, and an ideal place for an ambuscade. The road runs between high banks just before it gets to the bridge, and some of the gang posted on those banks could command the road from either direction. But I'll get in communication with the chief of police of Barberton, and we'll see if we can't catch the thieves in their own trap."

"I suppose the two men you were expecting haven't arrived yet, have they?" inquired Bob.

"No. And I'm afraid we won't be able to wait for them, either," said Brandon. "I could radio to the Barberton chief, but I'm afraid the message might be intercepted by the crooks, if one of them happened to be listening. I guess it will be better to go by way of my automobile, although I hate to lose the time that it will take."

"Isn't there a telephone line from the camp?" suggested Joe.

"No, unfortunately, one hasn't been installed yet," replied the inspector. "But we can do the trick with the car if we start right away. I suppose there's no need of asking if you fellows would like to come with me?"

"None whatever," answered Bob, grinning. "Just give us a chance to go in and snatch a little grub off the table, and we'll eat it on the way."

Frank Brandon nodded, and the three boys dashed into the mess hall and caught up anything in the way of eatables that came nearest to hand, Jimmy, of course, specializing on his favorite doughnuts. Then they hurried out, and found Mr. Brandon waiting for them, with the motor running. After a short search they found Herb fast asleep in his bunk, and roused him unceremoniously, hustling him out before he was fairly awake.

"What's it all about?" he questioned, rubbing his eyes. "Has the camp caught fire, or do you just want to borrow some money from me?"

"Never mind the funny business now, we'll tell you all about it while we're traveling," said Bob, as they reached the automobile. "In you go, Herb."

Before they could find seats Mr. Brandon had let in the clutch, and the car started with a jerk that landed them in a heap on the cushions. Regardless of the rough road, he kept picking up speed, and soon it was all they could do to stay in the car at all. Barberton was about thirty miles from the camp, and to reach it they had to cross Hicks Bridge. All looked calm and peaceful just then, and it was hard to believe that in a few short hours a desperate fight might be raging between the high banks that flanked the road. The bridge was some two hundred feet long, and passed over a deep cut between two hills. In spite of its present peaceful appearance it was easy to see that the place would be an ideal one to perpetrate such a crime as the robbers contemplated, and after they had passed over the bridge Mr. Brandon opened the throttle wider in his impatience to reach Barberton.

They slowed down to go through the streets of the town, and as they drew up in front of the police station, Brandon shut off his motor and leaped to the sidewalk.

"Come on in, boys, and we'll tell the chief about the little party scheduled for this evening," he said, and the boys followed him into the police station.

Fortunately the chief of police, Mr. Durand, was in, and he greeted Mr. Brandon with a heartiness that showed they were old friends.

After they had shaken hands, Brandon introduced the radio boys, and then proceeded to acquaint the chief with the details of the plot they had discovered. As Mr. Durand listened a dark frown gathered between his bushy eyebrows, and his fingers drummed angrily on the table before him. When Mr. Brandon had finished, the chief jumped to his feet and strode fiercely up and down the room.

"This won't be the first trouble we've had with those rascals!" he exclaimed wrathfully. "Members of the same gang have held up and robbed stores in this town, and we have two of them doing their bit in jail right now. And if we have any luck to-night we'll have the whole gang under lock and key before the morning. These young fellows must have been right on the job from start to finish, Frank."

"Yes, I guess they were," replied Brandon. "If we land this gang, we'll have them to thank for it. But now what are your plans for capturing the crooks?"

For answer the chief pressed a button, and a capable looking police lieutenant appeared.

"Get together ten of our best men," he directed, "and put them into two automobiles. When they are ready to start, report to me."

The lieutenant saluted, and left the room.

"According to the code message, the robbers won't be at Hicks Bridge much before eight o'clock, which is after dark these days," said the chief. "We'll get there a lot earlier than that, and I'll conceal my men in the woods. Then I'll leave orders here to stop the motor truck as it comes through, and replace its crew with a few picked men from my force. When the robbers try to hold up that truck, they'll have a big surprise in store for them."

"It might be a good plan," suggested Bob, "to mount a searchlight or two on the motor truck. At the right minute you could turn these on the crooks, and while it would confuse them, it would give your men in the woods a big advantage, as they'd be able to see the hold-up men plainly without being seen themselves."

"Young man, that's a first-rate suggestion!" exclaimed the chief, eyeing him appraisingly, "and you can believe we'll take advantage of it. I'll commandeer a couple from the Electric Light Company in readiness to mount on the truck when it comes along. I wish we could persuade you and your friends to join the Barberton police force."

"We'll be pretty nearly a part of it until those crooks are captured, if you'll let us," said Bob. "We all want to be in at the finish."

"It will be a dangerous business, and bullets may fly thick," the chief warned him. "You fellows have done more than your full duty already, and we can hardly call on you to do any more."

"Just the same, we'll come along if you don't mind," insisted Bob.

"Oh, I'll be very glad to have you, as far as I'm concerned," said Mr. Durand. "I suppose you'll want to be in on it, too, Frank?"

"You're dead right," Brandon assured him emphatically. "I've gone too far with this to want to drop out now."

At this point the lieutenant appeared and reported that the men were in the automobiles, ready to start. Picking up the telephone, the chief ordered his own car. He invited Mr. Brandon and the radio boys to ride with him.

"You can leave your car in the police garage, Frank," he said, and Brandon was not slow in availing himself of this offer. In a short time he returned, and the three automobiles started for the scene of the projected hold-up, the chief's car leading and the other two following close behind.



Chapter XXIV

Lying In Wait


"Doesn't look as though there's going to be much monotony in our young lives to-night," remarked Bob, as, tightly packed in the tonneau of the car, the boys rode on through the gathering darkness.

"For that matter there hasn't been much for several days past," chuckled Joe, who sat at his right. "A fellow would have to be a glutton to want more adventure than we've had since we came to Braxton Woods. What with Buck Looker and Black Donegan, we ought to be pretty well satisfied."

"I only hope Cassey will be in the gang that is rounded up to-night," observed Herb. "It would be too bad if only the rest were captured and that all-around scoundrel slipped through the meshes."

"I guess Cassey is the brains of the whole bunch," put in Jimmy. "Probably the others didn't know anything about radio until he put them on to it. He'll be there all right. And he's likely to put up a pretty stiff fight before he lets himself be captured, for he knows what it means to him to be sent back to prison. With a new sentence tacked on to the old one it'll probably mean that he'll be in for life."

In a little while they reached the scene of the proposed robbery. They were well in advance of the time set by the plotters, and the chief took his time in carefully disposing his forces, availing himself of Frank Brandon's advice in doing this.

The bridge stretched between two hills at the bottom of which was a small stream, about a hundred feet below. On each side, almost down to the bridge itself, extended trees and shrubbery that afforded excellent hiding places. The only trouble was that both the outlaws and the officers who were trying to apprehend them were likely to seek the same shelter and might in this way stumble across each other before the trap was ready to be sprung.

This, however, was a contingency that had to be faced, and preparations were made accordingly. The men were placed at strategic points on both sides of the bridge. Whether the attempt at hold-up would be made at the entrance to the bridge or on the further side was a matter of speculation. The chief went on the theory, however, that it would probably take place at the entrance, and there he placed the majority of the men under him.

The radio boys hinted that there was where they would like to be also, but in this the chief was adamant.

"I've stretched a point in letting you young fire-eaters come along at all," he said. "As it is, I may have a hard time explaining to your parents. And I hate to think what my position would be if anything happened to you. So I am going to put you where I think you'll be comparatively out of danger. You're just to be lookers on at this shindig. And if the bullets begin to fly, you just lie flat on the ground behind the trees until they stop. It may not be so glorious, but it's likely to be a mighty sight more healthy."

So, much against their will, the boys were compelled to obey orders and take the place assigned to them which was on the further side of the bridge.

"Putting us up in the gallery when we ought to have seats in the orchestra," grumbled Joe, as the boys ensconced themselves in a thicket behind a big clump of trees.

"Cheer up, you old gloom hound," chaffed Bob. "We may get in on this yet. At any rate, if we are in the gallery, we have a good view of the stage. Or at least we shall have, when the searchlight gets busy."

The darkness deepened until the night became as black as Egypt. There was no moon, and even the stars were obscured by clouds that heavily veiled the sky. The night was chill, and the boys buttoned their coats tightly about them as they sat waiting for developments.

They had perhaps an hour to wait, but it was not known but that some of the robbers would be on the ground at an earlier time than had been set, and every sense was on the alert as all strained their ears for the slightest sound and peered into the darkness on the chance that they might catch glimpses of shadowy forms. After the first few moments they had not ventured to talk for fear that they might be overheard. But this did not debar them from thinking, and they thrilled with excitement as they pictured each to himself the struggle that seemed about to take place on the road.

The minutes dragged along interminably, and in the intense silence the lads could almost hear the beating of their hearts. Then at a little distance a twig cracked and sent the blood racing madly through their veins.

Soon footsteps were heard approaching, and the lads crouched still lower in their hiding place. The sounds came nearer, and they could detect the tread of two men. They were approaching without any excessive degree of caution, as they had no reason to believe that their plans had been discovered. As they drew closer, the boys could hear them conversing in low tones.

"I tell you it's all right," said a rough voice, which they recognized as that of Black Donegan. "All the fellows are tipped off and know just what they've got to do. Jake and Toppy will do the holding up, and then the rest of us will jump in if the driver cuts up rough. If he does, there'll be one more dead driver."

The boys waited for the answer that seemed to be long in coming. What they heard finally was a whistle that made them jump. They had heard that whistle before!

"Cassey!" whispered Bob to Joe. "Cassey, as sure as you're born!"

The next instant his belief became a thrilling certainty.

"It-t-t-t isn't the d-d-driver." The voice came out, with an explosive quality. "It's the g-g-guards he may have w-w-with him. The p-p-police are getting pretty l-l-leary about all the robberies t-t-t-that have been taking place around here lately, and they've g-g-g-," again came the whistle, "g-got to do something or lose their jobs. At any rate t-t-this is the last thing we're g-g-going to pull off around here --  -- "

"I guess he's right about that," Joe whispered to Bob.

" --  -- and j-j-just as soon as we're through with this, w-w-we'd better p-pull up stakes and try somewhere else."

The voice was now so close at hand that if the boys had reached out of the thicket they would almost have touched the speaker. At this thought Jimmy and Herb, especially, felt a thrill of excitement.



Chapter XXV

An Exciting Struggle


"I think myself that we've hung round this neck o' the woods about long enough," agreed Donegan. "And I ain't any too well pleased to have that radio inspector snooping around the woods. He ain't up to any good if you ask me. But brace up, Cassey, for this last haul. You ain't generally chicken-hearted."

"You'll f-f-find that I have my n-n-nerve with me when the pinch comes," replied Cassey. "I'd rather be k-k-killed by a bullet than g-g-g-go back to prison."

The voices receded as the men went on, and soon the sound of their footsteps ceased. It was evident they were searching for the most advantageous place for the crime that they contemplated.

"I told you that I had a hunch that that villain would be here," whispered Jimmy, when they felt that it would be safe to speak.

"Good thing, too," said Bob grimly. "Cassey'll get to-night what's coming to him."

Half an hour passed -- an hour -- an hour and a half. Then far in the distance the boys heard the hum of a motor engine and the rumble of a heavy truck.

"There it comes!" ejaculated Joe, throwing caution to the winds in his excitement.

The rumbling grew louder, and soon the boys knew that it must be close to the bridge. Then they saw the lamps of an auto truck sending out their beams of light a hundred feet in advance, and could just discern above them the massive body of the truck.

It came on at a moderate rate of speed, slowing up somewhat as it struck the bridge.

Suddenly shots rang out and the boys could see two dark figures standing on the bridge and waving their hands at the driver, as they bellowed out orders to stop. At the same time, as though the shots had been a signal, three other figures came rushing from other directions.

It was impossible for the boys to keep still, and they too sprang to their feet and started for the scene of the hold-up, running at the top of their speed.

Just as they left their covert there was a blinding flash that made the whole bridge as bright as day. A searchlight had been turned on from the top of the truck full in the faces of the robbers. They staggered as though they had been struck, and at the same instant there came a volley of shots and the police were upon the hold-up men.

There was a wild mélée of struggling men, as they swayed back and forth in a desperate struggle. The robbers had been taken completely by surprise and were outnumbered two to one. There were shouts and the crack of revolvers, and the thud of pistol butts.

But the battle, though fierce, was of short duration. In a few minutes the robbers had been subdued. One lay stunned on the bridge and another lay by him wounded. Two more were held in the grasp of officers.

One, however, tore himself away from the officer who had grappled with him, and came rushing in the direction of the radio boys. In the glare from the searchlight they recognized Cassey.

He saw them, too, and fired his revolver at them. The shot went wild. He pressed the trigger again but with no result. Then, realizing that his weapon was empty, he hurled it at Bob, who was nearest to him.

Bob dodged, and the next instant grabbed at Cassey's legs. The expertness that had made him the star of his football team stood him in good stead. His arms closed round Cassey in a flying tackle, and they came heavily to the bridge together.

Cassey struggled desperately to rise, but Bob held him in an unbreakable grip, and a second later his comrades had come to his assistance and the scoundrel was overpowered and delivered over to the police, who came rushing up.

The robbers were securely bound and bundled into the auto truck that they had planned to rob. Then in high spirits the party drove back to Barberton. The chief was jubilant, and the praises he heaped upon the radio boys made their ears burn. They stayed long enough at his office to see the prisoners safely jailed and then, though the hour was late, rode back to their quarters in the woods with Mr. Brandon.

They slept long and late after their exciting experience, and it was almost noon the next day when they awoke. Bob was somewhat surprised to find a letter waiting for him. It bore no stamp, and had evidently been brought there by one of the lumbermen.

He opened it curiously and glanced at the signature. Then he gave a shout that brought his comrades quickly to his side.

"What do you think of this, fellows?" he cried. "Buck Looker's writing to me."

There was a chorus of wondering exclamations.

The last paragraph caught Bob's eye and he read it aloud:

"As for Bob Layton and those other chumps, all we've got to do is to stand pat. No one saw us put the stones in the snowballs, and if we just deny it, they can't pin anything on us. They'll have to pay for the window, and that'll even up things for what they did to us at Mountain Pass.

"Yours,

"Buck."

Bob was utterly dumbfounded. Then he glanced at the heading of the letter and let out a whoop.

"Oh, this is too rich!" he cried, almost choking with laughter. "This letter is directed to Carl Lutz. You know he went home two or three days ago. Buck has written two letters, one to Lutz and the other to me -- probably a roast -- and he's put them in the wrong envelopes. Oh, how he's given himself away!"

Bob's comrades were fairly convulsed, and Jimmy grew so purple in the face that they had to slap him vigorously on the back. They had scarcely got him into a calmer frame, before he threatened to go off again, for he saw Buck Looker strolling along the road.

"Probably's come along to see how you were bearing up under the roast," chuckled Joe.

Bob ran over toward Buck, followed by his comrades. Buck looked alarmed and put himself in a posture of defense.

"Oh, we're not going to hurt you," said Bob. "I only wanted to tell you that I got your letter."

"I hope it blistered your hide," growled Buck.

"It made me nearly laugh myself to death," replied Bob. "But let me advise you, Buck, to make sure the next time that you get the right letter in the right envelope."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Buck, in apprehension.

"Only that I got the letter you meant for Carl Lutz," replied Bob. "Maybe you've forgotten what you said, so I'll read the last paragraph," and, dwelling on every word, he read it over deliberately.

Before he had quite finished, Buck made a desperate grab at the letter, but Bob was too quick for him.

"No, you don't!" he exclaimed, as he folded it and put it carefully into his pocket. "That letter's going to cost you about two hundred dollars, for that's what it will cost to pony up for the broken window. We've got you dead to rights, and you'd better pay up and pay up quick. So long, Buck. And do be more careful next time to get the right letter in the right envelope."

With all his bluster knocked out of him, Buck slunk away. The boys were not surprised to learn in the next letter from home that the insurance company had been paid.

"Some excitement we have had here," remarked Bob. "Wonder if we'll ever have such strenuous times again."

"Sure," declared Joe promptly, and he was right, as we shall see in the next volume of this series, to be called, "The Radio Boys with the Forest Rangers." In that volume we shall see how they fought a fire that came close to ending tragically.

After a good dinner, the boys lay sprawled out on the grass basking in the spring sunshine and utterly at peace with themselves and the world.

"Well, it's been hard work, but we've had pretty good luck at trailing a voice," observed Bob.

"Yes," agreed Joe with a grin, "and s-s-s-such a v-v-v-voice!"

And Jimmy whistled.

<eob>

The Young Franc Tireurs And Their Adventures In The Franco-Prussian War

By

G. A. Henty



Chapter 1: The Outbreak Of War.


The usually quiet old town of Dijon was in a state of excitement. There were groups of people in the streets; especially round the corners, where the official placards were posted up. Both at the Prefecture and the Maine there were streams of callers, all day. Every functionary wore an air of importance, and mystery; and mounted orderlies galloped here and there, at headlong speed. The gendarmes had twisted their mustaches to even finer points than usual, and walked about with the air of men who knew all about the matter, and had gone through more serious affairs than this was likely to be.

In the marketplace, the excitement and buzz of conversation were at their highest. It was the market day, and the whole area of the square was full. Never, in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, had such a market been seen in Dijon. For the ten days preceding, France had been on the tiptoe of expectation; and every peasant's wife and daughter, for miles round the town, had come with their baskets of eggs, fowls, or fruits, to attend the market and to hear the news. So crowded was it, that it was really difficult to move about. People were not, however, unmindful of bargains -- for the French peasant woman is a thrifty body, and has a shrewd eye to sous -- so the chaffering and haggling, which almost invariably precede each purchase, went on as briskly as usual but, between times, all thoughts and all tongues ran upon the great event of the day.

It was certain -- quite certain, now -- that there was to be war with Prussia. The newspapers had said so, for some days; but then, bah! who believes a newspaper? Monsieur le Prefect had published the news, today; and everyone knows that Monsieur le Prefect is not a man to say a thing, unless it were true. Most likely the Emperor, himself, had written to him. Oh! There could be no doubt about it, now.

It was singular to hear, amidst all the talk, that the speculation and argument turned but little upon the chances of the war, itself; it being tacitly assumed to be a matter of course that the Germans would be defeated, with ease, by the French. The great subject of speculation was upon the points which directly affected the speakers. Would the Mobiles be called out, and forced to march; would soldiers who had served their time be recalled to the service, even if they were married; and would next year's conscripts be called out, at once? These were the questions which everyone asked, but no one could answer. In another day or two, it was probable that the orders respecting these matters would arrive and, in the meantime, the merry Burgundian girls endeavored to hide their own uneasiness by laughingly predicting an early summons to arms to the young men of their acquaintance.

At the Lycee -- or great school -- the boys are just coming out. They are too excited to attend to lessons, and have been released hours before their usual time. They troop out from the great doors, talking and gesticulating. Their excitement, however, takes a different form to that which that of English boys would do, under the same circumstances. There was no shouting, no pushing, no practical jokes. The French boy does not play; at least, he does not play roughly. When young he does, indeed, sometimes play at buchon -- a game something similar to the game of buttons, as played by English street boys. He may occasionally play at marbles but, after twelve years of age, he puts aside games as beneath him. Prisoners' base, football, and cricket are alike unknown to him; and he considers any exertion which would disarrange his hair, or his shirt collar, as barbarous and absurd. His amusements are walking in the public promenade, talking politics with the gravity of a man of sixty, and discussing the local news and gossip.

This is the general type of French school boy. Of course, there are many exceptions and, in the Lycee of Dijon, these were more numerous than usual. This was due, to a great extent, to the influence of the two boys who are coming out of the school, at the present moment. Ralph and Percy Barclay are -- as one can see at first sight -- English; that is to say, their father is English, and they have taken after him, and not after their French mother. They are French born, for they first saw the light at the pretty cottage where they still live, about two miles out of the town; but their father, Captain Barclay, has brought them up as English boys, and they have been for two years at a school in England.

Their example has had some effect. Their cousins, Louis and Philippe Duburg, are almost as fond of cricket, and other games, and of taking long rambles for miles round, as they are themselves. Other boys have also taken to these amusements and, consequently, you would see more square figures, more healthy faces at the Lycee at Dijon than at most other French schools. The boys who joined in these games formed a set in themselves, apart from the rest. They were called either the English set or, contemptuously, the "savages;" but this latter name was not often applied to them before their faces, for the young Barclays had learned to box, in England; and their cousins, as well as a few of the others, had practised with the gloves with them. Consequently, although the "savages" might be wondered at, and sneered at behind their backs, the offensive name was never applied in their hearing.

At the present moment, Ralph Barclay was the center of a knot of lads of his own age.

"And so, you don't think that we shall get to Berlin, Ralph Barclay? You think that these Prussian louts are going to beat the French army? Look now, it is a little strong to say that, in a French town."

"But I don't say that, at all," Ralph Barclay said. "You are talking as if it was a certainty that we were going to march over the Prussians. I simply say, don't be too positive. There can be no doubt about the courage of the French army; but pluck, alone, won't do. The question is, are our generals and our organization as good as those of the Prussians? And can we put as many, or anything like as many, men into the field? I am at least half French, and hope with all my heart that we shall thrash these Germans; but we know that they are good soldiers, and it is safer not to begin to brag, till the work is over."

There was silence, for a minute or two, after Ralph ceased speaking. The fact was, the thought that perhaps France might be defeated had never once, before, presented itself to them as possible. They were half disposed to be angry with the English boy for stating it; but it was in the first place, evident now that they thought of it, that it was just possible and, in the second place, a quarrel with Ralph Barclay was a thing which all his schoolfellows avoided.

Ralph Barclay was nearly sixteen, his brother a year younger. Their father, Captain Barclay, had lost a leg in one of the innumerable wars in India, two or three years before the outbreak of the Crimean war. He returned to England, and was recommended by his doctors to spend the winter in the south of France. This he did and, shortly after his arrival at Pau, he had fallen in love with Melanie Duburg; daughter of a landed proprietor near Dijon, and who was stopping there with a relative. A month later he called upon her father at Dijon and, in the spring, they were married. Captain Barclay's half pay, a small private income, and the little fortune which his wife brought him were ample to enable him to live comfortably, in France; and there, accordingly, he had settled down.

His family consisted of Ralph, Percy, and a daughter -- called, after her mother, Melanie, and who was two years younger than Percy. It had always been Captain Barclay's intention to return to England, when the time came for the boys to enter into some business or profession; and he had kept up his English connection by several visits there, of some months' duration, with his whole family. The boys, too, had been for two years at school in England -- as well as for two years in Germany -- and they spoke the three languages with equal fluency.

A prettier abode than that of Captain Barclay would be difficult to find. It was in no particular style of architecture, and would have horrified a lover of the classic. It was half Swiss, half Gothic, and altogether French. It had numerous little gables, containing the funniest-shaped little rooms. It had a high roof, with projecting eaves; and round three sides ran a wide veranda, with a trellis work -- over which vines were closely trained -- subduing the glare of the summer sun, casting a cool green shade over the sitting rooms, and affording a pretty and delightfully cool retreat; where Mrs. Barclay generally sat with her work and taught Melanie, moving round the house with the sun, so as to be always in the shade.

The drawing and dining rooms both opened into this veranda The road came up to the back of the house; and upon the other three sides was a garden, which was a compromise between the English and French styles. It had a smooth, well-mown lawn, with a few patches of bright flowers which were quite English; and mixed up among them, and beyond them, were clumps of the graceful foliaged plants and shrubs in which the French delight. Beyond was a vineyard, with its low rows of vines while, over these, the view stretched away to the towers of Dijon.

In the veranda the boys, upon their return, found Captain Barclay reading the papers, and smoking. He looked up as they entered.

"You are back early, boys."

"Yes, papa, there was so much talking going on, that the professor gave it up as hopeless. You have heard the news, of course?"

"Yes, boys, and am very sorry to hear it."

Captain Barclay spoke so gravely that Ralph asked, anxiously:

"Don't you think we shall thrash them, papa?"

"I consider it very doubtful, Ralph," his father said. "Prussia has already gained an immense moral victory. She has chosen her own time for war; and has, at the same time, obliged France to take the initiative, and so to appear to be the aggressor -- and therefore to lose the moral support of Europe. She has forced this quarrel upon France, and yet nine-tenths of Europe look upon France as the inciter of the war. History will show the truth, but it will then be too late. As it is, France enters upon the war with the weight of public opinion dead against her and, what is worse, she enters upon it altogether unprepared; whereas Prussia has been getting ready, for years."

"But the French always have shown themselves to be better soldiers than the Prussians, papa."

"So they have, Percy, and -- equally well led, disciplined, and organized -- I believe that, in anything like equal forces, they would do so again. The question is, have we generals to equal those who led the Prussians to victory against Austria? Is our discipline equal -- or anything like equal -- to that of the Prussians? Is our organization as good as theirs? And lastly, have we anything like their numbers?

"I don't like the look of it, boys, at all. We ought, according to published accounts, to be able to put a larger army than theirs in the field, just at first and, if we were but prepared, should certainly be able to carry all before us, for a while. I question very much if we are so prepared. Supposing it to be so, however, the success would, I fear, be but temporary; for the German reserves are greatly superior to ours. Discipline, too, has gone off sadly, since I first knew the French army.

"Radical opinions may be very wise, and very excellent for a nation, for aught I know; but it is certain that they are fatal to the discipline of an army. My own opinion, as you know, is that they are equally fatal for a country, but that is a matter of opinion, only; but of the fact that a good Radical makes an extremely bad soldier, I am quite clear, and the spread of Radical opinion among the French army has been very great. Then, too, the officers have been much to blame. They think of pleasure far more than duty. They spend four times as much time in the cafes and billiard rooms as they do in the drill ground. Altogether, in my opinion, the French army has greatly gone off in all points -- except in courage which, being a matter of nationality, is probably as high as ever. It is a bad lookout, boys -- a very bad lookout.

"There, don't talk about it any more. I do not want to make your mother unhappy. Remember not to express -- either as my or your own opinion -- anything I have said, in the town. It would only render you obnoxious, and might even cause serious mischief. If things go wrong, French mobs are liable to wreak their bad temper on the first comer."

"Percy," Mrs. Barclay said, coming into the room, "please to run down to the end of the garden, and cut some lettuces for salad. Marie is so upset that she can do nothing."

"What is the matter with her, mamma?" both the boys asked, at once.

"Victor Harve -- you know him, the son of the blacksmith Harve, who had served his time in the army, and came back two months ago to join his father in his forge, and to marry our Marie -- has left to join his regiment. He was here, an hour since, to say goodbye. By this time he will have started. It is not wonderful that she weeps. She may never see him again. I have told her that she must be brave. A Frenchwoman should not grudge those she loves most to fight for France."

"Ah! Melanie," Captain Barclay said, smiling, "these little patriotic outbursts are delightful, when one does not have to practice them at one's own expense. 'It is sweet and right to die for one's country,' said the old Roman, and everyone agrees with him but, at the same time, every individual man has a strong objection to put himself in the way of this sweet and proper death.

"Although, as you say, no Frenchwoman should grudge her love to her country; I fancy, if a levee en masse took place, tomorrow, and the boys as well as the cripples had to go -- so that Ralph, Percy, and I were all obliged to march -- you would feel that you did grudge us to the country, most amazingly."

Mrs. Barclay turned a little pale at the suggestion.

"Ah! I can't suppose that, Richard. You are English, and they cannot touch you, or the boys; even if you could march, and if they were old enough."

Captain Barclay smiled.

"That is no answer, Melanie. You are shirking the question. I said, if they were to make us go."

"Ah, yes! I am afraid I should grudge you, Richard, and the boys, except the enemy were to invade France; and then everyone, even we women, would fight. But of that there is no chance. It is we who will invade."

Captain Barclay made no reply.

"The plums want gathering, papa," Percy said, returning from cutting the lettuces. "It was arranged that our cousins should come over, when they were ripe, and have a regular picking. They have no plums, and Madame Duburg wants them for preserving. May we go over after dinner, and ask them to come in at three o'clock, and spend the evening?"

"Certainly," Captain Barclay said; "and you can give your mamma's compliments, and ask if your uncle and Madame Duburg will come in, after they have dined. The young ones will make their dinner at our six o'clock tea."

In France early dinner is a thing scarcely known, even among the peasantry; that is to say, their meals are taken at somewhat the same time as ours are, but are called by different names. The Frenchman never eats what we call breakfast; that is, he never makes a really heavy meal, the first thing in the morning. He takes, however, coffee and milk and bread and butter, when he gets up. He does not call this breakfast. He speaks of it as his morning coffee; and takes his breakfast at eleven, or half-past eleven, or even at twelve. This is a regular meal, with soup, meat, and wine. In England it would be called an early lunch. At six o'clock the Frenchman dines, and even the working man calls this meal -- which an English laborer would call supper -- his dinner. The Barclays' meals, therefore, differed more in name than in reality from those of their neighbors.

Louis and Philippe Duburg came in at five o'clock, but brought a message that their sisters would come in with their father and mother, later. Melanie was neither surprised nor disappointed at the non-arrival of her cousins. She greatly preferred being with the boys, and always felt uncomfortable with Julie and Justine; who, although little older than herself, were already as prim, decorous, and properly behaved as if they had been women of thirty years old. After tea was over, the four boys returned to their work of gathering plums; while Melanie -- or Milly, as her father called her, to distinguish her from her mother -- picked up the plums that fell, handed up fresh baskets and received the full ones, and laughed and chattered with her brothers and cousins.

While so engaged, Monsieur and Madame Duburg arrived, with their daughters, Julie and Justine. Monsieur Duburg -- Mrs. Barclay's brother -- was proprietor of a considerable estate, planted almost entirely with vines. His income was a large one, for the soil was favorable, and he carried on the culture with such care and attention that the wines fetched a higher price than any in the district. He was a clear-headed, sensible man, with a keen eye to a bargain. He was fond of his sister and her English husband, and had offered no opposition to his boys entering into the games and amusements of their cousins -- although his wife was constantly urging him to do so. It was, to Madame Duburg, a terrible thing that her boys -- instead of being always tidy and orderly, and ready, when at home, to accompany her for a walk -- should come home flushed, hot, and untidy, with perhaps a swelled cheek or a black eye, from the effects of a blow from a cricket ball or boxing glove.

Upon their arrival at Captain Barclay's, the two gentlemen strolled out to smoke a cigar together, and to discuss the prospects of the war and its effect upon prices.

Mrs. Barclay had asked Julie and Justine if they would like to go down to the orchard; but Madame Duburg had so hurriedly answered in their name, in a negative -- saying that they would stroll round the garden until Melanie returned -- that Mrs. Barclay had no resource but to ask them, when they passed near the orchard, to call Milly -- in her name -- to join them in the garden.

"My dear Melanie," Madame Duburg began, when her daughters had walked away in a quiet, prim manner, hand in hand, "I was really quite shocked, as we came along. There was Melanie, laughing and calling out as loudly as the boys themselves, handing up baskets and lifting others down, with her hair all in confusion, and looking -- excuse my saying so -- more like a peasant girl than a young lady."

Mrs. Barclay smiled quietly.

"Milly is enjoying herself, no doubt, sister-in-law; and I do not see that her laughing, or calling out, or handing baskets will do her any serious harm. As for her hair, five minutes' brushing will set that right."

"But, my dear sister-in-law," Madame Duburg said, earnestly, "do you recall to yourself that Milly is nearly fourteen years old; that she will soon be becoming a woman, that in another three years you will be searching for a husband for her? My faith, it is terrible -- and she has yet no figure, no manner;" and Madame Duburg looked, with an air of gratified pride, at the stiff figures of her own two girls.

"Her figure is not a bad one, sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said, composedly; "she is taller than Julie -- who is six months her senior -- she is as straight as an arrow. Her health is admirable; she has never had a day's illness."

"But she cannot walk; she absolutely cannot walk!" Madame Duburg said, lifting up her hands in horror.

"She walked upwards of twelve miles with her father, yesterday," Mrs. Barclay said, pretending to misunderstand her sister-in-law's meaning.

"I did not mean that," Madame Duburg said, impatiently, "but she walks like a peasant girl. My faith, it is shocking to say, but she walks like a boy. I should be desolated to see my daughter step out in that way.

"Then, look at her manners. My word, she has no manners at all. The other day when I was here, and Monsieur de Riviere with his sons called, she was awkward and shy; yes, indeed, she was positively awkward and shy. It is dreadful for me to have to say so, sister-in-law, but it is true. No manners, no ease! Julie, and even Justine, can receive visitors even as I could do, myself."

"Her manners are not formed yet, sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said, quietly, "nor do I care that they should be. She is a young girl at present, and I do not wish to see her a woman before her time. In three years it will be time enough for her to mend her manners."

"But in three years, sister-in-law, you will be looking for a husband for her."

"I shall be doing nothing of the sort," Mrs. Barclay said, steadily. "In that, as in many other matters, I greatly prefer the English ways. As you know, we give up our house in two years, and go to England to reside. We have economized greatly, during the seventeen years since our marriage. We can afford to live in England, now.

"At sixteen, therefore, Milly will have good masters; and for two years her education will be carried on, and her walk and manner will, no doubt, improve. In England, fathers and mothers do not arrange the marriage of their children; and Milly will have to do as other girls do -- that is -- wait until someone falls in love with her, and she falls in love with him. Then, if he is a proper person, and has enough to keep her, they will be married."

Madame Duburg was too much shocked at the expression of these sentiments to answer at once. She only sighed, shook her head, and looked upwards.

"It is strange," she said at last, "to hear you, sister-in-law -- a Frenchwoman -- speak so lightly of marriage. As if a young girl could know, as well as her parents, who is a fit and proper person for her to marry. Besides, the idea of a young girl falling in love, before she marries, is shocking, quite shocking!"

"My dear sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said, "we have talked this matter over before, and I have always stated my opinion, frankly. I have been a good deal in England; and have seen, therefore, and know the result of English marriages. I know also what French marriages are; and no one, who does know the state of things in the two countries, can hesitate for a moment in declaring that married life in England is infinitely happier, in every respect, than it is in France. The idea of telling your daughter that she is to marry a man whom she has never seen -- as we do in France -- is, to my mind, simply monstrous. Fortunately, I myself married for love; and I have been happy, ever since. I intend Milly, when the time comes, to do the same thing."

Before Madame Duburg had time to answer, the gentlemen joined them, and the conversation turned upon the war. In a short time the three girls came up.

"What a rosy little thing you are, Milly," her uncle said; "where do you get your plump cheeks, and your bright color? I wish you could give the receipt to Julie and Justine. Why, if you were to blow very hard, I do think you would blow them both down."

"I am really surprised at you, Monsieur Duburg," his wife said, angrily. "I am sure I do not wish Julie and Justine to have as much color as their cousin. I consider it quite a misfortune for poor Milly. It is so very commonplace. Poor child, she looks as if she had been working at the vintage."

"That is right, madame; stand up for your own," and her husband, who was accustomed to his wife's speeches, laughed. "But for all that, commonplace or not commonplace, I should like to see some of Milly's bright, healthy color in my girls' cheeks; and I should like to see them walk as if they had forgotten, for a moment, their tight boots and high heels."

His wife was about to make an angry reply, when the arrival of the four boys -- bearing in triumph the last basket of plums -- changed the conversation; and shortly afterwards, Madame Duburg remarking that the evening was damp, and that she did not like Julie and Justine to be out in it any later, the Du burgs took their leave.



Chapter 2: Terrible News.


The ten days succeeding the declaration of war were days of excitement, and anticipation. The troops quartered at Dijon moved forward at once; and scarcely an hour passed but long trains, filled with soldiers from Lyons and the South, were on their way up towards Metz. The people of Dijon spent half their time in and around the station. The platform was kept clear; but bands of ladies relieved each other every few hours, and handed soup, bread, fruit, and wine to the soldiers as they passed through. Each crowded train was greeted, as it approached the station, with cheers and waving of handkerchiefs; to which the troops as heartily responded. Most of the trains were decorated with boughs, and presented a gay appearance as, filled with the little line men, the sunburned Zouaves, swarthy Turcos, gay hussars, or sober artillerymen, they wound slowly into the town.

Some of the trains were less gay, but were not less significant of war. Long lines of wagons, filled with cannon; open trucks with the deadly shell -- arranged side by side, point upwards, and looking more like eggs in a basket than deadly missiles -- came and went. There, too, were long trains of pontoons for forming bridges while, every half hour, long lines of wagons filled with biscuits, barrels of wine, sacks of coffee, and cases of stores of all sorts and kinds passed through.

The enthusiasm of Dijon, at the sight of this moving panorama of war, rose to fever heat. The sound of the Marseillaise resounded from morning to night. Victory was looked upon as certain, and the only subject of debate was as to the terms which victorious France would impose upon conquered Prussia. The only impatience felt was for the news of the first victory.

Captain Barclay sent down several casks of wine, for the use of the passing troops; and his wife went down, each day, to assist at the distribution. In the evening she and Milly scraped old rags, to make lint for the wounded. The Lycee was still closed -- as it was found impossible to get the boys to attend to their studies -- and Ralph and Percy spent their time in watching the trains go past, and in shouting themselves hoarse.

Captain Barclay did not share in the general enthusiasm and, each morning at breakfast, he looked more and more grave as, upon opening the papers, he found there was still no news of the commencement of hostilities.

"What difference does it make, papa?" Ralph asked, one day; "we are sending fresh troops up, every hour, and I do not see how a few days' delay can be any disadvantage to us."

"It makes all the difference, Ralph, all the difference in the world. We had a considerably larger standing army than the Prussians, and had the advantage that the main body of our troops were very much nearer to the frontier than those of the Prussians. If things had been ready, we ought to have marched two hundred thousand men into Germany, three or four days -- at latest -- after the declaration of war. The Germans could have had no force capable of resisting them. We should have had the prestige of a first success -- no slight thing with a French army -- and we should also have had the great and solid advantage of fighting in an enemy's country, instead of upon our own.

"The German reserves are far greater than our own. We know how perfect their organization is, and every hour of delay is an immense advantage to them. It is quite likely now that, instead of the French invading Germany, it will be the Prussians who will invade France."

The boys were but little affected by their father's forebodings. It was scarcely possible to suppose that everyone could be wrong; still more impossible to believe that those great hosts which they saw passing, so full of high hope and eager courage, could be beaten. They were, however, very glad to sit round the table of an evening, while Captain Barclay opened a great map on the table, explained the strength of the various positions, and the probability of this or that line of attack being selected by one or the other army.

Day after day went by until, on the 2nd of August, the news came at last. The first blow had been struck, the first blood shed -- the French had taken Saarbruck.

"It is too late," Captain Barclay said, as Ralph and Percy rushed in, to say that the news was posted up at the Prefecture. "It is too late, boys. The English papers, of this morning, have brought us the news that the Germans are massing at least seven or eight hundred thousand men, along the line from Saar Louis to Spiers. It is evident that they fell back from Saarbruck without any serious resistance. In another two or three days they will be in readiness and, as they must far outnumber our men, you will see that the advantage at Saarbruck will not be followed up, and that the Prussians will assume the offensive."

"Then what do you really think will be the result, papa?"

"I think, Ralph, that we shall be forced to do what -- not having, at once, taken the offensive -- we ought to have done from the first. We shall have to fall back, to abandon the line of frontier -- which is altogether indefensible -- and to hold the line of the Moselle, and the spurs of the Vosges; an immensely strong position, and which we ought to be able to hold against all the efforts of Prussia."

The exultation of Dijon was but short lived for, on the 5th, the boys came up in the afternoon, from the town, with very serious faces.

"What is the matter, Ralph?"

"There is a rumor in the town, papa, that the Swiss papers have published an account of the capture of Weissenburg, by the Prussians. A great many French are said to be prisoners. Do you think it can be true?"

"It is probable, at any rate, Ralph. The Swiss papers would, of course, get the news an hour or so after it is known in Germany. We must not begin by believing all that the telegram says, because both sides are certain to claim victories; still, the absolute capture of a town is a matter upon which there can be no dispute, and is therefore likely enough to be true. We know the Prussians were massed all along that line and, as I expected, they have taken the offensive. Their chances of success in so doing were evident; as neither party know where the others are preparing to strike a blow, and each can therefore concentrate, and strike with an overwhelming force at any given point.

"Now that the Germans have made the first move, and shown their intention, both parties will concentrate in that direction. You see, from Weissenburg the Germans can either march south upon Strasburg, or southwest upon Metz or Nancy; but to reach this latter place they will have to cross the spurs of the Vosges. The French will, of course, try to bar their further advance. We may expect a great battle, in a day or two."

The news came but too soon for -- two days later -- Dijon, as well as all France, stood aghast at the news of the utter rout of MacMahon's division, after the desperately contested battle of Woerth; and the not less decided, though less disastrous, defeats of the French left, at Forbach, by the troops of Steinmetz. Some little consolation was, however, gleaned by the fact that the French had been beaten in detail; and had shown the utmost gallantry, against greatly superior numbers. They would now, no doubt, fall back behind the Moselle; and hold that line, and the position of the Vosges, until fresh troops could come up, and a great battle be fought upon more even terms.

Fresh levies were everywhere ordered, and a deep and general feeling of rage prevailed. No one thought of blaming the troops -- it was evident that they had done their best; the fault lay with the generals, and with the organization.

Captain Barclay pointed out, to the boys, that the officers and men were somewhat to blame, also; for the utter confusion which prevailed among MacMahon's troops, in their retreat, showed that the whole regimental system was faulty; and that there could have been no real discipline, whatever, or the shattered regiments would have rallied, a few miles from the field of battle.

In Dijon, the change during the last fortnight was marvelous The war spirit was higher than ever. Cost what it might, this disgrace must be wiped out. The Mobiles were hard at work, drilling. The soldiers who had long left the army were starting, by every train, to the depots. The sound of the Marseillaise rang through the streets, night and day. The chorus, "To arms," gained a fresh meaning and power and, in spite of these first defeats, none dreamed of final defeat.

Every day, however, the news became worse. Strasburg was cut off; and the Prussians marched unopposed across the spurs of the Vosges, where a mere handful of men might have checked them.

"Boys, there are terrible days in store, for France," Captain Barclay said, when the news came that the enemy had entered Nancy. "The line of the Moselle is turned. Bazaine will be cut off, unless he hurries his retreat; and then nothing can stop the Prussians from marching to Paris."

The boys sat speechless at this terrible assurance.

"Surely it cannot be as bad as that," Mrs. Barclay said. "Frenchmen cannot have lost all their old qualities; and all France will rise, like one man, to march to the defense of Paris."

"Raw levies will be of no use, whatever, against the Prussian troops, flushed with victory," Captain Barclay said; "even if they were armed -- and where are the arms, for a levy en masse, to come from? If Bazaine be beaten, the only hope of France is for all the troops who remain to fall back under the guns of the forts of Paris; and for France to enter upon an immense guerrilla war. For hosts of skirmishers to hang upon their flanks and rear; cutting every road, destroying every bridge, checking the movements of every detached body, and so actually starving them out, on the ground which they occupy.

"This, however, will demand an immense amount of pluck, of endurance, of perseverance, of sacrifice, and of patriotism. The question is, does France possess these qualities?"

"Surely, Richard, you cannot doubt the patriotism of the French," Mrs. Barclay said, a little reproachfully.

"My dear Melanie," her husband said, "I am sorry to say that I very greatly doubt the patriotism of the French. They are -- more than any people, more even than the English, whom they laugh at as a nation of shopkeepers -- a money-making race. The bourgeoise class, the shopkeepers, the small proprietors, are selfish in the extreme. They think only of their money, their business, and their comforts. The lower class are perhaps better, but their first thoughts will be how the war will affect themselves and, unless there is some chance of the enemy approaching their homes, driving off their cattle, and plundering their cottages, they will look on with a very calm eye at the general ruin.

"I believe, remember, that those who will be called out will go and, if affairs go as I fear that they will do, every man under fifty years old in France will have to go out; but it is not enough to go out. For a war like this, it will require desperate courage and endurance, and an absolute disregard of life; to counterbalance the disadvantages of want of discipline, want of arms, want of artillery, and want of organization I may be wrong -- I hope that I am so -- but time will show."

"And do you think that there is any chance of their coming down here, as well as of going to Paris, papa?" Percy asked.

"That would depend upon the length of the resistance, Percy. If France holds out, and refuses to grant any terms which the Prussians might try to impose upon them, they may overrun half the country and, as this town is directly upon their way for Lyons -- the second town of France -- they are exceedingly likely to come this way."

"Well, if they do, papa," Ralph said, with heightened color, "I feel sure that every man who can carry a gun will go out, and that every home will be defended."

"We shall see, Ralph," Captain Barclay said, "we shall see."

Another pause, and then came the news of that terrible three days' fighting -- on the 14th, 16th, and 18th -- near Metz; when Bazaine, his retreat towards Paris cut off, vainly tried to force his way through the Prussian army and, failing, fell back into Metz. Even now, when the position was well-nigh desperate -- with the only great army remaining shut up and surrounded; and with nothing save the fragment of MacMahon's division, with a few other regiments, collected in haste, and the new levies, encamped at Chalons, between the victorious enemy and the capital -- the people of France were scarcely awake to the urgency of the position. The Government concealed at least a portion of the truth, and the people were only too ready to be deceived.

In Dijon, however, the facts were better known, and more understood. The Swiss newspapers, containing the Prussian official telegrams and accounts, arrived daily; and those who received them speedily spread the news through the town. The consternation was great, and general, but there was no sign of despair. Those of the Mobiles who were armed and equipped were sent off, at once, to Chalons. At every corner of the street were placards, calling out the Mobiles and soldiers who had served their time; and, although not yet called to arms, the national guard drilled in the Place d'Armes, morning and evening.

"You will allow, Richard, that you were mistaken as to the patriotism of the people," Mrs. Barclay said, one evening, to her husband. "Everyone is rushing to arms."

"They are coming out better than I had expected, Melanie; but at the same time, you will observe that they have no choice in the matter. The Mobiles are called out, and have to go. All who can raise the most frivolous pretext for exemption do so. There is a perfect rush of young men to the Prefecture, to obtain places in the clothing, medical, arming, and equipping departments; in any sort of service, in fact, which will exempt its holder from taking up arms.

"At the same time, there is a great deal of true, earnest patriotism. Many married men, with families, have volunteered; and those belonging to the categories called out do go, as you say, cheerfully, if not willingly and, once enrolled, appear determined to do their duty.

"France will need all the patriotism, and all the devotion of her people to get through the present crisis. There is no saying how it will end. I have no hope, whatever, that MacMahon's new army can arrest the march of the enemy; and his true course is to fall back upon Paris. Our chance, here, of remaining free from a visit of the enemy depends entirely upon the length of time which Strasburg and Metz hold out. Bazaine may be able to cut his way out but, at any rate, he is likely to remain where he is, for some little time, under the walls of Metz; for he occupies the attention of a considerably larger force than that which he commands.

"The vital point, at present, is to cut the roads behind the Germans. If it were not for this cork leg of mine, Melanie, I would try and raise a small guerrilla corps, and set out on my own account. I have lived here for seventeen years, now, and the French fought by our side, in the Crimea. Could I do so, I should certainly fight for France, now. It is clearly the duty of anyone who can carry a musket to go out."

Just at this moment the door opened, and Ralph and Percy entered hastily. They both looked excited, but serious.

"What is it, boys?"

"Papa," Ralph said, "there is a notice up, signed by your friend Captain Tempe. He calls for a hundred volunteers, to join a corps of franc tireurs -- a sort of guerrillas, I believe -- to go out to harass the Germans, and cut their communication. Those who can are to provide their own arms and equipments. A meeting is to be held, tonight, for subscribing the money for those who cannot afford to do so.

"We have come to ask you to let us join, papa. Louis and Philippe have just gone to ask uncle's leave."

Captain Barclay listened in silence, with a very grave face. Their mother sat down in a chair, with a white face.

"Oh, my boys, you are too young," she gasped out.

"We are stronger, mamma, than a great many of the men who have been called out; and taller and stouter, in every way. We can walk better than the greater portion of them. We are accustomed to exercise and fatigue. We are far more fit to be soldiers than many young men who have gone from here. You said yourself, mamma, that everyone who could carry a gun ought to go out."

"But you are not French, boys," Mrs. Barclay said, piteously.

"We are half French, mamma. Not legally, but it has been home to us, since we were born and, even if you had not been French, we ought to fight for her."

Mrs. Barclay looked at her husband for assistance, but Captain Barclay had leaned his face in his hands, and said nothing.

"Ah, Ralph; but Percy at least, he is only fifteen."

"I am nearly as big, nearly as strong as Ralph, mamma. Besides, would it not be better to have two of us? If one is ill or -- or wounded -- the other could look after him, you know.

"Mamma, dearest, we have talked it over, and we think we ought to go. We are very strong for our ages; and it is strength, not years, which matters. Mamma, you said a Frenchwoman should not grudge those she loves to France; and that if France was invaded all, even the women, should go out."

Mrs. Barclay was silent. She could not speak. She was so deadly pale, and her face had such an expression of misery, that the boys felt their resolution wavering.

Captain Barclay looked up.

"Boys," he said, very gravely, "I have one question to ask; which you will answer me truly, upon your faith and honor Do you wish to go merely -- or principally -- from a desire to see the excitement and the adventure of a guerrilla war; or do you go out because you desire earnestly to do your best, to defend the country in which you were born, and lived? Are you prepared to suffer any hardship and, if it is the will of God, to die for her?"

"We are, papa," both boys said.

And Ralph went on:

"When we first talked over the possibility of everyone being called out -- and of our going, too -- we did look upon it as a case of fun and excitement; but when the chance really came, we saw how serious it was. We knew how much it would cost you, and dear mamma; and we would not have asked you, had we not felt that we ought to go, even if we knew we should be killed."

"In that case, boys," Captain Barclay said, solemnly, rising and laying one hand on the shoulder of each of his sons, "in that case, I say no more. You are a soldier's sons, and your example may do good. It is your duty, and that of everyone, to fight for his country. I give you my full consent to go. I should not have advised it. At your age, there was no absolute duty. Still, if you feel it so, I will not stand in your way.

"Go then, my boys, and may God watch over you, and keep you, and send you safe home again."

So saying, he kissed them both on the forehead, and walked from the room without saying another word.

Then the boys turned to their mother, who was crying silently and, falling upon her neck, they kissed her and cried with her. It was understood that her consent was given, with their father's.

Milly, coming in and hearing what was the matter, sat down in sudden grief and astonishment on the nearest chair, and cried bitterly. It was a sad half hour, and the boys were almost inclined to regret that they had asked for leave to go. However, there was no drawing back now and, when they left their mother, they went on to tell their cousins that they were going.

They found Louis and Philippe in a state of great disappointment, because their father had altogether refused to listen to their entreaties. Upon hearing, however, that Ralph and Percy were going, they gained fresh hope; for they said, if English boys could go and fight for France, it was shameful that French boys should stay at home, in idleness.

Captain Barclay, after giving permission to his sons to go as franc tireurs, first went for a walk by himself, to think over the consequences of his decision. He then went down into Dijon, and called upon Captain Tempe. The commander of the proposed corps had served for many years in the Zouaves, and was known to be an able and energetic officer. He had left the service, five or six years previously, upon his marriage. He lived a short distance, only, from Captain Barclay; and a warm friendship had sprung up between them.

Upon Captain Barclay telling him why he had come to see him, Captain Tempe expressed his satisfaction at the decision of the young Barclays.

"I have already the names of one or two lads little, if any, older than your eldest boy," he said; "and although the other is certainly very young yet, as he is very stout and strong for his age, I have no doubt he will bear the fatigue as well as many of the men."

"I wish I could go with you," Captain Barclay said.

"I wish you could, indeed," Captain Tempe replied, warmly; "but with your leg you never could keep up, on foot; and a horse would be out of the question, among the forests of the Vosges mountains.

"You might, however -- if you will -- be of great use in assisting me to drill and discipline my recruits, before starting."

"That I will do, with pleasure," Captain Barclay said. "I had been thinking of offering my services, in that way, to the municipality; as very few of the officers of the Mobiles, still less of the national guard, know their duty. As it is, I will devote myself to your corps, till they march.

"In the first place, how strong do you mean them to be?"

"One strong company, say one hundred and twenty men," Captain Tempe answered. "More than that would be too unwieldy for guerrilla work. I would rather have twenty less, than more; indeed, I should be quite satisfied with a hundred. If I find that volunteers come in, in greater numbers than I can accept, I shall advise them to get up other, similar corps. There ought to be scores of small parties, hanging upon the rear and flank of the enemy, and interrupting his communication."

"How do you think of arming them?"

"Either with chassepots, or with your English rifles. It is of no use applying to Government. They will not be able to arm the Mobiles, for months; to say nothing of the national guard. We must buy the rifles in England, or Belgium. It will be difficult to get chassepots; so I think the best plan will be to decide, at once, upon your Sniders."

"I know a gentleman who is connected with these matters, in England; and will, if you like, send out an order at once for, say, eleven dozen Sniders; to be forwarded via Rouen, and thence by rail."

"I should be very glad if you would do so," Captain Tempe said. "I have no doubt about getting that number of recruits, easily enough. I have had a good many calls already, this morning; and several thousand francs of subscription have been promised. In another three or four days, the money will be ready; so if you write to your friends, to make an agreement with a manufacturer, I can give you the money by the time his answer arrives. When the guns arrive, those who can pay for them will do so, and the rest will be paid for by the subscriptions.

"Of course, we shall want them complete with bayonets. If, at the same time, you can order ammunition -- say, two hundred rounds for each rifle -- it would be, perhaps, a saving of time; as the Government may not be able to supply any, at first. However, after the meeting, this evening, I shall see how the subscriptions come in; and we can settle on these points, tomorrow. The municipality will help, I have no doubt."

"What is your idea as to equipment, Tempe?"

"As light as possible. Nothing destroys the go of men more than to be obliged to carry heavy weights on their shoulders. We shall be essentially guerrillas Our attacks, to be successful, must be surprises. Speed, therefore, and the power to march long distances, are the first of essentials.

"I do not propose to carry knapsacks -- mere haversacks, bags capable of containing a spare shirt, a couple of pairs of socks, and three days' biscuits. Each man must also carry a spare pair of boots, strapped to his belt, behind. A thick blanket -- with a hole cut for the head, so as to make a cloak by day, a cover by night -- will be carried, rolled up over one shoulder like a scarf; and each man should carry a light, waterproof coat.

"I do not propose to take even tents d'abri. They add considerably to the weight and, unless when we are actually engaged in expeditions, we shall make our headquarters at some village; when the men can be dispersed among the cottages, or sleep in stables, or barns. When on expeditions, they must sleep in the open air."

"I quite approve of your plan," Captain Barclay said. "Exclusive of his rifle and ammunition, the weight need not be above fifteen pounds a man and, with this, they ought to be able to march, and fight, with comfort. The way your soldiers march out, laden like beasts of burden, is absurd. It is impossible for men either to march, or fight, with a heavy load upon their backs.

"Have you thought about uniform?"

"No, I have not settled at all. I thought of letting the men fix upon one of their own choice."

"Do nothing of the sort," Captain Barclay said. "The men will only think of what is most becoming, or picturesque. You cannot do better than fix upon some good, serviceable uniform of a dark-grayish color; something similar to that of some of our English Volunteer Corps. I will give you a drawing of it.

"Let the tunics be made of a thick and good cloth. Let the men have short trousers -- or, as we call them, knickerbockers -- with leather gaiters and lace boots. The shoes of your soldier are altogether a mistake. I will bring you a sketch, tomorrow; and you will see that it is neat, as well as serviceable."

"Thank you.

"By the way, I suppose that you have no objection to my mentioning, at the meeting this evening, that your sons have joined? If there should be any inclination to hang back -- which I hope there will not be -- the fact that your boys have joined may decide many who would otherwise hesitate."

"Certainly.

"I will not detain you longer, at present. I shall see you in a day or two, and any assistance which I can give is at your service."

"Thanks very much. I only wish that you could go with us.

"Goodbye. Tell the boys that their names are down, and that we shall begin drill in a day or two."



Chapter 3: Death To The Spy!


The next morning Madame Duburg arrived, at ten o'clock; an hour at which she had never, as far as Mrs. Barclay knew, turned out of her house since her marriage. She was actually walking fast, too. It was evident that something serious was the matter.

Mrs. Barclay was in the garden, and her visitor came straight out from the house to her.

"Is anything the matter?" was Mrs. Barclay's first question.

"Yes, a great deal is the matter," Madame Duburg began, vehemently. "You and your English husband are mad. Your wretched boys are mad. They have made my sons mad, also; and -- my faith -- I believe that my husband will catch it. It is enough to make me, also, mad."

Notwithstanding the trouble in which Mrs. Barclay was, at the resolution of her sons, she could scarcely help smiling at the excitement of Madame Duburg; the cause of which she at once guessed. However, she asked, with an air of astonishment:

"My dear sister-in-law, what can you be talking about?"

"I know what I say," Madame Duburg continued. "I always said that you were mad, you and your husband, to let your boys go about and play, and tear and bruise themselves like wild Indians. I always knew that harm would come of it, when I saw my boys come in hot -- oh, so unpleasantly hot, to look at -- but I did not think of such harm as this. My faith, it is incredible. When I heard that you were to marry yourself to an Englishman, I said at once:

"'It is bad, harm will come of it. These English are islanders. They are eccentric. They are mad. They sell their wives in the market, with a cord round their neck.'"

"My dear sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay interrupted, "I have so often assured you that that absurd statement was entirely false; and due only to the absolute ignorance, of our nation, of everything outside itself."

"I have heard it often," Madame Duburg went on, positively. "They are a nation of singularities. I doubt not that it is true, he has hidden the truth from you. True or false, I care not. They are mad. For this I care not. My faith, I have not married an Englishman. Why, then, should I care for the madness of this nation of islanders?

"This I said, when I heard that you were to marry an Englishman. Could I imagine that I, also, was to become a victim? Could I suppose that my husband -- a man sensible in most things -- would also become mad; that my boys would grow up like young savages, and would offer themselves to go out to sleep without beds, to catch colds, to have red noses and coughs, perhaps even -- my faith -- to be killed by the balls of German pigs? My word of honor, I ask myself:

"'Am I living in France? Am I asleep? Am I dreaming? Am I, too, mad?'

"I said to myself:

"'I shall go to my sister-in-law, and I will demand of her, is it possible that these things are true?'"

"If you mean by all this, sister-in-law, is it true that I have consented to my boys going out to fight for France, it is quite true," Mrs. Barclay said, quietly.

Madame Duburg sat down upon a garden seat, raised her hands, and nodded her head slowly and solemnly.

"She says it is true, she actually says that it is true."

"Why should they not go?" Mrs. Barclay continued, quietly. "They are strong enough to carry arms, and why should they not go out to defend their country? In a short time, it is likely that everyone who can carry arms will have to go. I shall miss them sorely, it is a terrible trial; but other women have to see their sons go out, why should not I?"

"Because there is no occasion for it, at all," Madame Duburg said, angrily; "because they are boys and not men, because their father is English; and stupid men like my husband will say, if these young English boys go, it will be a shame upon us for our own to remain behind.

"What, I ask you, is the use of being well off? What is the use of paying taxes for an army, if our boys must fight? It is absurd, it is against reason, it is atrocious."

Madame Duburg's anger and remonstrance were, alike, lost upon Mrs. Barclay; and she cut her visitor short.

"My dear sister-in-law, it is of no use arguing or talking. I consider, rightly or wrongly, that the claims of our country stand before our private convenience, or inconvenience. If I were a man, I should certainly go out to fight; why should not my boys do so, if they choose? At any rate, I have given my consent, and it is too late to draw back, even if I wished to do so -- which I say, frankly, that I do not."

Madame Duburg took her departure, much offended and, late in the evening, her husband came in and had a long talk with Captain Barclay. The following morning Louis and Philippe came in -- in a high state of delight -- to say that their father had, that morning, given his consent to their going.

In three days after the opening of the list, a hundred and twenty men had inscribed their names; and Captain Tempe refused to admit more. Numbers were, he argued, a source of weakness rather than of strength, when the men were almost entirely ignorant of drill. For sudden attacks, for night marches, for attacks upon convoys, number is less needed than dash and speed. Among large bodies discipline cannot be kept up, except by immense severity upon the part of the officers; or by the existence of that feeling of discipline and obedience, among the men, which is gained only by long custom to military habits. Besides which, the difficulty of obtaining provisions for a large body of men would be enormous.

Indeed, Captain Tempe determined to organize even this small corps into four companies, each of thirty men; to act under one head, and to join together upon all occasions of important expeditions; but at other times to be divided among villages, at such distance as would enable them to watch a large extent of country, each company sending out scouts and outposts in its own neighborhood.

By far the larger proportion of those who joined were either proprietors, or the sons of proprietors, in and around Dijon. At that time Government had made no arrangement, whatever, concerning franc tireurs; and no pay was, therefore, available. The invitation was, therefore, especially to those willing and able to go out upon their own account, and at their own expense. Other recruits had been invited but, as these could join the regular forces and receive pay, and other advantages, the number who sent in their names was small. The men who did so were, for the most part, picked men; foresters, wood cutters, and others who preferred the certainty of active and stirring service, among the franc tireurs, to the pay and comparative monotony of the regular service. There were some forty of these men among the corps, the rest being all able to provide at least their outfit. Subscriptions had come in rapidly and, in a week, an ample sum was collected to arm and equip all those not able to do so for themselves; and to form a military chest sufficient to pay for the food of the whole corps, in the field, for some time.

When the list of volunteers was complete, a meeting was held at which, for the first time, the future comrades met. Besides Ralph and Percy, and their cousins, there were six or eight others of their school friends, all lads of about sixteen. It was an important moment in their lives, when they then felt themselves -- if not actually men -- at least, as going to do the work of men. Upon the table in the room in which the meeting was held was a document, which each in turn was to sign and, behind this, Captain Tempe took his seat.

As many of those present knew each other, there was a considerable buzz and talk in the room, until Captain Tempe tapped the table for silence, and then rose to speak.

"My friends," he began, " -- for I cannot call you comrades, until you have formally entered your names -- before you irrevocably commit yourselves to this affair, I wish you each to know exactly what it is that we are going to do. This will be no holiday expedition. I can promise all who go with me plenty of excitement, and a great deal of fighting; but I can also promise them, with equal certainty, an immense deal of suffering -- an amount of hardship and privation of which, at present, few here have any idea, whatever. The winter is fast coming on, and winter in the Vosges mountains is no trifle. Let no one, then, put down his name here who is not prepared to suffer every hardship which it is well possible to suffer.

"As to the danger, I say nothing. You are Frenchmen; and have come forward to die, if needs be, for your country."

Here the speaker was interrupted by loud cheering, and cries of "Vive la France!"

"Next, as to discipline. This is an extremely important point. In our absence from military stations, it is essential that we, ourselves, should keep and enforce the strictest discipline. I have this morning received from General Palikao -- under whom I served, for many years -- an answer to an application I wrote to him, a week since. He highly approves of my plan of cutting the roads behind the Prussians, and only wishes that he had a hundred small corps out upon the same errand. He has already received other proposals of the same nature. He enclosed, with his letter, my formal appointment as Commandant of the Corps of Franc Tireurs of Dijon; with full military authority, and power."

Great cheering again broke out.

"This power, in case of need, I warn you that I shall use unhesitatingly. Discipline, in a corps like ours, is everything. There must be no murmuring, under hardships; no hesitation in obeying any order, however unpleasant. Prompt, willing, cheerful obedience when at work; a warm friendship, and perfect good fellowship at other times: this is my programme."

The speaker was again interrupted with hearty cheering.

"I intend to divide the corps into four companies, each of thirty men. Each company will have an officer; and will, at times, act independently of each other. I have deliberated whether it is best to allow each company to choose its own officer, or whether to nominate them myself. I have determined to adopt the latter course. You can hardly be such good judges, as to the qualities required by officers during an expedition like the present, as I am; and as I know every man here, and as I shall have the opportunity of seeing more of each man, during the three weeks which we shall spend here upon drill, I shall then choose an officer for each company; but I will leave it to each company to decide whether to accept my choice, or not. There may be points in a man's character which may make him unpopular.

"Now, as to drill. We have three weeks before us. Not long enough to make men good soldiers; but amply sufficient -- with hard work -- to make them good skirmishers. I have already arranged with four men who have served as non-commissioned officers in the army, one of whom will take each company.

"Captain Barclay -- who is well known to most of you -- has kindly offered to give musketry instruction, for four hours each morning. Ten men of each company will go, each morning for a week, to drill at the range; so that, in three weeks, each man will have had a week's instruction. The hours will be from seven to eleven. The others will drill during the same hours.

"All will drill together, in the afternoon, from three to six. The officer commanding the troops, here, has promised us the loan of a hundred and twenty old guns, which are in store; and also of twenty chassepots for rifle practice.

"That is all I have to say. All who are ready and willing to enter, upon these terms, can now sign their names. Those who are not perfectly sure of their own willingness can draw back, before it is too late."

When the cheering ceased, each man came forward and signed his name.

"The first parade will take place, at seven tomorrow morning, in the Place d'Armes. A suit of uniform, complete, will be exhibited here at twelve o'clock. A man has offered to supply them, at contract prices; but any who prefer it can have it made by their own tailor.

"Now, good night, boys."

"Vive les franc tireurs du Dijon!"

"Vive la France!" and, with a cheer, the men separated.

The next morning the corps met, and were divided into companies. The division was alphabetical, and the young Barclays and Duburgs were all in the first company. This was a matter of great pleasure to them, as they had been afraid that they might have been separated.

The following day, drill began in earnest and, accustomed as the boys were to exercise, they found seven hours a day hard work of it. Still, they felt it very much less than many of the young men who, for years, had done little but lounge in cafes, or stroll at the promenade. All, however, stuck to their work and, as their hearts were in it, it was surprising how quickly they picked up the rudiments of drill. Fortunately, they were not required to learn anything beyond the management of their firearms, the simplest movements, and the duty of skirmishers; as all complicated maneuvers would have been useless, in a small corps whose duties would be confined entirely to skirmishing.

With this branch of their work, Captain Tempe was determined that they should be thoroughly acquainted, and they were taught how to use cover of all kinds with advantage; how to defend a building, crenelate a wall, fell trees to form an obstacle across roads, or a breastwork in front of them; and how to throw themselves into square, rapidly, to repel cavalry.

Captain Barclay was indefatigable as a musketry instructor and, with the aid of a few friends, got up a subscription which was spent in a number of small prizes, so as to give the men as much interest as possible in their work. Captain Tempe impressed most strenuously, upon the men, the extreme importance of proficiency in shooting; as it was upon the accuracy and deadliness of their fire that they would have to rely, to enable them to contend with superior forces in the combats they would have to go through; and each man would probably have frequently to depend, for his life, upon the accuracy of his fire.

The original plan -- of instructing a third of the men, each week, in musketry -- was abandoned; and the parties were changed each day, in order to enable all to advance at an equal rate. Besides, their ammunition was supplied; so that those who chose to do so could practice shooting, for their own amusement, between their morning and afternoon drill.

The Barclays were constant in their attendance at the shooting ground; and the steady hand and eye which cricket, fencing, and other exercises had given them now stood them in good stead for, by the end of the time, they became as good marksmen as any in the corps. They still lived at home, as did all those members of the corps whose residences were in and around Dijon. For those who lived too far away to come in and out every day to drill, a large empty barn was taken, and fitted up as a temporary barracks.

The time did not pass away without great excitement for, as the end of August drew on, everyone was watching, in deep anxiety, for the news of a battle near Chalons -- where MacMahon had been organizing a fresh army. Then came the news that the camp at Chalons was broken up, and that MacMahon was marching to the relief of Bazaine. Two or three days of anxious expectation followed; and then -- on the 3rd of September -- came the news, through Switzerland, of the utter defeat and surrender of the French army, at Sedan.

At first, the news seemed too terrible to be true. People seemed stunned at the thought of a hundred thousand Frenchmen laying down their arms. Two days later came the news of the revolution in Paris. This excited various emotions among the people; but the prevailing idea seemed to be that -- now there was a republic -- past disasters would be retrieved.

"What do you think of the news, papa?" the boys asked as, drill over, they hurried up to talk the matter over with their father.

"With any other people, I should consider it to be the most unfortunate event which could have possibly occurred," Captain Barclay said. "A change of Government -- involving a change of officials throughout all the departments, and a perfect upset of the whole machinery of organization -- appears little short of insanity. At the same time, it is possible that it may arouse such a burst of national enthusiasm that the resistance which, as far as the civil population is concerned, has as yet been contemptible -- in fact, has not been attempted at all -- may become of so obstinate and desperate a character that the Prussians may be fairly wearied out.

"There is scarcely any hope of future victories in the field. Raw levies, however plucky, can be no match for such troops as the Prussians, in the open. The only hope is in masses of franc tireurs upon the rear and flanks of the enemy. Every bridge, every wood, every village should be defended to the death. In this way the Prussians would only hold the ground they stand on; and it would be absolutely impossible for them to feed their immense armies, or to bring up their siege materiel against Paris.

"The spirit to do this may possibly be excited by the revolution; otherwise, France is lost. Success alone can excuse it; for a more senseless, more unjustifiable, more shameful revolution was, in my mind, never made. It has been effected purely by the Radicals and roughs of Paris -- the men who have, for years, been advocating a war with Prussia; and who, a month ago, were screaming 'To Berlin.' For these men to turn round upon the Emperor in his misfortune and, without consulting the rest of France, to effect a revolution, is in my mind simply infamous.

"Even regarded as a matter of policy, it is bad in the extreme. Austria, Italy, and Russia -- to say nothing of England -- would, sooner or later, have interfered in favor of an established empire; but their sympathies will be chilled by this revolution. The democratic party in all these countries may exult, but the extreme democratic party do not hold the reins of power anywhere; and their monarchs will certainly not feel called upon to assist to establish a republic.

"Prussia herself -- intensely aristocratic in her institutions -- will probably refuse to treat, altogether, with the schemers who have seized the power; for the King of Prussia is perhaps the greatest hater of democracy in Europe.

"Still, boys, these changes make no difference in your duty. You are fighting for France, not for an empire or a republic and, as long as France resists, it is your duty to continue. In fact, it is now more than ever the duty of you, and of every Frenchman, to fight. Her army is entirely gone; and it is simply upon the pluck and energy of her population that she has to trust."

"Do you think Paris will hold out, papa?"

"She is sure to do so, boys. She has made the revolution, and she is bound to defend it. I know Paris well. The fortifications are far too strong to be taken by a sudden attack, and it will be a long time before the Prussians can bring up a siege train. Paris will only be starved out and, if her people are only half as brave as they are turbulent, they ought to render it impossible for the Prussians to blockade such an immense circle. At any rate, France has two months; perhaps much longer, but two months ought to be quite enough, if her people have but spirit to surround the enemy, to cut off his supplies, and to force him to retreat."

The next morning, when the corps assembled for drill, Captain Tempe addressed them on the subject of the events in Paris. He told them that, whether they approved or disapproved of what had taken place there, their duty as Frenchmen was plain. For the present they were not politicians, but patriots; and he hoped that not a word of politics would be spoken in the corps, but that everyone would give his whole thought, his whole strength and, if must be, his life in the cause of France.

His address was greatly applauded, and gave immense satisfaction to the men; for already differences of opinion were becoming manifest among them. Some had exulted loudly at the downfall of Napoleon; others had said little, but their gloomy looks had testified sufficiently what were their opinions; while many among the gentlemen in the corps, especially those belonging to old families, were well known to be attached either to a Legitimist or Orleanist Prince. The proposal, therefore, that no politics should be discussed during the war, but that all should remember only that they were fighting for France, gave great satisfaction; and promised a continuance of the good fellowship which had hitherto reigned in the corps.

It was a great day when, a fortnight from its first organization, the corps turned out for the first time in their uniforms. The band of the national guard headed them, as they marched down the high street of Dijon to the parade ground; and -- as the spectators cheered, the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the whole corps joined in cheers, to the stirring notes of the Marseillaise -- the young Barclays felt their cheeks flush, their hands tighten upon their rifles, and their hearts beat with a fierce longing to be face to face with the hated Prussians.

A day or two after this, the Snider rifles ordered from England by Captain Barclay arrived; and although the men at first preferred the chassepots, with which they were familiar, they were soon accustomed to the new weapons; and readily acknowledged the advantage which -- as their commander pointed out to them -- the dark-brown barrels possessed, for skirmishers, over the bright barrels of the chassepots which, with the sun shining upon them, would betray them to an enemy miles away.

A day or two afterwards, as Ralph and Percy were returning in the evening from drill, they heard a great tumult in the streets. They hurried forward to see what was the matter, and found an excited crowd shouting and gesticulating.

"Death to the spy!"

"Death to the spy!"

"Hang him!"

"Kill the dog!" were the shouts, and two gendarmes in the center of the crowd were vainly trying to protect a man who was walking between them. He was a tall, powerful-looking man; but it was impossible to see what he was like, for the blood was streaming down his forehead, from a blow he had just received.

Just as the boys came up, another blow from a stick fell on his head; and this served to rouse him to desperation, for he turned round, with one blow knocked down the fellow who had struck him, and then commenced a furious attack upon his persecutors. For a moment they drew back, and then closed upon him again. Blows from sticks and hands rained upon him, but he struggled desperately. At last, overwhelmed by numbers, he fell; and as he did so he raised a wild shout, "Hurroo for ould Ireland."

"He is an Englishman, Percy," Ralph exclaimed; "he is not a Prussian, at all. Come on!

"Here, Louis, Philippe, help; they are killing an Englishman."

Followed by their cousins -- who had just arrived at the spot -- the boys made a rush through the crowd; and arrived in another moment by the prostrate man, whom his assailants were kicking savagely. The rush of the four boys -- aided by the butt-end of their rifles, which they used freely on the ribs of those who stood in their way -- cleared off the assailants for an instant; and the two gendarmes -- who had been hustled away -- drawing their swords, again took their place by the side of their insensible prisoner.

The mob had only recoiled for a moment; and now, furious at being baulked of their expected prey, prepared to rush upon his defenders; shouting, as they did so:

"Death to the spy!"

The moment's delay had, however, given time to the boys to fix bayonets.

Illustration: Rescue of a Supposed Spy.

"Keep off," Ralph shouted, "or we run you through! The man is not a spy, I tell you. He is an Englishman."

The noise was too great for the words to be heard and, with cries of "Death to the spy!" the men in front prepared for a rush. The leveled bayonets and drawn swords, however, for a moment checked their ardor; but those behind kept up the cry, and a serious conflict would have ensued, had not a party of five or six of the franc tireurs come along at the moment.

These -- seeing their comrades standing with leveled bayonets, keeping the mob at bay -- without asking any questions, at once burst their way through to their side; distributing blows right and left, heartily, with the butt-end of their rifles. This reinforcement put an end to the threatened conflict; and the gendarmes, aided by two of the franc tireurs, lifted the insensible man and carried him to the Maine; the rest of the franc tireurs marching on either side as a guard, and the yelling crowd following them.

Once inside the Maine the gates were shut and -- the supposed spy being laid down on the bench -- cold water was dashed in his face; and in a few minutes he opened his eyes.

"The murdering villains!" he muttered to himself. "They've kilt me entirely, bad luck to them! A hundred to one, the cowardly blackguards!

"Where am I?" and he made an effort to rise.

"You're all right," Ralph said. "You're with friends. Don't be afraid, you're safe now."

"Jabers!" exclaimed the Irishman in astonishment, sitting up and looking round him, "here's a little French soldier, speaking as illegant English as I do, meself."

"I'm English," laughed Ralph, "and lucky it was for you that we came along. We heard you call out, just as you fell; and got in in time, with the help of our friends, to save your life. Another minute or two, and we should have been too late."

"God bless your honor!" the man -- who had now thoroughly recovered himself -- said earnestly. "And it was a tight shave, entirely. You've saved Tim Doyle's life; and your honor shall see that he's not ungrateful. Whenever you want a lad with a strong arm and a thick stick, Tim's the boy."

"Thank you, Tim," Ralph said, heartily. "Now you had better let the surgeon look at your head. You have got some nasty cuts."

"Sure, and my head's all right, your honor It isn't a tap from a Frenchman that would break the skull of Tim Doyle."

The gendarmes now intimated that, as the prisoner was restored, he must go in at once before the Maire. The young Barclays accompanied him, and acted as interpreters at the examination. The story was a simple one, and the passport and other papers upon the Irishman proved its truth conclusively.

Tim was an Irishman, who had come out as groom with an English gentleman. His master had fallen ill at Lyons, had parted with his horses and carriage, and returned to England. Tim had accepted the offer of the horse dealer who had purchased the horses to remain in his service, and had been with him six months when the war broke out. He had picked up a little French, but had been several times arrested in Lyons, as a spy; and his master had at last told him that it was not safe for him to remain, and that he had better return to England.

He had reached Dijon on that morning; but the train, instead of going on, had been stopped, as large numbers of Mobiles were leaving for Paris, and the ordinary traffic was suspended. Tim had therefore passed the day strolling about Dijon. The hour had approached at which he had been told that a train might leave, and Tim had asked a passer by the way to the station.

His broken French at once aroused suspicion. A crowd collected in a few minutes; and Tim was, in the first place, saved from being attacked by the arrival of two gendarmes upon the scene. He had at once told them that he was English, and had produced his passport; and they had decided upon taking him to the Maire, for the examination of his papers -- but on the way the crowd, increased by fresh arrivals, had determined to take the law into their own hands; and only the arrival of the young Barclays, and their cousins, had saved his life.

The Maire saw at once, upon examination of the papers, that the story was correct; and pronounced that Tim was at liberty to go where he pleased. The poor fellow, however -- though he made light of his wounds and bruises -- was much shaken; and it would, moreover, have been dangerous for him to venture again into the streets of Dijon. Ralph therefore at once offered to take him out, and to give him a night's shelter; an offer which the Irishman accepted, with many thanks.

It was now getting dark and, accompanied by their cousins, the Barclays were let out with Tim Doyle from a back entrance to the Maine; and made their way unnoticed through the town; and arrived, half an hour later, at home. Captain and Mrs. Barclay, upon hearing the story, cordially approved of what the boys had done; and Captain Barclay having -- in spite of Tim's earnest remonstrance that it was of no consequence in the world -- put some wet rags upon the most serious of the wounds, bandaged up his head, and sent him at once to bed.

In the morning, when the lads started for drill, the Irishman was still in bed; but when they returned to dinner, they found him working in the garden, as vigorously as if the events of the previous day had been a mere dream. When he saw them coming, he stuck his spade into the ground and went forward to meet them.

"God bless your honors, but I'm glad to see you again; and to thank you for saving my life, which them bastes had made up their minds they were going to have. I ain't good at talking, your honors; but if it's the last drop of my blood that would be of any use to you, you'd be heartily welcome to it."

"I am very glad we arrived in time, Tim," Ralph said. "And it's lucky for you that you shouted 'Hurrah for old Ireland!' as you went down; for of course we had no idea you were a countryman and, although we were disgusted at the brutality of that cowardly mob, we could hardly have interfered between them and a German spy.

"What are you thinking of doing now? It will hardly be safe for you to travel through France while this madness about spies lasts for, with your broken French, you would be getting taken up continually."

"I'm not thinking of it at all, your honor," the Irishman said. "The master has been telling me that your honors are starting for the war, and so I've made up my mind that I shall go along wid ye."

The boys laughed.

"You are not in earnest, Tim?"

"As sure as the Gospels, your honor I've served five years in the Cork Militia, and wore the badge as a marksman; and so I mean to 'list, and go as your honors' sarvint."

"But you can't do that, Tim, even if we would let you," Ralph laughed. "There won't be any servants at all."

"Sure, your honor is mistaken, entirely," Tim said, gravely. "In the sarvice, a soldier is always told off as a sarvint for each officer."

"But we are not going as officers, Tim," Percy said. "We are going as simple soldiers."

"What! Going as privates?" Tim Doyle said, in astonishment. "Does your honor mane to say that you are going to shoulder a firelock, and just go as privates?"

"That's it, Tim. You see, this is not a regular regiment; it is a corps of irregulars, and more than half the privates are gentlemen."

"Holy Mother!" ejaculated Tim, in astonishment, "did one ever hear of the like?"

Then, after a pause:

"Then your honor will want a sarvint more than iver. Who is to clean your boots, and to pipeclay your belts; to wash your linen, to clean your firelock, and cook your dinners, and pitch your tent, if you don't have a sarvint? The thing's against nature, entirely."

"We shall do it all ourselves, Tim -- that is to say, as far as cleaning the rifles, washing our linen, and cooking the dinner. As for the other things, I don't suppose we shall ever have our boots cleaned; we have no white belts to pipeclay, for they are made of buff leather; and we shall not have to pitch tents, for we don't take them with us, but shall, when necessary, sleep in the open air."

Tim was too surprised to speak, for a time. At last, he said doggedly:

"Sarvint or no sarvint, your honor, it is evident that it's rough times you're going to have; and Tim Doyle will be there with you, as sure as the piper."

"We should like you with us very much, Tim, if you make up your mind to go," Ralph said; "but the corps is quite full. We have refused dozens of recruits."

Tim looked downcast. At last he said:

"Well, your honor, it may be that they won't have me as a soldier; but I'll go sure enough, if I die for it. There's no law to punish a man for walking after a regiment of soldiers and, wherever your regiment goes, sure enough I'll tramp after ye. There's many an odd way I might make myself useful, and they'll soon get used to see me about, and let me come and go into the camp."

No persuasion could alter Tim's determination and, as they felt that having so attached a fellow near them might be of real utility, and comfort, when the boys went down in the afternoon they spoke to Captain Tempe about it. At first he said that it was impossible, as he had already refused so many offers of service; but upon hearing all the story, and thinking the matter over, he said suddenly:

"By the bye, there is a way by which he might go with us. You know I have ordered a light two-wheel cart, built very strong for the mountains, to carry our spare ammunition, powder for blowing up bridges, cooking pots, and stores. I have not engaged a driver as yet. If your Irishman -- who you say understands horses -- likes to go as a driver, to begin with, I will promise him the first vacant rifle. I fear that he will not have long to wait, after we once get near the enemy; and as he has already served, you say, he will be better than a new recruit, and we can get a countryman to take his place with the cart."

Upon their return in the evening with the news, Tim Doyle's joy knew no bound; and he whooped and shouted, till Milly laughed so that she had to beg of him to stop.

The next day, Tim went down with Captain Barclay and signed the engagement. He remained with the captain during the time that the latter was giving his instructions in musketry -- entering upon his duties in connection with the corps by going down to the butts, and acting as marker -- and then returned with him to the cottage; as it was agreed that he had better remain there, quietly, until the corps was ready to march -- as, if he were to venture alone in the town, he might at any time be subject to a repetition of the attack upon the day of his arrival.

At the cottage he soon became a general favorite His desire to make himself useful in any way, his fund of fun and good temper, pleased everyone. Even Marie and Jeannette -- the two servants, who could not understand a word of what he said -- were in a constant broad grin, at the pantomime by which he endeavored to eke out his few words of French. Milly became quite attached to him; and Captain and Mrs. Barclay both felt cheered, and comforted, at the thought that this devoted fellow would be at hand to look after and assist the boys, in time of danger, suffering, or sickness.



Chapter 4: Starting For The Vosges.


The day for the departure of the corps was near at hand. The party at the Barclays were all filled with sadness, at the thoughts of separation; but all strove to hide their feelings, for the sake of the others. Captain and Mrs. Barclay were anxious that the boys should leave in good spirits, and high hope; while the boys wished to keep up an appearance of merely going upon an ordinary excursion, in order to cheer their parents.

The day before starting, the whole corps marched to the cathedral; where mass was celebrated, a sermon preached, and a blessing solemnly prayed for for them. The boys had asked their father if he had any objections to their taking part in this ceremonial, in a Roman Catholic Church; but Captain Barclay had at once said that, upon the contrary, he should wish them to do so. Protestants might not approve of many things in the Catholic Church; but that could be no reason, whatever, against a Protestant taking part in a solemn prayer to God, wherever that prayer might be offered up.

The young Duburgs were unaffectedly glad that the time for their departure had come, for the month that had passed had been a most unpleasant one to them. Their mother had in vain tried to persuade them to stay; first by entreaty, and then by anger and, finding these means fail, she had passed her time either in sullen silence, or in remaining in bed; declaring that her nerves were utterly shattered, and that she should never survive it. She had refused to see Mrs. Barclay when the latter called, a day or two after their visit to the cottage, and she had not been near her since. Julie and Justine were forbidden to go in to see Milly and, altogether, there was quite an estrangement between the two families.

The boys however were, of course, constantly together; and Monsieur Duburg came in as usual, every day or two, for a chat with Captain Barclay.

September the fifteenth -- the day of separation -- arrived. They were to march at eight in the morning; and left home, therefore, at seven. This was so far fortunate that it left less time for the painful adieus. Captain Barclay had a long talk with the boys the night before, repeating all the hints and instructions which he had before given them.

It is not necessary to describe the parting. Every one of my readers can imagine for themselves how sad was the scene. How Milly sobbed aloud, in spite of her efforts; how Mrs. Barclay kissed her boys, and then ran up to her own room to cry alone; how their father wrung their hands and, after giving them his blessing, turned hastily away, that they might not see the tears which he could not keep back; and how the boys, in spite of their uniform and their dignity as soldiers, cried, too. Tim Doyle had gone on an hour before, taking their blankets; so they had nothing to do but to snatch up their guns and hasten away, half blinded with tears, towards the town. They reached it just as the bugle sounded the assembly. By this time they had steadied themselves and, in the work of preparing for the start, soon lost all feeling of despondency.

It would be difficult to find a more workmanlike little corps than the franc tireurs of Dijon as, with the band of the national guard at their head, playing the Marseillaise, they marched through the old city. Their uniform was a brownish gray Their blankets -- rolled up tight and carried, like a scarf, over one shoulder and under the other arm -- were brown, also. Their belts and gaiters were of buff leather. Their caps had flat peaks, to shade their eyes; but round the cap was rolled a flap lined with fur, which let down over the ears and back of the neck, tying under the chin. On the outer side of the fur was thin India-rubber, to throw the rain off down over the light waterproof cloaks; which each man carried in a small case, slung to his belt. The waterproof on the caps, when rolled up, did not show; the caps then looking like fur caps, with a peak.

Slung over the shoulder, on the opposite side to the blanket, was a haversack -- or stout canvas bag -- brown like the rest of the equipments. Each bag was divided into two compartments; the larger one holding a spare shirt, a few pairs of socks and handkerchiefs, a comb, and other small necessaries. In the other, bread, biscuits or other provisions could be carried. Each man had also a water bottle, slung over his shoulder.

On either side of the ammunition pouch, behind, was strapped a new boot; so placed that it in no way interfered with the bearer getting at the pouch. Next was fastened the tin box; the lid of which forms a plate, the bottom a saucepan or frying pan. On one side hung the bayonet; upon the other a hatchet, a pick, or a short-handled shovel -- each company having ten of each implement.

It will be judged that this was a heavy load, but the articles were all necessaries; and the weight over and above the rifle and ammunition was not -- even including the pick or shovel -- more than half that ordinarily carried by a French soldier.

At the head of the corps marched its commandant. The French term commandant answers to an English major, and he will therefore in future be termed Major Tempe. Each of the four companies was also headed by its officer. Major Tempe had chosen for these posts four men who, like himself, had served -- three in the army, and one in the navy. He had written to them as soon as the corps was organized, and they had arrived ten days before the start. One or two only of the franc tireurs -- who had entertained a hope of being made officers -- were at first a little discontented but, as it was evidently vastly to the advantage of the corps to have experienced officers, the appointments gave great satisfaction to the rest of the men. Fortunately, there were in the ranks several men who had served as privates or non-commissioned officers; and from these Major Tempe selected a sergeant, and a corporal, for each company.

Behind the corps followed the cart; loaded with the stores of the corps, a considerable amount of ammunition, two or three cases of gun cotton for blowing up bridges, several small barrels of powder, a large quantity of fine iron wire, three or four crowbars, bags of coffee and rice, and a keg of brandy, four kettles and as many large saucepans, together with all sorts of odds and ends. By the side of the horse walked Tim Doyle; dressed in the uniform of the corps, but without the equipments, and with a long blouse worn over his tunic. He was, in fact, already enrolled as an active member of the corps. This was done, in the first place, at his own earnest request; and upon the plea that thus only could he escape the chance of being seized as a spy, whenever he might for a moment be separated from the corps; and also that, unless he had a uniform like the rest, how could he take any vacancy in the ranks, even when it should occur?

Major Tempe, in exceeding the hundred and twenty determined upon, was influenced partly by these arguments; but more by the fact that difficulties would arise about food, cooking, and various other points, if the driver were not upon the same footing as the rest of the corps.

The march was not a long one -- only to the railway station. A few carriages, with a truck for the cart, and a horse box, were drawn up alongside the platform in readiness; and in ten minutes more all were in their places, the carriages attached to the ordinary train and -- amidst great cheering and waving of handkerchiefs and hats, from hundreds of people collected in the station to see them off -- they started for the Vosges.

Railway traveling, at no time rapid, was extremely slow at this period; and it was evening before they arrived at Epinal, where they were to pass the night. The journey, shortened by innumerable songs and choruses, had scarcely seemed long. The railway ran throughout its whole distance through pretty, undulating country; indeed, towards the end of their journey, when they were fairly among the Vosges, the scenery became wild and savage. At Vesoul, which was about halfway, the train had stopped for two hours; and here wine, bread and cheese, cold sausages, and fruits were distributed to the men by the inhabitants -- who were assembled in large numbers at the station, and gave the corps an enthusiastic reception. They were the first band of franc tireurs who had passed through, and the inhabitants regarded them as protectors against the wandering Uhlans; whose fame, although as yet far off, had caused them to be regarded with an almost superstitious fear.

At Epinal, a similar and even warmer greeting awaited them; Epinal being so much nearer to the enemy that the fear of Uhlans was more acute. The station was decorated with green boughs; and the Maire, with many of the leading inhabitants, was at the station to receive them. The corps formed upon the platform; and then marched through the little town to the Hotel de Ville, loudly cheered by the people as they passed along. Here they were dismissed, with the order to parade again at half-past four in the morning.

There was no trouble as to billets for the night, as the Maire had already made out a list of the inhabitants who had offered accommodation -- the number being greatly in excess of the strength of the corps. These persons now came forward, and each took off the number of franc tireurs who had been allotted to them.

The sergeant of the first company, knowing the relationship and friendship of the young Barclays and Duburgs, had promised them that -- when practicable -- he would always quarter them together. Upon the present occasion, the four were handed over to a gentleman whose house was a short distance outside the town. Upon the way, he chatted to them on the proposed course of the corps, upon its organization and discipline; and they asked for the first time the question which was so often, in future, to be upon their lips:

"Had he any news of the enemy?"

The answer was that none, as yet, had come south of Luneville; and that indeed, at present they were too much occupied at Metz, and Strasburg, to be able to detach any formidable parties. Small bodies of Uhlans occasionally had made raids, and driven in sheep and cattle; but they had not ventured to trust themselves very far into the mountains.

Upon arriving at the residence of their host, they were most kindly received by his wife and daughter; who, however, could not refrain from expressing their surprise at the youthfulness of their guests.

"But these are mere boys!" the lady said to her husband, in German; "are all the franc tireurs like these?"

"Oh no," her husband said, in the same language, "the greater part are sturdy fellows but, as they marched by, I observed some twelve or fourteen who were scarcely out of their boyhood.

"It is cruelty to send such youngsters out as these. What can they do against these Prussians, who have beaten our best soldiers?"

"Fortunately," Ralph said in German -- which he spoke fluently, as has already been stated -- and with a merry laugh -- which showed that he was not offended at the remark -- "fortunately, fighting now is not an affair of spears and battle axes Age has nothing to do with shooting; and as for fatigue, we shall not be the first in the corps to give up."

"I must really apologize very much, but I had no idea that you understood German, or I should not have made any remarks," the lady said, smiling; "but so few French boys, out of Alsace, do understand it that it never struck me that you spoke the language. You will find it an immense advantage for, outside the towns, you will scarcely meet a person understanding French. But I am sure you must be all very hungry, and supper is quite ready."

They were soon seated at a well-spread table -- waited upon by the daughter of the family -- while their host and hostess sat and chatted with them, as to their corps, while the meal went on.

"Excuse another remark upon your personal appearance," the lady said, smiling, "but two of you look more like Alsatians than French. You have the fair complexion and brown, wavy hair. You do not look like Frenchmen."

"Nor are we," Ralph laughed. "My brother and myself, although French born, are actually English. Our father is an English officer, but our mother is French and, as you see, we take after him rather than her."

"But I wonder that, as your father is English, he lets you go out upon this expedition -- which is very perilous."

"We wished to go -- that is, we thought it was our duty," Ralph said; "and although they were very sad at our leaving, they both agreed with us."

"I wish all Frenchmen were animated by the same feeling," their host said warmly. "Your gallant example should shame hundreds of thousands of loiterers and skulkers.

"You speak French perfectly. I should have had no idea that you were anything but French -- or rather, from the way you speak German, that you were Alsatian."

"We have lived in France all our lives, except for two years which we passed in Germany; and two years at one time, together with one or two shorter visits, in England."

"And do you speak English as well as French?"

"Oh yes, we always speak English at home. Our father made a rule that we should always do so; as he said it would be an immense disadvantage to us, when we returned to England, if we had the slightest French accent. Our mother now speaks English as purely and correctly as our father."

"Are your friends any relations of yours?"

"They are our cousins," Ralph said; "their father is our mother's brother."

For some time longer they chatted, and then their host said:

"It is half-past nine; and we are early people, here. You will have to be up by five, so I think that it is time you were off to bed. We shall scarcely be up when you start; but you will find a spirit lamp on the table, with coffee -- which only requires heating -- together with some bread and butter. You will have some miles to march before you breakfast.

"And now, you must all promise me that, if you come to this place again, you will come straight up here, and look upon it as your home. If you get ill or wounded -- which I hope will not happen -- you will, of course, go home; but something may occur not sufficiently important for you to leave the corps, but which could be set straight by a few days' nursing, and rest. In that case, you will come to us, will you not?"

The boys all gratefully promised to avail themselves of the invitation, in case of need; and then said good night and goodbye to their host, and went off to the room prepared for them. In the morning they were up in good time, dressed as quietly as they could -- so as not to disturb their host -- and went downstairs; lit the spirit lamp under a glass bowl full of coffee and milk and, in ten minutes, were on their way towards the town.

"We shall be lucky if we are often as comfortable as that," Percy said, looking back; and there was a general assent.

"There goes the bugle," Louis Duburg said; "we have a quarter of an hour, yet.

"What pretty girls those were!"

Louis was nearly seventeen and, at seventeen, a French lad considers himself a competent judge as to the appearance and manners of young ladies.

"Were they?" Percy said carelessly, with the indifference of an English boy of his age as to girls. "I did not notice it. I don't care for girls; they are always thinking about their dress, and one is afraid of touching them, in case you should spoil something. There is nothing jolly about them."

The others laughed.

"I am sure Milly is jolly enough," Philippe Duburg said.

"Yes, Milly is jolly," Percy answered. "You see, she has been with us boys, and she can play, and doesn't screech if you touch her, or mind a bit if she tears her frock. So are our cousins in England -- some of them. Yes, there are some jolly girls, of course; still, after all, what's the good of them, taking them altogether? They are very nice in their way -- quiet and well behaved, and so on -- but they are better indoors than out."

The clock was just striking half-past five, as the boys reached the place of assembly. Most of the men were already upon the spot, and the bugler was blowing lustily. In another five minutes all were assembled; including Tim Doyle, with his horse and cart.

"Good-morning, Tim," the boys said, as they came up to him. "I hope you had as comfortable quarters as we had, last night."

"Splendid, your honor -- downright splendid; a supper fit for a lord, and a bed big enough for a duchess."

The boys laughed at the idea of a duchess wanting a bed bigger than anyone else, and Tim went on:

"Ah, your honor, if campaigning was all like this, sure I'd campaign all my life, and thank you; but it's many a time I shall look back upon my big supper, and big bed. Not that I should like it altogether entirely; I should get so fat, and so lazy, that I shouldn't know my own shadow."

And now the bugle sounded again, and the men fell in. As they started, they struck up a lively marching song; and several windows opened, and adieus were waved to them as they passed down the street into the open country. Everyone was in high spirits. The weather, which had for some time been unfavorable, had cleared up; the sun was rising brightly, and they felt that they had fairly started for work. The road was rough, the country wild and mountainous, thick forests extended in every direction, as far as the eye could carry.

"There is one comfort, Percy," Ralph said, "if we are beaten and driven back, we might get into this forest, and laugh at the Prussians."

Percy cast rather a doubtful eye at the dark woods.

"The Prussians might not be able to discover us, Ralph; but I would as leave be killed by Prussian balls as die of hunger, and our chances of getting food there, for a hundred men, would be very slight."

"They don't look hospitable, certainly, Percy. I agree with you. We had better keep in the open country, as long as possible."

The first village at which they arrived was Deyvilliers. Here a halt was called for ten minutes, five miles having already been marched. Many of the men -- less fortunate than the Barclays and Duburgs -- had had nothing to eat upon starting and, when the arms were piled, there was a general dispersal through the village, in search of provisions. Bread had been bought over night, at Epinal, and brought on in the cart; which was fortunate, for the village was a very small one, and there would have been a difficulty in obtaining more than a loaf or two. Cheese and fruit were in abundance; and the boys bought some apples, and sat down by the little feeder of the Moselle which passes through the village, and watched it tumbling past on its way to join the main stream, a few miles below Epinal.

In a quarter of an hour, they were again on the march. In another five miles they reached Fontaine, lying a little off the road to their right. They had now marched ten miles, and Major Tempe ordered a halt for three hours. A piece of level ground was chosen, arms were piled, blankets and haversacks taken off, and then preparations began for their first meal. Men were sent off with kettles, for water. Others went up to the village with cans for wine -- or beer for, in Alsace, beer is more common than wine. Tim took the horse out of the shafts, and gave him some oats. Some of the men were sent from each company to fetch wood, and the old soldiers prepared for the important operation of cooking.

Several little fireplaces were made, with stones and turf, open on the side facing the wind. In these sticks were placed and, when they were fairly alight, the saucepans -- each holding the allowance of ten men -- were placed on them. In these the meat -- cut up in pieces of about half a pound -- was placed; with pepper, salt, onions, rice, and potatoes peeled and cut up, and the whole filled up with water.

When the preparations were finished, the men threw themselves down under the shade of some trees; and smoked and chatted until, in about an hour, the cooking was complete. Each man then brought up his tin canteen, and received his portion of soup in the deep side, and his meat and vegetables in the shallow can. The bread had already been cut up. The tin drinking pots which, with knives, forks, and spoons, were carried in the canteens, were filled with beer and, with much laughing and fun, each man sat down on the grass, or scattered rocks, to eat his breakfast.

Many of the villagers had come down; and these brought, for the most part, little presents: a few apples, a little fresh cheese, or a bunch of grapes. It was a merry meal, and the boys agreed that it was the jolliest picnic that they had ever been at.

At two o'clock the bugle sounded. The cooking things were packed up and placed in the cart again; the blankets and haversacks slung on, and the rifles shouldered and, with many a good wish from the peasants, they marched forward again.

Eight miles further marching brought them to the end of their day's journey, the village of Destord. It was a tiny place, with scarcely over a half-dozen houses. Major Tempe in consequence determined, as the weather was fine, upon bivouacking in the open air. For a time, all were busy collecting wood. A sheltered place was chosen, for the village lay very high, close to the source of a little stream running into the river Mortagne.

The cooking places were again prepared for supper. At seven o'clock the meal was served, differing but little from that of the morning; except that after the men had eaten the soup, and the meat from it (in France called bouilli), they fried some thin slices of meat in the lids of their canteens, and concluded the meal with a cup of coffee.

Then four large fires were lit -- one for each company -- and a smaller one for the officers. Blankets were spread out on the ground round these fires, and the men lit their pipes and chatted gaily. All were more or less tired for, although their month's hard drill had accustomed them to work, eighteen miles with arms, ammunition, and accouterments had tired them more than they had anticipated.

As this was their first night out, Major Tempe told them that he should not place a regular cordon of sentries; but that in future he should do so, whether they were near the enemy or not. By nine o'clock the fires began to burn low, the talking gradually ceased, and the men -- rolling themselves up in their blankets, and putting their haversacks under their heads, for pillows -- soon dropped off to sleep; a solitary sentry keeping guard against pilferers.

A short march of ten miles took them, next day, to Rambervillers, where they were billeted among the inhabitants; and fourteen miles on the day after to Baccarat, on the river Meurthe, where they also obtained quarters. They were now approaching the neighborhood of the enemy, and Major Tempe advised a halt for the next day; in order that he might make inquiries, and investigate thoroughly the best route to be pursued.



Chapter 5: The First Engagement.


The news which the commandant of the franc tireurs heard, at Baccarat, determined him to change his intentions; and to push on without delay to Halloville -- a tiny hamlet on the lower spurs of the Vosges, some four miles from Blamont; and overlooking the valley of the Vexouse, in which the latter town was situated.

It was a long march, and the weather had again changed, the rain descending all day in a steady pour. The men -- in their light, waterproof cloaks, and the flaps of their forage caps down -- plodded steadily on; their spirit sustained by the thought that, ere another twenty-four hours, they might be in action. The news which hurried them forwards had been to the effect that a body of two hundred Uhlans had left Sarrebourg, and were advancing towards Blamont. They were going quietly, stopping to levy contributions at the villages on the way. It was probable that they would enter Blamont on the same evening that the franc tireurs reached Halloville. It was supposed that they would proceed, with the sheep and cattle that they had swept up, by the valley of the Vexouse to Luneville.

To within four miles of Halloville, the road had been a fair one; but it was here necessary to turn off, by a track that was little better than a goat path. In vain, a dozen of the men were told off to help with the cart; in vain they pushed behind, and shoved at the spokes of the wheels. The road was altogether impracticable. At last the horse and cart were taken aside into a thick wood and left there; with Tim Doyle, a corporal, and six of the men who were the most footsore, and incapable of pushing on. Tim was dreadfully disgusted at being thus cut off from the chance of seeing, and joining in, any fighting; and only consoled himself with the hope that a vacancy would be likely to occur the next day, and that he would then be able to exchange his whip for a rifle.

The rest of the corps plodded on until, long after dusk, they arrived at the half-dozen houses which form the village of Halloville. Their appearance, as they marched up to it, was greeted by a scream from a woman, followed by a perfect chorus of screams and cries. Men, women, and children were seen rushing out of the houses, and taking to flight; and it was with the greatest difficulty that they were made to understand the truth, that the formidable body, which had so suddenly dropped upon them, was not composed of the dreaded invaders.

When the truth was known, they did their best to receive them hospitably. Their means, however, were small; their houses equally so. However, in a short time blazing fires were lighted on the hearths; blankets having been put up before the windows, to prevent any light being visible from the valley. A fire was allotted for the cooking of each company, and preparations for supper were soon commenced. Then an examination was made of the facilities in the way of sleeping; and two barns were found, well provided with straw. This was shaken out and, after eating their suppers, the men packed close together upon the straw, and soon forgot both damp and fatigue; numerous sentries being thrown out, in various directions, to prevent the possibility of surprise -- for the peasants had informed them that the information which they had received was correct; and that the Uhlans, about two hundred strong, had entered Blamont that afternoon, and had laid a requisition of twenty thousand francs upon the inhabitants, besides a considerable amount of stores of all sorts.

At three o'clock they were roused and found, to their great pleasure, that the rain had ceased. Guided by one of the villagers, they made their way down to a point where the wood approached quite close to the road, at a narrow point of the valley. Here Major Tempe posted his men along in the wood. Several coils of wire had been brought with them; and these were now stretched tightly from tree to tree, at a distance of about eighteen inches from the ground. Some forty yards farther back, young trees were felled and branches cut; and these were laid with the bushy parts towards the road, wires being twisted here and there among them, so as to form abattis perfectly impenetrable for horsemen, and difficult in the extreme for infantry. All worked hard and, by eight o'clock in the morning, everything was in readiness.

A small party had been left upon the high ground near Halloville, and one of them had brought down news every half hour. Soon after daybreak, a party of Uhlans had been seen to leave Blamont, and to visit Barbas and Harboise -- two villages in the flat of Blamont -- and then to retire, driving some cattle and sheep before them. At ten o'clock the rest of the men from Halloville came down, with the news that the Uhlans -- about two hundred strong -- had just left Blamont, and were coming down the valley.

Each man now took the station allotted to him: thirty men behind the trees, next to the road; the main body being stationed behind the abattis, each man having previously settled upon a spot where he could fire through the leaves, which entirely concealed them from view from the road. Number one company was placed to the right and, consequently, near to Blamont. Ralph and Percy were both in the front line, behind the trees.

Not a shot was to be fired, on any consideration, until Major Tempe gave the word. The men behind the trees were all ordered to lie down among the low undergrowth and brushwood. The line extended nearly a hundred yards. The waterproofs, blankets, and all other impediments had been left behind at Halloville, so that the men had the free use of their arms. The rifles were loaded, the pouches shifted round so as to be ready at hand and -- orders having been given that not a word should be spoken, even in a whisper -- a perfect silence reigned over the spot.

Ralph and Percy were near to each other. They had exchanged a hearty grip of the hand, before lying down; and now lay, with beating hearts and hands firmly grasping their rifles, in readiness for the signal.

The time was not very long -- only a few minutes -- but it seemed to them an age before they heard the tramp of horses. Nearer and nearer they came, and now they could hear the jingling of accouterments First, through their leafy screen, they could see two Uhlans pass at a walk; scanning keenly the woods, and looking for possible danger. The bushes were thick, and they noticed nothing, and kept on at the same pace. It is probable, indeed, that they really anticipated no possibility of an attack, as the Dijon franc tireurs were the first who appeared upon the scene of action; and the Prussians were, consequently, in entire ignorance of the vicinity of any armed body of the enemy and, at worst, apprehended a stray shot from a straggler from one of the French armies, hidden in the woods.

In another minute or two four more Uhlans passed; and after the same interval came the main body, escorting a number of cattle and sheep. The greater portion had passed the spot where the boys were lying, and were opposite the whole line of franc tireurs, when the silence of the wood was broken by Major Tempe's shout:

"Now!"

Before the Uhlans had time to rein in their horses, or to ask each other what was the meaning of the cry, the flash of thirty rifles broke from the trees, and several men fell from their horses. There was a momentary panic, followed by a hurried discharge of carbines at the invisible foe.

The captain of the Uhlans -- a handsome young officer, with light mustache and beard -- shouted to his men:

"Steady, they are only a handful. Form line, charge!"

Quickly as the maneuver was executed, the franc tireurs had time to fire again; and then -- in accordance with their orders -- retreated, and joined their comrades by passages left in the abattis, on purpose. In another instant the Uhlans charged but, as quickly, the direst confusion reigned, where before had been a regular line. The wire had served its purpose. Horses and men went down on the top of each other, and thirty rifles again fumed their deadly hail into the confused mass.

The second line of Uhlans -- who had not charged -- returned the fire of their invisible enemies and, although they could not see them, several of the balls took effect. Nothing could be cooler than the officers of the Uhlans, and their voice and example steadied their men. Under cover of the fire of their comrades the men, in part, extricated themselves and their horses, and drew back behind the wood. Orders were then given for all to dismount and, leaving their horses to be held by parties of their comrades -- four horses to one man -- the rest advanced on foot against their apparently greatly inferior foe, keeping up a heavy fire with their carbines. This was what the commandant of the franc tireurs had hoped for, and expected.

The wire had been broken down by the weight of the horses; and the Prussians advanced, opposed only by a feeble return to their heavy fire, until within five paces of the leafy wall. Then the fire from a hundred rifles flashed out upon them.

The effect was terrible, and a cry of surprise and rage burst from those who had escaped its effect. It was evident that they had fallen into an ambush. The captain -- wild with rage and mortification, at the fault he had committed -- rushed forward; and his men gallantly seconded his efforts. In vain, however, did they try to separate the interlaced boughs while, as they struggled, the shots from the enemy flashed out thick and fast. In another moment the young captain threw up his arms and fell, shot through the heart. The officer next in command ordered a retreat, the horses were regained and, amidst a continuous fire from the franc tireurs, the diminished troop galloped back towards Blamont.

The franc tireurs now quitted their leafy fortress. A small party was at once sent forward up the valley, to give notice if the Uhlans showed any signs of returning. A strong body set to work to drive in the scattered animals -- which were galloping wildly about the valley -- while the rest collected the dead and wounded.

Of the franc tireurs eight were killed, fourteen wounded. Of the Uhlans forty-seven were killed, and nineteen wounded remained on the ground. Their large number of killed, in proportion to the wounded, was accounted for by the fact that the firing was so close that, in many cases, the coats of the dead men were actually singed by the explosion; while the slightly wounded men had been able to regain their horses, and escape.

The first impulse of the young Barclays, when the fire ceased, was to turn round and to embrace each other with delight -- on finding that they had each escaped without a scratch -- and then to shake hands heartily with their cousins, whose fortune had been equally good. There was no time for words, however; for Major Tempe's order came, sharp and decisive:

"You the Barclays, you also the Duburgs, sling your arms, and go assist to drive in the cattle. Quick, lose no time.

"You have done well. I am content with you, my boys."

With a flush of pleasure, the boys started off to carry out the orders; which had been given, by their commander, with the kind thought of sparing the lads the terrible sight of the battle ground.

The short but desperate conflict through which they had passed seemed, to the young Barclays, almost like a dream. In the excitement of loading and firing, in the tumult and the rattle, they had scarcely had time even to give a thought to the danger.

Fear is seldom felt by the soldier when engaged in close conflict. The time when his nerves are most tried is while waiting inactive, at a distance, exposed to a heavy shell fire; or while advancing to an attack, under a storm of musketry and artillery. In a hand-to-hand conflict, he has no time to think. His nerves are strung up to so high a pitch that he no longer thinks of danger, or death. His whole thoughts are given to loading and firing.

Any thought that the boys had given to danger was not for themselves, but for each other; and Ralph -- though his own position was unsheltered -- had once or twice spoken, to Percy, to keep his body better sheltered by the trees behind which he was standing.

It was a long chase before the frightened animals were collected together, and driven up towards the spot where the fight had taken place. By the time that it was accomplished, the wounded had been collected, and the surgeons had bandaged many of their wounds. A qualified surgeon had accompanied the corps, as its regular doctor, and two other young surgeons had enlisted in its ranks; and these, their arms laid by, were now assisting to stanch the wounds and to apply bandages. Of the franc tireurs, there were only four so seriously wounded that they were unable to walk.

By that time two carts arrived from the village of Douteppe, which stood in the valley, half a mile only from the scene of action; and to which place Major Tempe had sent off a messenger directly the affair had terminated. In one of these the wounded were placed, while in the other were piled the arms and accouterments of the fallen Uhlans. One of the young surgeons was to accompany the wounded as far as Baccarat, where they were to remain for treatment.

Twenty-three horses of the Uhlans had also been captured, by the party who had driven in the cattle -- among whom they were galloping. Four men were told off to take them back to Epinal, and there dispose of them, with their accouterments, for the benefit of the military chest of the corps.

The question then arose as to what was to be done with the Prussian wounded. Major Tempe decided this by saying that, as it was quite impossible for the corps to be burdened with wounded men, the best plan was to allow one of the slightly wounded among the prisoners to walk back to Blamont; with a message that the Uhlans could come back to fetch their wounded without molestation, as the franc tireurs were upon the point of taking their departure.

The corps then assembled round a grave which had already been dug, and into it the bodies of their comrades who had fallen were placed. Major Tempe then said a few brief words of adieu, hoping that all who fell might die equally bravely, and victoriously. Then the sods were shoveled in; and the men, saddened by the scene -- though still flushed with the triumph of their first, and signal, success -- prepared to leave the spot.

Major Tempe had already held a consultation with his officers, and their plan of operation had been decided upon. The difficulty which they had encountered the evening before, with the horse and cart, had already proved that it would be impossible to drag it about with them. They had also taken thirty fine cattle, and upwards of a hundred sheep from the enemy; and it was therefore resolved to establish a sort of headquarters in the mountains, where they could retire after their expeditions, and defy the efforts of the Prussians to disturb them. The spot fixed upon was the forest of Bousson, high up among the Vosges, and distant two hard days' marching.

A portion of the troop, therefore, went round to Halloville, to fetch the accouterments, blankets, etc. which had been left there; while the rest marched, by the road, to the place where the cart had been left the night before. Two peasants were engaged as guides and, in the afternoon, the corps started for their destination.

It was a terrible march. The roads were mere tracks, and the weather was terrible. Over and over again, the men had to unload the carts, shoulder the contents, and carry them for a considerable distance, until ground was reached where the cart could again be loaded.

It was not until late on the evening of the third day's march that, thoroughly done up by fatigue and hardship, the corps reached the little village of Raon, in the heart of the forest of Bousson. There was no possible fear of attack, here; and the commandant decided that, for the night, there was no occasion for any of the men to be out as sentries. The villagers at once took charge of the animals, and turned them into a rough enclosure. The men were too much done up even to care about keeping awake until supper could be cooked and -- being divided among the houses of the village -- they threw themselves down, and were fast asleep in a few minutes.

The next morning, the sun shone out brightly; and the men, turning out after a long sleep, felt quite different creatures to the tired band who had wearily crawled into the village. The bright sky, the fresh morning air, the pleasant odor of the great pine forest around them, and the bracing atmosphere -- at the height of fifteen hundred feet above the sea -- at once refreshed and cheered them.

There was a brief morning parade -- at which Tim Doyle, for the first time, took his place with a rifle on his shoulder -- and then the major dismissed them, saying that there would be no further parade that day, and that the men could amuse themselves as they liked. In a short time, every man was following the bent of his own inclination. First, however, there was a general cleaning of the rifles and accouterments; then most of the men went down to the stream, and there was a great washing of clothes, accompanied with much laughing and joking. Then needles and thread were obtained, from the women of the village, and there was much mending and darning -- for the past three days' work, among rocks and woods, had done no little damage to their uniforms.

Next came the grand operation of breakfast, for which two of the sheep had been killed. This, being the first regular meal that they had had, for three days, was greatly enjoyed. After it was eaten most of the men lit their pipes, and prepared to pass a day of delightful idleness. Two or three of the village boys had been engaged, as cowherds and shepherds; and the animals were all driven out into the woods where, in the open glades, they would find an abundance of food.

The cart was unanimously condemned as worse than useless. An empty shed was turned into a storehouse; and it was determined that such stores of powder, etc. as might be required, upon each expedition, should be packed upon the horse's back and, if the horse could not take all required, that other horses should be hired.

The Barclays, with their cousins, started for a ramble in the wood; taking with them the Irishman, whose good humor and unflagging spirits, during the last three days, had made him a general favorite.

"Sure, and are there any wild bastes in the wood, your honor Because, if there be, it would be well to take our rifles with us. It would be mighty unpleasant to come across a lion, or a tiger, and not to be able to pass him the time of day."

"No, Tim, we shall meet neither lions nor tigers, so you need not trouble yourself with a rifle. A hundred years ago, we might have met with a bear, or a wild boar; but they have disappeared, long since. It is possible that there are a few wolves scattered about; but they are never formidable to any but a solitary person, even in winter; and at all other times fly from man's approach."

The party had a charming ramble, for the scenery here was very fine. At times, the forest was so thick that they could see no glimpse of the sky, and the trunks of the trees seemed to make a wall, all round them; then again, it would open, and they would obtain a glimpse over the country far away, rise beyond rise, to the plain of Champagne or -- if the view were behind, instead of in front of them -- they could see the tops of the highest range of the Vosges, rising hill above hill, and often wooded to the very summit -- the Donon, one of the highest points of the range, being immediately behind them.

The villages are, here, few and far between, and the people extremely poor; for the soil is poor, and although in summer the cattle -- which form their only wealth -- are able to pick up an abundance of food, in the forests, they have a hard struggle to keep them alive during the winter. Their language is German, and their appearance and dress rather German than French but, notwithstanding this, they were thoroughly French in spirit, and regarded the invaders with an intense hatred.

Another day, passed in rest, completely restored the most exhausted of the band. Orders were therefore issued for an early start, the next morning; the object, this time, being to endeavor to cut the railway. The band were to march in a body for the slopes of the Vosges, behind Sarrebourg and Saverne; and were then to divide into companies, and scatter themselves among the villages between Lorquin and Marmontier, so as to act together or separately, as it might seem expedient.



Chapter 6: The Tunnel Of Saverne.


It is needless to follow the corps, step by step, through their marches; for the names of the little villages through which they passed would not be found in any maps published in England, and would therefore possess little interest for English readers. After two days' long marches, the main body of the corps reached a village situated in a wood, at about four miles from the great rock tunnel of Saverne. The fourth company had been left at a village, five miles to the left; while the third company were, next day, to march forward to a place at about the same distance to the right. Their orders were to keep a sharp lookout, to collect news of the movements and strength of the enemy; but not to undertake any expedition, or to do anything, whatever, to lead the enemy to guess at their presence in the neighborhood -- as it was of vital importance that they should not be put upon their guard, until the great blow was struck.

As soon as they had marched into the village, the principal inhabitants came forward, and a consultation was held as to providing lodgings. After some conversation, it was agreed that the officers should have quarters in the village; and that the schoolrooms -- two in number -- should be placed at the disposal of the men. They were good-sized rooms, and would hold thirty men each, without difficulty. The company who were to march forward in the morning were provided with quarters in the village.

Ralph and Percy Barclay, as usual, acted as interpreters between Major Tempe and the inhabitants; for neither the major, nor any of his officers, spoke German. That language, indeed, was spoken only by a few men in the whole corps; and these the commandant had divided among the other companies, in order that each company might be able to shift for itself, when separated from the main body.

"Have you seen this proclamation?" one of the villagers asked. "You see that we are running no little risk, in taking you in."

Ralph read it, and as he did so his face flushed with indignation, and he exclaimed:

"This is infamous! Infamous!"

"What is it?" Major Tempe asked.

"It is a proclamation from the Prussian General commanding the district, major, giving notice that he will shoot every franc tireur he may catch; and also giving notice to the inhabitants that if any Prussian soldier be killed, or even shot at, by a franc tireur -- if a rail be pulled up, or a road cut -- that he will hold the village near the spot accountable; will burn the houses, and treat the male inhabitants according to martial law, and that the same penalties will be exacted for sheltering or hiding franc tireurs."

"Impossible!" Major Tempe said, astounded. "No officer of a civilized army could issue such an edict. Besides, during an invasion of Germany, the people were summoned by the King of Prussia to take up arms, to cut roads, destroy bridges, and shoot down the enemy -- just as we are going to do, now. It is too atrocious to be true."

"There it is, in black and white," Ralph said. "There can be no mistake as to the wording."

Major Tempe looked grieved, as well as indignant.

"This will be a terrible business," he said, "if the war is to be carried on in this way. Of course, if they give us no quarter, we shall give them none. That is, we must make as many prisoners as we can in order that, if any of our men are taken prisoners, we may carry out reprisals if they shoot them.

"It will, besides this, do us great harm. Naturally, the villagers, instead of looking upon us as defenders, will regard us as the most dangerous of guests. They will argue:

"'If we make no resistance, the Prussians may plunder us, but at least our houses and our lives are safe; whereas if these franc tireurs are found to have been with us, or if they make any attack in our neighborhood, we are not only plundered, but burnt out, and shot!'

"Of course, we are always liable to treachery. There are scoundrels always to be found who would sell their own mothers, but now even the most patriotic cannot but feel that they are running an immense risk in sheltering us.

"Never before, I believe, in the annals of civilized nations, did a man in authority dare to proclaim that persons should suffer for a crime with which they had nothing, whatever, to do. If we arrive at a little village, how are the people to say to us, 'We will not allow you to pull up a rail!'? And yet, if they do not prevent us, they are to be punished with fire and sword. And these people call themselves a civilized nation!

"One of the evil consequences of this proclamation is that we shall never dare trust to the inhabitants to make inquiries for us. They will be so alarmed, in case we should attempt anything in their neighborhood, that they would be sure to do and say everything they could to dissuade us from it and, if inclined to treachery, might even try to buy their own safety by betraying us."

Major Tempe was speaking to the other officers, who thoroughly agreed with his opinion. Ralph and Percy had remained in the room, in case any further questions might be asked in reference to the proclamation. They now asked if anything else were required and, upon a negative answer being given, saluted and took their leave. It was dusk when they went out and, as they walked towards the schoolroom, they heard a great tumult of voices raised in anger, among which they recognized that of Tim Doyle.

"Howld yer jaw, you jabbering apes!" he exclaimed, in great wrath. "Give me a lantern, or a candle, and let me begone. The boys are all waiting for me to begin."

Hurrying up, they found Tim surrounded by a few of the principal inhabitants of the village, and soon learned the cause of the dispute. Supper was served, but it was too dark to see to eat it; and Tim -- always ready to make himself useful -- had volunteered to go in search of a light. He had in vain used his few words of French with the villagers he met, and these had at last called the schoolmaster, the only person in the village who understood French. This man had addressed Tim first in French and then in German and, upon receiving no coherent answer in either language, had arrived at the conclusion that Tim was making fun of them. Hence the dispute had arisen.

The boys explained matters, and the villagers -- whose knowledge of England was of the very vaguest description; and most of whom, indeed, had previously believed that all the world spoke either French or German -- were profuse in apologies, and immediately procured some candles, with which Tim and the boys hastened to the schoolroom. Two candles were given to each company and -- one being lighted at each end of the room, and stuck upon nails in the wall -- the boys were enabled to see what the place was like.

Clean straw had been littered, a foot deep, down each side of the room; and fifteen blankets were folded, side by side, along by each wall. Upon pegs above -- meant for the scholars' caps -- hung the haversacks, water bottles, and other accouterments; while the rifles were piled along the center of the room, leaving space enough to walk down upon either side, between them and the beds. At the farther end of the room was a large fireplace, in which a log fire was blazing; and a small shed, outside, had been converted into a kitchen.

"We might be worse off than this, a long way, Ralph," said Louis Duburg, as Ralph took his place on the straw next to him.

"That we might, Louis. The fire looks cheerful, too, and the nights are getting very cold."

"That they are, Ralph.

"Ah! Here is supper. I am quite ready for that, too."

The men who officiated as cooks -- and who, by agreement, had been released from all night duty in consideration of their regularly undertaking that occupation -- now brought in a large saucepan full of soup; and each man went up with his canteen, and received his portion, returning to his bed upon the straw to eat it.

"Anything new, Barclay?" one of the men asked, from the other side of the room.

"Yes, indeed," Ralph said. "New, and disagreeable. Mind none of you get taken prisoners, for the Prussian General has issued a proclamation that he shall shoot all franc tireurs he catches."

"Impossible!" came in a general chorus, from all present.

"Well, it sounds like it, but it is true enough," and Ralph repeated, word for word, the proclamation which he had translated to Major Tempe.

As might have been expected, it raised a perfect storm of indignation; and this lasted until, at nine o'clock, the sergeant gave the word:

"Lights out."

In the morning, after parade, Ralph and Percy strolled away together and had a long talk and, at the end of an hour, they walked to the house where Major Tempe had established his headquarters.

"Good morning, my friends," he said, as they entered. "Is there anything I can do for you? Sit down."

"We have been thinking, sir -- Percy and I -- that we could very easily dress up as peasants, and go down to Saverne, or anywhere you might think fit, and find out all particulars as to the strength and position of the enemy. No one would suspect two boys of being franc tireurs. It would be unlikely in the extreme that anyone would ask us any questions and, if we were asked, we should say we belonged to some village in the mountains, and had come down to buy coffee, and other necessaries. The risk of detection would be next to nothing, for we speak German quite well enough to pass for lads from the mountains."

Major Tempe was silent a minute.

"You know you would be shot, at once, if you were detected."

"No doubt, sir, but there is no reason in the world why we should be detected. The Prussians can't know everyone by sight, even within the town itself; and will not notice us, at all. If they do, our answer is sufficient."

"I tell you frankly, boys, I was thinking only last night of the matter; but -- however much you may make light of it -- there is, of course, a certain amount of danger in acting as spies; and your father -- my friend Captain Barclay -- might say to me, if evil came of it:

"'I gave you my boys to fight for France, and you have sent them to their death, as spies.'

"So I resolved to say nothing about it."

"But now we have offered, sir, the case is different," Ralph said. "From our knowledge of the language, and from our age, we are better fitted than anyone in the corps to perform this service; and therefore it would be clearly our duty to perform it, were it greatly more dangerous than it is. Our father said to us, at starting:

"'Do your duty, boys, whatever the danger.'

"We will see about our clothes -- there can be no difficulty about that, there are several lads in the village whose things would fit us. Shall we come in this afternoon, for instructions?"

"Thank you, lads," Major Tempe said, warmly. "I trust, with you, that no harm will come of it. But your offer is of too great advantage to the corps for me to persist in my refusal."

Upon leaving the quarters of the commandant, the boys went at once to the house of a farmer a short distance from the village where, the day before, they had noticed two boys of about their own size. They explained to the farmer that they wanted to buy of him a suit of the working clothes of each of his sons. Greatly surprised at this request, the farmer had inquired what they could possibly want them for; and Ralph -- who thought it better not to trust him with the secret -- replied that, as the Prussian General had given notice that he should shoot all franc tireurs he might take prisoners, they wanted a suit of clothes, each, which they might slip on in case of defeat or danger of capture. The pretense was a plausible one; and the farmer sold them the required clothes, charging only about twice their cost, when new.

The boys took the parcel and, instead of returning to the village direct, they hid it carefully in a wood, at a short distance away. They then returned and, in the afternoon, received detailed instructions from Major Tempe.

It was arranged that the matter should be kept entirely secret, lest any incautious word might be overheard and reported. They were to start at daybreak, upon the following morning. Their cousins and Tim Doyle being -- alone -- taken into their confidence, their friends regretted much that they could not accompany them, and share their danger. The boys pointed out however that -- even could they have spoken German fluently -- they could not have gone with them as, although two strangers would excite no attention, whatever, five would be certain to do so.

The next morning they started together, as if for a walk. Upon reaching the spot in the wood where the peasants' clothes were hidden, the boys took off their uniforms -- which were wrapped up, and concealed in the same place -- and put on the clothes. They fitted fairly; and more than that was not necessary, as peasants' clothes are seldom cut accurately to the figure. Rounding their shoulders, and walking with a clumping sort of stride, no one would have imagined that they were other than they pretended to be -- two awkward-looking young Alsatian lads.

They cut two heavy sticks, exchanged a hearty goodbye with their friends, and started for Saverne. Two hours later they were walking in its streets; staring into the shop windows, and at everything that was going on, with the open-mouthed curiosity of two young country lads. Then they made a few purchases -- some coffee, sugar, and pepper -- tied them in a colored pocket handkerchief, and then went into a small cabaret -- where they saw some German soldiers drinking -- sat down at a table, and called for some bread and cheese and beer.

While they were taking them, they listened to the conversation of the soldiers. The only information that they gleaned from it was that the men seemed to have no expectation, whatever, of any early movement; and that they were heartily sick of the monotony of the place, and the hard work of patrolling the line of railway, night and day. Presently the soldiers paid for their beer, and left; and some of the townspeople came in, and took the places they had left. Their conversation, of course, turned on the Prussian occupation, and deep were the curses heaped upon the invaders. The only thing mentioned in their favor was the smallness of their number. There were not over two hundred men; and this amount weighed but lightly upon Saverne, compared with the fifty, sixty, or a hundred quartered at every little village along the line of railway.

The boys had now learned what they most wanted to know and, paying for their refreshment, went out again into the street. Then they walked to the railway station -- where they saw several soldiers, on guard -- and then set off to a point where they could see the entrance to the tunnel. There two soldiers were on guard; while others were stationed, at short distances, all along the line.

The boys now went up to a wood whence, unseen themselves, they could watch the trains passing. They came along nearly every half hour; immensely long trains, filled with stores of all kinds. As it became dusk, they saw a body of Prussian soldiers marching down the line; relieving the sentries, and placing fresh ones at distances of little more than fifty yards apart. These marched backwards and forwards, until they met each other; then returning, until they faced their comrade at the other end of their beat.

"We can be off now, Percy," Ralph said, rising. "Our news is bad, for it will be by no means so easy to cut the line as we had expected. These weasels won't be very easily caught asleep."

"No, indeed," Percy said. "The idea of cutting the line sounded so easy, when we were at a distance; but it is quite a different matter, now we are here."

Upon their return they found -- with some difficulty -- the place where they had hidden their uniforms; again changed clothes, and then -- carrying those they had just taken off, made up into bundles -- they re-entered the village, and went straight to headquarters.

Major Tempe was at dinner with the other officers, and received them with great pleasure; for he had been anxious, all day, lest any misfortune might befall them. Finding that they had had nothing to eat, since early in the morning, he at once invited them to sit down to dinner; for military discipline is far less strict in these matters, in France, than it is in England; and among the corps of franc tireurs especially -- as among the English volunteers, where the private is in many cases equal to, or superior to, his officer in social standing -- the difference of rank is very much put aside, except on duty.

"And you say that they have a sentinel at every fifty or sixty yards, along the line?" Major Tempe said, when Ralph had given an account of their day's investigation. "That appears, to me, to be fatal to our plans."

"Why so?" Lieutenant de Maupas -- who commanded the first company -- asked. "It seems to me that nothing could be easier. Suppose we fell upon any given point, the sentries near it would be at once killed, or made prisoners; and even allowing -- as young Barclay says -- that there are troops in all the villages, it would be a good half hour before a force, sufficient to disturb us, could arrive."

"That is true enough," Major Tempe answered. "But what could we do, in half an hour? We might pull up two hundred yards of rail. What real advantage would be gained by that? The line of sentries along the rail would, by firing their rifles, pass the news ten miles, in half as many minutes; and the trains would be stopped long before they arrived at the break. Each train carries, I know, workmen and materials for repairing the line; and as it would be impossible for us to carry away the rails, after pulling them up, they would be replaced in as short a time as it took us to tear them up; and the consequence would be that the traffic would only be suspended for an hour or two, at most. For a break to be of any real utility, whatever, it must last for days, if not for weeks.

"The great coup, of course, would be the destruction of the rock tunnel of Saverne, which was the special object of our presence here. Failing that, we must try a bridge. The tunnel, however, is the great affair. Once destroyed, there would be no repairing it, for many weeks. My proposition is, therefore, that we turn our attention at once to that point."

There was a general murmur of assent.

"The best course would be for Hardin's company to march direct to the other end of the tunnel, seize it, and prevent interference from that end; while the others then seize the Saverne end, and hold it while preparations are made for blowing it up. Then, when the match is lighted, fall back -- if possible -- before the arrival of heavy bodies of the enemy."

"Nothing could be better," Lieutenant de Maupas exclaimed, and the other officers agreed with him.

"What day do you propose for the movement?"

"The day after tomorrow, at daybreak," Major Tempe said. "That will give us plenty of time to send orders to the other two companies; and the sooner it is done, the better."

The conference was about to break up, when the surgeon -- who had listened in silence -- said:

"The general plan is simple enough but, tell me, how do you propose to set about blowing the tunnel up? You may be able to hold it for half an hour, at most. How do you think of proceeding?"

Major Tempe and his officers looked at each other. They had not, as yet, thought the matter over; but the instant it was put plainly before them, they saw the difficulty.

"Oh," Lieutenant de Maupas said, confidently, "we shall, of course, put the nitroglycerine somewhere in the middle of the tunnel, and blow the whole affair up."

Lieutenant de Maupas had been a sailor; and his quickness of decision and go-ahead, straight-forward way of doing everything made him, at once, a favorite and an amusement to the men; who had nicknamed him "Grande Vitesse," or, as we should say in English, the "Express."

"I am afraid the matter is rather more difficult than you imagine, De Maupas," Major Tempe said, with a smile. "This is in Ribouville's way; as he was in the Engineers, he will know all about it."

The officer named, however, did not reply for some little time; but sat with his head on his hand, in deep thought.

"I feel ashamed to own it," he said, at last; "but I really do not know how one could set about the matter so as to have a chance of really destroying the tunnel, after so short a time for preparation. Were the tunnel an ordinary, brick-lined tunnel, the proposition of De Maupas -- slightly modified -- would no doubt have the effect of bringing down the brick lining, and the earth behind would fall in, of itself; but with a tunnel cut in the solid rock, it would be difficult. The natural strength of the tunnel would be so great that the force of the explosion would simply be lost, through the ends. It might or might not bring down a few masses of rock, but one could not rely upon it doing even that.

"If I had time, the matter would be easy enough. I should make a deep chamber in the solid rock, at the side of the tunnel; insert my charge, and then tamp or fasten it in, with masonry. This would ensure its destruction, at the point of explosion; but I have no hope of any great damage being done, by merely putting two barrels of nitroglycerine down upon the line, and then firing them. I can assure you the point mooted by the doctor is more serious and, as far as I see at present, I could do nothing in half an hour which would, in any way, ensure the destruction of the tunnel. To make such a chamber as I speak of to hold two barrels of nitroglycerine would be the work of four or five days, working night and day -- even with the aid of powder -- and of course, it would be out of the question to hope for as many hours."

There was a pause of consternation, as Lieutenant Ribouville spoke. Here was the end of the grand scheme, from which they had expected so much. At this time, the Germans had no other line of rail at their command; and the destruction of the tunnel would have been a disaster, equal to that of the loss of a pitched battle.

"There would be no chance, would there, of our hiding in the woods under which the tunnel runs; so as to bore down to it, and blow it in from above?" Major Tempe asked.

"None whatever. The depth to be bored would be considerable. The stone is hard, and it could not be pierced without the use of powder, which would betray our presence; and even could we use it, and were the men all good miners, it would be a work of months, at the very least."

There was a silence for some minutes, and then the commandant said:

"We cannot give it up, without a trial. Think it over, Ribouville, for the next three or four days. You may be able to pitch upon some plan. If you cannot do so, we must at least try the experiment of exploding our nitroglycerine in the middle of the tunnel -- or, at any rate, as far in as we can carry it -- and make our retreat in the half hour, which is all the time we can calculate upon holding the entrance."



Chapter 7: A Baffled Project.


Before leaving the headquarters of the commandant, the young Barclays asked if he wished that they should continue to keep silence upon the subject of their expedition. The commandant replied that he did not see that it could do any harm, provided that they impressed upon their comrades the necessity of maintaining an absolute silence upon the subject, when any of the people of the neighborhood were present. Although the villagers might appear to understand no language but German, they might yet know enough French to glean what was said and, if traitorously inclined, to warn the Germans, and thus enormously increase the danger when the Barclays should again go down to the town.

Their cousins had already heard of their return; for the boys, upon sitting down to dinner at the commandant's, had requested leave to send a line to their cousins, who would be anxiously expecting them.

"Hallo! You Barclay, where have you been to, all day?" was the general exclamation, as they entered.

"On duty," Ralph said.

"On duty -- yes, but what duty? The Duburgs have been mysterious, and would say nothing. The sergeant here knew nothing about it, except that our lieutenant told him that you had leave; and Irish Tim has been hanging about all day, as restless as a cow that has lost its calf."

"We have been down to Saverne," Ralph said.

There was a general exclamation of astonishment. Those of the men who had already lain down upon their straw for the night sat up again, and all crowded round to hear Ralph's story, which he at once told at length; and which, when finished, gave rise here -- as it had done at the officers' table -- to an animated discussion. Several of the men shook hands warmly with the Barclays, congratulating them on their offer to undertake this dangerous service, and upon the valuable -- though unfavorable -- information which they had obtained.

From this time forward, the men ceased to attempt to pass jokes at the expense of any of the boys. When the corps was first raised, many of the young men had been inclined to protest against boys being accepted, when the list could have been readily filled with men but, by this time, the boys had proved that they were quite as capable of supporting fatigue as were the men. They had behaved equally well in action; and now the enterprise of the Barclays testified to the fact that, in a dangerous expedition requiring coolness, presence of mind, and nerve, they were equally to be relied upon. Henceforward there was no distinction, or difference, between the various members of the corps.

Another four days passed and -- as the ex-officer of Engineers could suggest no certain plan, for the destruction of the tunnel, which could be carried out in the time which a surprise of the sentries at its mouth would give them -- Major Tempe resolved upon delaying no longer; but on sending four men into the tunnel, under Lieutenant Ribouville, with instructions to go as far as they could in a quarter of an hour, to set down the barrels against the rock, to light a fuse cut to burn a quarter of an hour, and then to return at full speed to the mouth of the tunnel.

One company was to seize the other end, to tear up seven, eight, or ten rails, and to retire at once into the woods; as the delay in getting the rails into their places again would prevent any train entering, from that end, in time for its occupants to see and extinguish the burning fuse.

The other company -- which was absent -- was to join the headquarters, the evening before the attempt; and it was hoped that the three companies would be able to keep the enemy at bay for half an hour, so as to give time to the party with the nitroglycerine to take it to the required position, and rejoin their comrades. Immediately upon their doing so the retreat was to commence; as the enemy could not possibly penetrate the tunnel, and extinguish the fuse, before the explosion took place.

The attempt was not to be made till the following evening; in order that the Barclays might go down, and see that all was as before at Saverne, and along the line. The next day, accordingly, the boys again put on their disguises and started; as before, taking the precaution to change in the wood, so as not to be seen by any of the villagers. Upon reaching the spot from which a view of the tunnel was obtainable, they stopped, with a simultaneous exclamation of dismay. Not only were two sentries stationed near the entrance; but some fifteen or twenty German soldiers were sitting or standing by a small building, at a short distance, which had evidently been turned into a guard house.

"This looks very much against us, Ralph. One would think that they had got information of our being near."

"It looks bad, indeed, Percy. Let us go on into the town. We shall, perhaps, learn something about it, there."

A sharp walk soon brought them to Saverne. A sentry was on duty at the entrance to the town, and several of his comrades stood near. The sentry looked as if about to stop them; but seeing, when they came up, that they were only boys, he let them pass without question.

"Worse and worse, Percy. Something is up, sure enough."

This became more evident at every step they took, for the little town was absolutely crowded with German soldiers.

"Unless they are merely halting here, upon their march through, it is all up with our plan, Percy. There must be over two thousand men here, at the very least."

Upon questioning a lad of the town, of about their own age, they found that the fresh troops had arrived upon the preceding day; the infantry -- two thousand strong -- coming in by train, late in the evening before; and three hundred cavalry marched in, only half an hour before the boys' arrival. They were all quartered upon the inhabitants, and there appeared to be no sign of their early departure.

For some time the boys walked about, without obtaining any information; although they entered a dozen cabarets, and drank considerable quantities of beer. At last, before one of the principal cafes, they saw ten or twelve German officers sitting, talking. None of the inhabitants were sitting at the cafe; and the boys dared not go in to ask for anything, there, as it would not have been in accordance with their appearance.

"How are we to get within hearing, Percy?"

"Look here, Ralph; I will limp along, as if I had something in my shoe which hurts me. Then I will sit down on a doorstep, close to them, and take off my boot. You can sit down, too, and take some of the bread and cheese which we put in our pockets, because we could not eat it at the last place we went in. I will keep my boot off, to ease my foot; and we can eat our bread and cheese, as slowly as we like."

"That will do capitally, Percy."

In another couple of minutes the two lads were sitting, as agreed, upon the step of a door close to the cafe. They could not hear all that was said; but could catch the sense, as the German officers -- as is their custom -- spoke in a very loud voice. They belonged to the infantry; and were, it appeared, in ignorance of the reason of their sudden move to Saverne.

Presently a captain of the cavalry came along the street.

"Ah, Von Rausen," a major in the infantry exclaimed, "are you here? I have not seen you since the day you marched from Coblentz."

"No, indeed, major," the other said, saluting -- as a Prussian officer always does, to his superior in rank -- the other infantry officers all rising, and saluting in turn. "We have just come in from Hagenau."

"Are you in a hurry?" asked the major. "If not, sit down and let us talk."

The cavalry officer accepted the invitation and, for a few minutes, their talk ran upon mutual friends. Then the major said:

"By the way, do you know what we are here for? We were bustled off at a moment's notice; no one knows why, except of course the colonel, and he has not thought necessary to tell us and, naturally, we have not asked him."

"Do you not know?" Captain Von Rausen said. "It is no secret -- at least, no secret from us, but a secret from the people here. I will speak in French; no doubt there are plenty of spies about."

"There is no one in hearing," the major said, "except those two stupid-looking lads, munching bread and cheese."

"The more likely to be spies," Von Rausen said. "Fellows who look like fools are just the people chosen."

"Well, speak in English then, Von Rausen," the major said; "we both understand it, and we should be safe, then, if all Saverne were listening."

"Yes, that will be safe.

"Well, then, the general received information, yesterday, that that corps of franc tireurs who cut up our cavalry near Blamont, the other day, are hid up in some village in the woods, four or five miles from here; no doubt with the intention of making an attempt to blow up the tunnel. The idea is a daring one and, if the plan had succeeded, it would have done us incalculable harm. As it is, we are safe; and tomorrow night we shall, I believe, make an expedition, and sweep the woods clear of these troublesome gentry.

"These franc tireurs will be mischievous if we do not give them a sharp lesson. The general's proclamation gave notice that every one of them taken would be shot, and our colonel is just the man to carry out the order."

"This is indeed important," the major said. "But how did we get the information? Is it certain?"

"Quite certain. A scoundrel of a schoolmaster at Grunsdorf -- a village somewhere up in the woods -- turned traitor; and sent a letter to the general, bargaining that he should be taken on as a spy, at some fabulous salary, and offering to begin by leading the troops to the village where these franc tireurs are hidden."

"An infamous scoundrel!" the major said warmly. "Of course, one cannot refuse to deal with traitors, when the information is of importance; but one longs to put a pistol bullet into them. Badly as the French have come out in many particulars, since the war began, there is not one which gives me such a mean idea of them as the number of offers which have been sent in to supply information, and betray their countrymen."

"Put on your boots, Percy," Ralph said, in a low voice. "It is time for us to be off. Don't hurry; and above all, if they should take it into their heads to address us suddenly in French, or English, don't start or seem to notice."

The major was, however, so absorbed in the information he had received -- and so confident that the English, in which it had been told, would be unintelligible to anyone who might overhear it -- that he paid no attention to the boys who -- one of them limping badly -- went slowly down the street; stopping, occasionally, to look in at the shop windows. It was not until they were fairly outside the town, and out of sight of the German sentries, that they either spoke or quickened their pace.

"The franc tireurs of Dijon may thank their lucky stars that they sent down spies to Saverne today, Percy; and especially that we, of all the members of the corps, were selected. If we had not been where we were, just at that moment, and if we had not understood English, it would have been all up with the corps, and no mistake."

"What an infamous scoundrel, as the major said, that schoolmaster must be, Ralph! What do you think the commandant will do?"

"He has nothing to do but to retreat, as quickly as we can go, Percy; but if it costs him half the corps, I hope he will hang that schoolmaster, before he goes."

"I hope so, too," Percy said; and scarcely another word was spoken, until they reached the village.

It was still early, scarcely two o'clock, and Major Tempe was drilling the whole corps -- the two detached companies having arrived that morning -- when the boys, having again put on uniform, approached him.

Major Tempe nodded to them, as they came up.

"You are back early," he said. "You are excused from drill. I will see you at my quarters, when it is over."

"If you please, major," Ralph said, respectfully, "you had better dismiss the men, at once. We have news of the highest importance to tell you."

The major looked surprised but, seeing by the boys' faces that the news was very serious, he at once dismissed the men; telling them to keep near, as they might be wanted. Then, calling his officers, he proceeded at once with the Barclays towards his quarters.

"Excuse me, major," Ralph said, "but instead of going to your quarters, would you move to some open space, where we can speak without a possibility of being overheard by anyone?"

Still more surprised, Major Tempe led the way to some felled trees at the edge of the forest, a short distance from the village. Here he sat down, and motioned to the others to do the same. Ralph then told his story, interrupted many times by exclamations of rage, upon the part of his auditors; and giving full credit to Percy for his idea of the plan by which, unnoticed, they had managed to get within hearing of the German officers. The fury of the French officers knew no bounds. They gesticulated, they stamped up and down, they swore terribly, they were ready to cry from sheer rage.

Major Tempe, alone, uttered no remark during the whole narration. When it was concluded, he sat silent for a minute or two; with his lips pressed together, and a look of deep indignation on his face. Then he rose, and said in a solemn tone:

"As sure as the sun shines, and as sure as my name is Edward Tempe, so sure shall that schoolmaster, of Grunsdorf, be hung before tomorrow morning!

"Lieutenant Ribouville, order the assembly to be sounded, and form the men here in hollow square.

"Messieurs Barclay, you will fall in with your company."

A little surprised -- and hurt that the commandant had said no word of commendation to them, for the service they had performed -- the boys hurried off to their quarters, to get their rifles.

"Sure, Master Ralph, and what is the matter, at all?" Tim Doyle said, as they entered. "Sure the major, honest man, must have gone off his head, entirely! Scarcely had we finished our male, and began to smoke the first pipe in aise and comfort, when the bugle blows for parade.

"'Confound the bugle!' says I, and I shoved me pipe aside, and put on my belt and fell in.

"Hardly had we begun the maneuvers when your honors arrived and said a word, private, to the major. The words weren't out of your mouth before he dismisses us from drill.

"'Botheration!' says I, 'is there no pace for the wicked?'

"Back I comes again, and takes off me belt and piles me firelock; and before I had got three draws at me pipe, and was just beginning to enjoy the creetur when, crack! and there goes the assimbly again. Sure and the major, honest man, has lost his head entirely; and it's a pity, for he is an illegant man, and a good officer, says I."

"Come along, Tim," Ralph said, laughing, "else you'll be late for parade. You will hear all about it in time, I have no doubt."

In five minutes the men were all assembled in a hollow square, two deep, facing the officers in the center The men saw at once, by the faces of Major Tempe and the officers, that something very serious had happened; and they had no sooner taken their places than there was a deep hush of expectancy, for it was evident that the commandant was about to address them.

"My men," he said, after a pause of a minute or two, "a great calamity has happened; and a still greater one would have happened, had we not providentially received warning in time. It had been resolved -- as you would have heard this evening, had all gone well -- that tonight we should attack the German sentries, and blow up the rock tunnel of Saverne. The affair would have been hot, but it would have been a vital service to France; and the franc tireurs of Dijon would have merited, and obtained, the thanks of all France. It was for the purpose of the attack that the two companies detached from us were recalled.

"All promised well for success. Two of your number had been down into Saverne, in disguise, and had brought us full information respecting the force and disposition of the enemy. All was prepared, the chance of success favorable, and the force the enemy could have brought against us was no larger than our own. We should have saved France, and immortalized ourselves.

"At the present moment there are two thousand five hundred men in Saverne. Tomorrow night this village is to be attacked, and every franc tireur found here put to the sword."

A cry of surprise and rage broke from the men.

"And how, think you, has the change been wrought? By treachery!"

Those cries of rage were renewed.

"By treachery! A Frenchman has been found, base and vile enough to sell us to Prussia. All hope of success is over, and we have only to retreat."

"Who is he? Who is he?" burst from the infuriated men. "Death to the traitor! Death to the traitor!"

"Yes, men, death to the traitor!" the major said, solemnly. "It is the schoolmaster of Grunsdorf who has sold you to the Prussians; who wrote that letter to their general, telling him of your intentions, which has caused these great reinforcements to be sent; and who has offered to guide a force to surround us, tomorrow night."

Another low cry of horror and indignation broke from the men.

"Is it your opinion that this man has deserved death?"

"Yes," was the unanimous answer.

"Then he dies," Major Tempe said, solemnly. "You were to have been his victims; you are his judges.

"Grunsdorf is three miles from here, in the woods, not far from Saverne. A party will be told off, presently, who will be charged with the execution of this sentence.

"I have now another duty. The corps has been saved from destruction. You -- all of us -- have been preserved from death by the intelligence and courage of two of your number.

"Ralph and Percy Barclay, stand forward!"

The two boys stepped two paces forward into the hollow square.

"Selected by me," continued Major Tempe, "for the duty, from their perfect acquaintance with German; they, upon their first visit to Saverne, obtained all the information required. Upon their second visit, this morning -- finding the enemy had been immensely reinforced -- they perceived the extreme importance of discovering the reason for the arrival of the reinforcements, and their intention. With a coolness and tact which does them the greatest credit, they contrived to arrive, and to remain within hearing of, a number of officers; and then learned the whole particulars of the treachery of this man, and of the intention of our enemies. So important was the secret judged that the Germans were afraid of telling it in German, or in French, lest they might be overheard. To prevent the possibility of this, they conversed in English; and the consequence is that we are saved, almost by a miracle.

"Ralph and Percy Barclay, your names will be inserted in the order of the day, being the first of the corps to whom that honor has been given; and I hereby offer you, in the name of myself, my officers, and the whole corps, my hearty thanks for your courage, coolness, and devotion.

"The parade is dismissed. The men will assemble at five o'clock, in full marching order, with all necessaries and accouterments."

As Major Tempe ceased speaking, the men broke up from the order in which they had been standing, and crowded round the young Barclays; shaking them by the hand, patting them on the shoulder, and congratulating them heartily upon the service that they had rendered, and upon the terms in which their commandant had thus publicly acknowledged it.

At five o'clock the corps assembled again in heavy marching order and, after inspection, the second, third, and fourth companies marched off; with their officers, who alone knew their destination, at their head. Major Tempe remained on the ground, with the first company. After waiting for a few minutes, they were marched off in the direction which the others had taken but -- after getting out of sight of the village, and fairly entering the forest -- they turned sharp off, and took the direction of Saverne.



Chapter 8: The Traitor.


After the company had marched for half an hour, a halt was called, and their commandant said:

"I daresay you have all guessed the object which we have in view. We are going to carry out the sentence pronounced by the whole corps. We are going to have that schoolmaster -- that traitor -- who has sold our lives to the Prussians; and who -- which is of infinitely greater importance -- has done immense injury to France, by betraying our intention of blowing up the tunnel. That traitor I intend to have, tonight; and if I have him, I will hang him, as sure as fate.

"This lane which we are following leads to Grunsdorf; which, according to the information I collected before leaving, cannot be above a mile distant. Now, we must be cautious. It is quite possible that a detachment of the enemy may have been sent up to the village, and in that case we might catch a Tartar. Even if there are no Germans there, we must be cautious, or the bird will escape. We neither know him, nor the house he lives in and -- as he would naturally guess that his treachery had been discovered, and that we had come for him -- he would slip out into the forest, the instant he saw the first bayonet approaching. It is essential, therefore, that we should obtain accurate information of the state of affairs, and of the position of this traitor's house.

"In another half hour it will be dusk. The Barclays have again volunteered to go in, and find out what we require. They will go on at once; and in an hour we will follow, and remain concealed, just outside the village, until they return.

"Sergeant, you will go forward with them, and agree upon the place where we shall remain hid, until they join us.

"Now, my lads, you have already received your instructions. Change your things, and go forward at once."

The distance was farther than they had expected, and it was nearly dark before the boys entered Grunsdorf. There was no one moving in the quiet village, for a fine rain was falling as the boys walked slowly along.

"There is no one to ask, Percy. We must go into the public house, as arranged, and ask where the priest's house is. It would not do for two strangers to ask for the schoolmaster. The priest will tell us where he lives."

So saying, they entered the little cabaret, walked down a long passage leading from the door, and paused for a moment at the threshold -- for in the room were some eight or ten Prussian soldiers.

"It is too late to retreat, Percy. Come in boldly."

Lifting their caps, they walked up to an unoccupied table; and called for some bread, cheese, and beer. The landlord brought the refreshments, and the boys had scarcely begun to eat when a Prussian sergeant -- who had exchanged a word with the landlord, evidently in reference to them -- strode up to them and, laying his hand upon Ralph's shoulder, said:

"Who are you, young fellows? The landlord says you do not belong to the village."

"We belong to a party of woodcutters, from Colmar," Ralph said, quietly.

Illustration: Among the German Soldiers.

"Oh, indeed!" the sergeant said, in an incredulous voice, "and where are your party?"

"Out in the forest, at the place where we have begun to fell trees," Ralph said.

"But people do not come to cut wood without horses, or carts to take it away," the sergeant persisted.

"They are up in the forest with our father," Ralph said.

"Have you heard anything about this party?" the sergeant asked the landlord.

The man hesitated a moment. He evidently suspected, also, that the boys might belong to the franc tireurs; and was anxious to say nothing which could harm them.

"No," he said, after a pause, "I can't say that I have heard of them; but I know some of the forest was sold, not long ago, and they might have come from Colmar without coming this way."

"We only arrived this morning," Percy said, quietly, "so that you could hardly have heard of us, unless some of the people of your place happened to pass, when we were at work; and we have not seen anyone, all day."

"At any rate," the sergeant said, "I shall see if your story be true, and you will at once take us to the place.

"Corporal, get ten men in readiness."

"Certainly," Ralph said, "if you will allow us to finish our supper, we will show you the way, at once."

The sergeant nodded, and resumed his seat.

"Look here, Percy," Ralph said, quietly, "we are in a nasty fix, this time. There is only one thing to be done, that I can see. If we both go they will shoot us, to a certainty; for although one might make a bolt in the wood, it is certain we could not both get away.

"Only one thing is to be done. I will say your foot is bad, and ask for you to stay here. Directly we have gone, you slip out and go -- as hard as you can -- to the place where our men are hid. I will bring them in that direction. We shall have passed the place before you can reach it -- at least, unless you can get out, at once -- and pass on in the darkness. Take off your shoes, so as to run lightly. As we pass, fire a volley right into us; and I will make a dart into the wood, in the confusion."

"But you might be shot by our men, Ralph. They could not possibly distinguish you, in the dark. No, I will go with the men, and you make your way to Tempe."

"No, no, Percy, I won't have that."

"Very well," Percy said, doggedly, "then we will go together."

There was a silence for a minute or two, and then Ralph said:

"Look here, Percy, this is madness; however, as you won't do as I tell you, we will draw lots. I will put a piece of crumb in one of my hands. You shall guess which it is in. If you guess right, I will go with the Germans. If you guess wrong, you shall go."

"Very well," Percy said; "I agree to that."

Ralph then broke off a small piece of bread, and put it in one of his hands -- having already, before he made the proposition, broken off a similar piece, unobserved by Percy. He then put both hands under the table, and then lifted them again; all the time trying to appear not to be engaged upon anything out of the way, as he knew that some of the Germans were watching them.

"Left," Percy said.

Ralph replied by opening the left hand, and dropping the piece of bread on the table; at the same time putting his right hand back into his pocket, as if to get out his handkerchief -- and dropping, as he did so, the piece of bread it contained into the place.

"There, Percy, fortune has decided it.

"Goodbye; God bless you. I daresay I shall get out of it but, if not, give my love to them all, at home."

Then he finished his beer and rose, without giving Percy time to reply, even could he have done so; but the lad was so much choked, with the effort to keep from crying, that he could not have spoken. Ralph turned to the sergeant and -- stretching his arms, with the natural air of a tired boy, objecting to be disturbed -- said:

"Now, sir, I am ready to start. I suppose there is no occasion for us both to go, for my brother has hurt his foot. We shouldn't have come in, tonight; but it is his first time out with the woodmen, and he is not accustomed to sleeping out, in the wet."

"Yes, one is enough. He can stay," the sergeant said.

"You had better ask the landlord to show you a corner, where you can sleep on the straw, Karl," Ralph said. "It is no use waiting for me. I shall be back in an hour."

With a nod to Percy, Ralph now walked steadily to the door. The sergeant, with the men told off for the duty, accompanied him. When they reached the street, it was raining heavily.

"I wonder," Ralph said, "whether the landlord would lend me a sack, to put on my shoulders."

"Is this place far off, youngster?" the sergeant asked, peering out into the darkness.

Ralph's heart gave a jump; for he detected, in the tone, a certain hesitation as to taking the men out in such a night, upon such slight suspicion. He was, however, too shrewd to show any desire to dissuade the sergeant from it, so he replied:

"No, it is no distance to speak of; not a mile, at most. We should be there and back in half an hour, if it was light; but there is only a path among the woods and it is dark.

"I think we had better have some lanterns, for I do not think I could find my way without them, tonight; at any rate, it would take us much longer."

"There, boy, that will do," the sergeant said, laying his hand on his shoulder. "I am satisfied, now, with the truth of your story. I thought, for a bit, you had something to do with the franc tireurs who are about here, but I see I was mistaken.

"Turn in again, lads. It is no use taking you out on a useless search, such a night as this, among these forests."

Ralph laughed aloud, as they turned to go down the passage again to the corner.

"Won't father laugh," he said, "when he hears that you thought I was a franc tireur. We haven't seen any, about Colmar. I don't think you need be afraid of them, if they ain't bigger or older than I am."

By this time they had entered the room again, and Ralph saw that Percy was already talking to the landlord -- with whom, indeed, he was on the point of leaving the room. He turned round, upon hearing the party come in again, and gave a slight start of pleasure.

"I am soon back, Karl, and am glad that it is so for, frankly, I too am tired; and it is not a night for a dog to be out. I will go in with you."

"Stay, landlord," the sergeant said. "Give the boys another glass, each, before they go off."

"Thank you," Ralph said. "A glass of good beer never comes amiss."

The boys stopped, while the landlord filled their glasses.

"Now," said the sergeant, raising his arm. "Here's a health, to King William."

"Here's a health, to King William," Ralph repeated. "I am sure I wish him no harm.

"And now, with your permission, I will be off."

The landlord led them to an outhouse, in which were some trusses of straw. Just as he was about to leave them, Ralph said, suddenly:

"Ah! I had nearly forgotten about the priest. You have a priest here, have you not?"

"Of course," the landlord said. "Do you take us for heathens?"

"Not at all," Ralph said, apologetically; "but father told me to call, and pay him for some masses. My eldest sister was very ill, when we came away, and father worries about her.

"Where does the priest live?"

"The last house on the left, as you go out from the farther end of the village. But anyone will show you it, in the morning.

"You don't want the light any longer?"

For the boys had, while speaking, been taking off their boots, and making a show of preparing to lie down on the straw.

"No, thank you. Good night.

"Oh, I forgot -- what do you charge, a cask, for your best beer? Father wanted to know and, if the price suits, will send down a cart to fetch it."

The landlord named the price, and then said good night, and left them.

When he returned to the room where he had left the German soldiers, the sergeant asked him a question or two concerning the boys; and the landlord repeated the substance of the conversation which he had just had. This allayed the last suspicions which had remained in the sergeant's mind; and he congratulated himself, greatly, that he had not taken his men out, in such a night, upon a mere groundless suspicion.

"If the landlord repeats that yarn to the Germans, it will allay all suspicion," Ralph said, when they were left alone. "Otherwise the sergeant might have taken it into his head to come to have a look at us and, although it would not very much matter that he should discover that the birds had flown, still it would have put him on his guard, and he might have doubled the sentries, and made it much more difficult for us.

"We have had a very narrow squeak for it this time, Percy, old boy."

"Very, Ralph! I would rather go through twenty battles, again, than feel as I felt when I saw you start, and thought that I should never see you again, alive."

"Well, we have no time to lose now, Percy. Have you got your boots on again? If so, let us start at once. The major and men must be very anxious, long before this. It must be full an hour since we came."

"It has been the longest hour I ever passed, Ralph. There now, I am ready, if you are."

"We must go out very quietly, Percy. I have no doubt that they have got sentries posted all about. They know that we are in the neighborhood I wish I knew how many there are of them."

"I found out, from the landlord, that all the fifteen men we saw here were billeted upon him," Percy said. "He told me at first, when I asked him, that he could do nothing for me in the way of a bed, because there were three or four in every room. I said that a stable and a little straw would do for us, very well, and then he thought of this outhouse.

"At the same rate, there must be at least a hundred men in the village."

They now opened the door of the outhouse, went quietly out, and made their way through a garden at the back of the house towards the wood.

"Stand still a few minutes, Percy," Ralph said, in a whisper, "and let us see if we can find out where the sentries are placed. I expect that they form a cordon round the village.

"Lie down by this wall. We can see them, there, and they cannot see us."

It was well that they did so for, in another minute, they heard a tread quite close to them; and a Prussian soldier passed, within a yard of where they were lying. They could dimly see that his hood was over his head, and hear that he was humming to himself a scrap of some German air. They lay there until he had again passed the spot; and then -- having found out the direction of his beat -- they crawled noiselessly away and, in five minutes, had reached the edge of the forest.

They did not enter it, as it would have been impossible -- in the dense darkness -- to have made their way without running against trees, and snapping off boughs, which would have given the alarm. They therefore skirted the edge -- knowing that, with the trees behind them, they would be invisible at the distance of a yard or two -- and in ten minutes reached the place where their company was awaiting them. As they approached the spot, they gave a short, low whistle; which was the agreed sign, among the band, for knowing each other on night expeditions. It was answered at once and, in another minute, they were among their friends.

"What has happened?" Major Tempe asked. "We were getting very anxious about you. I sent Favarts to reconnoiter, ten minutes ago; and he has just returned, saying that he can hear someone pacing backwards and forwards on the road, and that he believes it to be a sentry."

"He was quite right," Ralph said; "the village is full of Germans. There must -- as far as we can see -- be seventy or eighty of them, at the very lowest; and there are probably a hundred. We have been prisoners, or something very like it, and have had a monstrously close shave of it.

"But I will tell you all that, when we have time. Do you still think of carrying out your plans?"

"Certainly," Major Tempe said, "that schoolmaster I am determined to have, even if we fight our way in, and shoot him in bed. Have you found out where he lives?"

"No, sir, but we have found out where the priest lives. It is this end house: the end of the village, on the left-hand side as you come out."

"Are the sentries very close together?"

"They are pretty close, but not too close to prevent our crawling between them, unobserved, on such a night as this."

Major Tempe hesitated for a while.

"It would be too hazardous," he said. "We know nothing of the ground over which we should have to crawl, and it would be hardly possible for thirty men -- with our accouterments, and firearms -- to crawl along without snapping sticks, or striking rifles against a stone and giving the alarm.

"No, the sentry at the entrance of the village must be silenced."

So saying, the commandant turned to the men who were standing round, and explained briefly the purport of the whispered conversation which he had had with Ralph. He then chose two active young men, and told them to take off their cloaks, belts, and accouterments of all kinds; and to leave them, with their rifles, with the men who were to remain at the spot at which they then were -- to cover their retreat, if necessary. They were to take nothing with them but their sword bayonets -- which were not to be used, except in case of necessity -- and a coil of light rope. Definite instructions were given them as to the manner in which their attack was to be made.

They then took off their boots, and set off noiselessly upon their enterprise. They went on rapidly, until they were within plain hearing of the footsteps of the sentinel; and then very cautiously and, crouching almost to the ground, so as not to bring their bodies on a level with his eye, they crept up foot by foot to the end of his beat. Here they waited a short time, while he passed and repassed them, unthinking of the deadly foe who, had they stretched out their hands, could have touched his cloak as he went past them.

At last, the second time he passed them on his way towards the village, they rose together behind him. In an instant one had garroted him -- with a choking grip, that almost strangled him, and prevented him uttering the slightest sound -- while the other grasped his rifle by the lock, so as to prevent the possibility of its being fired. In another instant, the rifle was torn from the grasp of the almost stupefied man; cords were passed tightly round his arms and legs; a handkerchief was thrust into his mouth, and fastened there by a cord going across the mouth and tied behind the head and, before the bewildered man fairly knew what had happened, he was lying bound and gagged by the roadside.

One of the franc tireurs now ran back, to tell the commandant that the men could advance; while the other -- selected specially because he understood a little German -- put on the spiked helmet of the captured sentry, and began to walk up and down, in readiness to repeat the cry of "All well," should it be passed round.

The whole company were now moved up. Ten men were left at the point where the sentry was posted, to cover a retreat; or to assist the sentry, in case of any party coming out to relieve guard, and so discovering the change which had taken place. The others, led by the commandant, proceeded forward until opposite the priest's house, in which lights were still burning; for it was not, as yet, ten o'clock.

Major Tempe, accompanied only by two men -- and by Ralph Barclay, to interpret, if necessary -- now went cautiously up to the house. The light was in a room on the ground floor. To this Major Tempe advanced and, looking in, saw the priest sitting reading, alone. He tapped very gently at the window; and the priest, looking up, gave a start upon seeing an armed man looking in at the window.

Major Tempe put his finger to his lips, to enforce the necessity for silence, and made signs to him to open the window. After a moment's hesitation the priest rose from his seat, came to the window, and unfastened it; taking great precautions against noise.

"Are you French?" he asked, in a whisper.

"Yes; a commandant of franc tireurs."

"Hush, then, for your life," the priest said, earnestly. "The village is full of Prussians. The officer, with a soldier as his servant, is upstairs. He arrived in a state of fever; and is, tonight, quite ill. The soldier is up with him. I believe the sergeant, who is at the inn, is in command for to-night. A soldier was dispatched, this evening, to ask for another officer to be sent out.

"What can I do for you?"

"I only want you to tell me in which house the schoolmaster lives. He is a traitor, and has betrayed us to the Prussians. It is owing to him that they are here."

"He has a bad name, in the village," the priest said; "and we had applied to have him removed. He lives in the third house from here, on the same side of the road."

"Has he any Germans quartered upon him?"

"Twenty or thirty men," the priest said. "The schoolroom is full of them."

"Do you know which is his room?" Major Tempe asked. "It would be a great thing, if we could get at him without alarming the enemy. I have thirty men here, but I do not want to have a fight in the village, if I can help it."

"I know his house," the priest said. "The schoolroom is at the side of the house, and his sitting room and kitchen on the ground floor of the house itself. There are three bedrooms over. His room is in front of the house, to the right as you face it."

"Thank you," Major Tempe said. "Have you a ladder?"

"There is one lying on the ground by the wall, to the left. I hope you do not intend to shed blood?"

"No," Major Tempe said, grimly. "I think that I can promise that there will be no blood shed -- that is to say, unless we are attacked by the Prussians.

"Good night, and thank you. I need not say that -- for your own sake -- you will not mention, in the morning, having seen us."

The commandant now rejoined his party, and they advanced to the house indicated. He then chose ten men to accompany him; ordering the rest to remain at a distance of twenty yards, with their rifles cocked, and in readiness for instant action. The ladder was then brought forward by the men selected, and placed against the window.

Major Tempe had, before starting, provided himself -- from the carpenter of the village -- with an auger, a small and fine saw, a bottle of oil, and a thin strip of straight iron. He now mounted the ladder and, after carefully examining the window -- which was of the make which we call, in England, latticed -- he inserted the strip of iron, and tried to force back the fastening. This he failed in doing, being afraid to use much force lest the fastening should give suddenly, with a crash. He had, however, ascertained the exact position of the fastening.

Having, before mounting, carefully oiled the auger and saw, he now applied the former; and made a hole through the framework at the junction of the two sides of the window, just above the fastening. Introducing the saw into this hole, he noiselessly cut entirely round the fastening, with a semi-circular sweep, to the junction of the window below it; and as he did so, the window swung partially open, by its own weight. He now descended the ladder again, took off his boots; and ordered two of the men to do the same, and to put aside all arms, and accouterments, that could strike against anything and make a noise.

Then, taking a coil of strong rope in his hand, and followed by the two men, he again mounted the ladder. The instructions to the men were that one was to enter at once, with him; the other to remain where he was, until he received the signal. The major entered the room noiselessly, and dropped at once on to his hands and knees; and was, a minute after, joined by his follower. He now crawled forward -- groping his way with the greatest caution, so as to make no noise -- until he found the bed. Then, rising to his feet, he threw himself upon the sleeping man and, in a moment, had him tightly by the throat with one hand, while the other was placed firmly on his mouth.

Paralyzed by the suddenness of the attack, and with his arms tightly kept down by the bedclothes, and the weight of his assailant, the schoolmaster was unable to struggle.

"Now, light the light," Major Tempe said, quietly.

His follower at once struck one of the noiseless German matches -- which are used almost exclusively, in these parts of France -- and lighted a lamp which was standing upon the table. He then came up to the bed, and assisted the major to securely gag and bind the prisoner -- whose looks, when he saw into whose hands he had fallen, betokened the wildest terror.

"Search his pockets," Major Tempe said. "We may find something of importance."

In the breast pocket of his coat was a pocket book; and in it among the papers was a letter, from the colonel commanding at Saverne -- which had evidently been brought to him by the officer of the detachment, that morning -- telling him to come down to Saverne, on the following evening, to guide the troops to the village in which the franc tireurs were stationed. The letter also enclosed ten hundred-thaler notes [a thaler is about equal to two shillings].

"They are part of our blood money," the major said, grimly. "Bring them away, they are the fair spoil of war.

"Tell Barre to come in."

The man on the ladder now joined them; and together they quietly lifted the schoolmaster, and carried him to the window. They then fastened a rope round the prisoner's body, lifted him out on to the ladder, and lowered him gradually down to the men below.

They now blew out the light, and descended the ladder. The two men who had waited at its foot raised the prisoner on their shoulders, and carried him off to their comrades; while the commandant and the other two men hastily put on their boots, seized their arms and accouterments and, in two minutes, the whole party were marching quietly down the village. No incident, whatever, marked their retreat. The sentry had been undisturbed, during their absence; and in a few minutes the whole party were out of the village, without the slightest alarm having been raised.

They followed the road by which they had come, for about a mile; and then turned off a side path in the forest, to the left. They followed this for a short distance, only, into the forest; and then, when they arrived at a small, open space, a halt was ordered. The prisoner was dropped unceremoniously to the ground, by the two franc tireurs who carried him on their shoulders, and a fire was speedily lighted.

Major Tempe then ordered the prisoner to be unbound and ungagged and, with a guard upon either side of him, to be placed in front of the company -- drawn up in a semi-circle by the fire. The prisoner was a man of about fifty-five, with a sallow, cunning face. He could scarcely stand and, indeed, would have sunk on his knees, in his abject terror, had not the guards by his side held him by the arms.

"Men," Major Tempe said, "undoubted as the guilt of the prisoner appeared to be, we had got no absolute proof; and a mistake might have been possible, as to the name of the village whose schoolmaster had betrayed us. This letter found in his coat pocket, and this German money -- the price of our blood -- leave no further doubt possible."

And here the major read the Prussian colonel's letter.

"Are you still of opinion that he merits death?"

"Yes, yes," the men exclaimed, unanimously.

"Prisoner," Major Tempe said, "you have heard your sentence. You are a convicted traitor -- convicted of having betrayed your country, convicted of having sold the blood of your countrymen. I give you five minutes to ask that pardon, of God, which you cannot obtain from man."

The miserable wretch gave a cry of terror, and fell on his knees; and would have crawled towards his judge, to beg for mercy, had not his guard restrained him. For the next five minutes, the forest rang with alternate cries, entreaties, threats, and curses -- so horrible that the four boys, and several of the younger men, put their hands to their ears and walked away, so as not to see or hear the terrible punishment. At the end of that time there was a brief struggle, and then a deep silence; and the body of the traitor swung from a branch of one of the trees, with a paper pinned on his breast:

"So perish all traitors."

"Louis Duburg," Major Tempe said, "take this paper, with 'Those who seek a traitor will find him here,' and fasten it to a tree; so that it may be seen at the point where this path turned from the road."

Louis took it, and ran off. In a quarter of an hour, when he returned, he found the company drawn up in readiness to march. He fell in at once, and the troop moved off; leaving behind them the smoldering fire, and the white figure swinging near it.



Chapter 9: A Desperate Fight.


Daylight was just breaking, when Major Tempe marched with his men into Marmontier; at which place the other three companies had arrived, the night previously. It was a large village -- the chief place of its canton -- and the corps were most hospitably received by the inhabitants. Had they arrived the evening before, it would have been impossible to provide them all with beds; and they would have been obliged, like the majority of their comrades, to sleep on straw in the schoolroom. The inhabitants, however, were up and about, very shortly after the arrival of Major Tempe's command; and his men were soon provided for, in the beds which they had left.

Beds were now a luxury, indeed, as the corps had not slept in them since they had been quartered at Baccarat, two nights before their first encounter with the Prussians, near Blamont. It was with great unwillingness, then, that they turned out when the bugle sounded, at two o'clock in the afternoon. They partook of a hearty meal -- provided by the people upon whom they were quartered -- and an hour later the whole corps marched out towards Wasselonne, a small town situated on the Breuche; a little river which, winding round by Molsheim, falls into the Rhine at Strasburg. A branch line of railroad terminates at this place.

When they arrived within three miles of it, they turned off to the right -- for Wasselonne had frequently been visited by the Prussians -- and slept at the little village of Casswiller, at the edge of the forest of OEdenwald. Another day's short, but weary, marching over the mountains brought them to the village of Still; lying high upon the western slope of the Vosges, above Mutzig.

From this point they had a splendid view over the valley of the Rhine. From their feet, at Mutzig, the railway ran through Molsheim straight across the country to Strasburg; the beautiful spire of whose cathedral rose above the flats, at a distance of about fifteen miles. The day happened to be a quiet one, and the deep booming of the guns of the besiegers could be distinctly heard. The inhabitants reported that the German troops patrolled the whole valley, pushing sometimes down to the walls of Schlestadt, levying contributions and carrying off cattle.

The village was very poor, and was able to furnish little accommodation in the way of quarters, still less in that of food. Six of the villagers were, therefore, sent through the forest of OEdenwald to Raon; with an order to fetch over two oxen, and thirty sheep, of those left there in charge of the head man of the village. They returned in three days, Raon being only about fifteen miles east of Still.

The corps was now broken up into its four companies; who were stationed in the villages on the Vosges, and at the edge of the forest of Trieswald and Bar -- the first company remaining at Still. From these villages they commanded a view over the whole plain; and could, with the aid of glasses, distinctly see any bodies of men going south from Strasburg. Each company was to act independently of the other, uniting their forces only when ordered to do so by Major Tempe; who took up his headquarters with the second company, that having the most central position. Each company was to keep a sharp watch over the country, to attack any body of the enemy not superior to themselves in force, and to cut off, if possible, any small parties pillaging in the villages of the valley, near the foot of the mountains.

The first company -- under their lieutenant, De Maupas -- turned their special attention to Mutzig; which was not, they learned, actually occupied by the Germans, but which was frequently visited by parties from Molsheim, where a portion of the army of the besiegers was stationed. The young Barclays, their cousins, and Tim Doyle were quartered together, in one of the largest houses in the village; and from thence a fine view over the plain was attainable.

They were not destined to remain long in inactivity. Upon the fourth day after their arrival, they saw a party of some twenty horsemen approaching Mutzig. In five minutes every man had assembled and, at once, rapidly marched down the hill; taking advantage of its irregularities, so as to follow a track in which they would be invisible from the road. Making a long detour, they gained the road about half a mile beyond Mutzig and, posting themselves among some trees by its side, awaited the return of the Uhlans.

It was upwards of two hours before they returned. They were laughing, and singing; and the boys felt a sensation of repugnance, as they raised their rifles to their shoulders, and awaited the order to fire into their unsuspecting foes. They had not, as yet, become hardened to the horrors of war. As the word was given, the rifles flashed out; and six of the horsemen fell. The rest, putting spurs to their horses, galloped furiously away. Molsheim was so close -- and the enemy might come back again, largely reinforced, in so short a time -- that the order was given to retreat, at once.

Reaching the hill and looking back, an hour later, they saw a dark mass coming from Molsheim; and the glasses soon made them out to be about a hundred cavalry, and as many infantry. It was dark as they entered Mutzig and -- although it was not probable that they would ascend the hill, at night -- sentries were thrown out, far down its sides, to give the alarm; and the men were ordered to hold themselves in readiness for an immediate retreat to the forest. It happened that none of the boys were on duty and, just as they were sitting down to dinner, Tim -- who had been out to fetch some wood -- came running in.

"Heavenly Mother! The brutes are setting fire to Mutzig, your honor."

The boys ran out. Below, a mass of red flame was rising; and it was evident that several houses were in flames. The sight was a grand one, for the light showed the outline of the slopes of the hills and, reflected on the roofs of the houses of the little town, made them look as if red hot. Out upon the plain, round Molsheim, were the scattered lights of innumerable camp fires while, in the distance, flickering flashes -- like the play of summer lightning -- told of the ceaseless rain of fire kept up upon the unhappy town of Strasburg.

"What a shame!" Percy said, indignantly; "as if the inhabitants of Mutzig could help our attacking the Uhlans.

"Look, Ralph, there are six distinct fires."

"I suppose that is one for each man we killed or wounded, Percy. You may be sure they will make them pay, too. Thirty thousand francs, I should think, at least.

"War used to be looked upon as a chivalrous proceeding. There is no romance in German warfare. They call us a nation of shopkeepers; they make war, themselves, in the spirit of a nation of petty hucksterers."

"What do you think of that, lads?" Lieutenant de Maupas said, coming up to where they were standing.

"It is shameful, sir, shameful," Ralph said.

"Yes," the officer said, gloomily. "This is to make war as the Vandals made it, not as it is made in the nineteenth century. In the Crimea, in Italy -- ay, even in China -- we did not make war in this way. In China we burnt the Emperor's summer palace, because his soldiers had murdered our prisoners in cold blood, but we did not burn a single village."

"No," Ralph said; "and I have read that, in Abyssinia, we never as much as took a fowl or a bundle of grass from the natives, without paying for it; and we only burned the fortress of Magdala after offering it, in succession, to the various kings of the country; and destroyed it, at last, to prevent it becoming a stronghold of the Gallas -- the enemies of Abyssinia.

"Don't you think," he asked, after a pause, "we shall have fighting tomorrow, sir?"

"I think it very likely, indeed," the lieutenant said. "I have just sent off a messenger to the commandant, with a full report; and asked him to send over a reply whether he will come to our assistance, or if we are to fall back."

"Faith, and I hope that it's not falling back we'll be, till after we've had the satisfaction of spaking to them a bit," Tim Doyle put in. "Barring the little affair of today -- which isn't worth mentioning -- I haven't had a chance of a scrimmage since I joined the corps. It's been jist marching and counter-marching, over the most onraisonable country; nothing but up hill and down hill and through trees, with big stones breaking our poor feet into pieces, and the rain running down us fit to give us the ague.

"Sure, lieutenant, ye won't be for marching us away, till we've had a little divarshin?"

The boys all laughed at Tim's complaint, which had been delivered in English; for although he could now understand French, he never attempted to speak it, except to ask some necessary question. Percy translated it to the lieutenant.

"You will have fighting enough, before you have done, Tim. Whether you will have it tomorrow, I don't know. There are a hundred infantry -- they can't use their cavalry -- and we are only twenty-six men, all told. Fortunately, we have a strong line of retreat; or I should not even wait for the chance of being attacked."

"At any rate, you think that we are safe until morning, sir?"

"Yes, I think so," the lieutenant said.

"Then we will go in to our dinner," Ralph said. "Who knows where we may dine, tomorrow?"

Day was just beginning to break, when Percy Barclay started up in his bed. He listened for an instant, and heard the crack of a rifle.

"Up, Ralph; up all of you!" he shouted. "We are attacked."

The others were on their feet in an instant. None of them had thought of undressing and, as they seized their arms and equipments, the whistle of Lieutenant de Maupas sounded loud and shrill. As they issued out there was, already, a scene of bustle and confusion in the village. The franc tireurs were rushing from the doors. The villagers were also pouring out, women screaming and men swearing.

"You had better drive off your animals up into the forest, and carry off whatever you can of value, and send the women and children off, at once," De Maupas shouted, to the head man of the village. "We will give you as much time as we can but, if they are in full strength, it will not be long.

"Now, lads, forward! Don't throw away a shot. Take advantage of every possible cover, and fall back as slowly and steadily as you can. The commandant will be here, with the second company, in half an hour. I had a message from him, late last night."

The men advanced at once, at the double, and in an instant had a view of what was going on. The six men out, as sentries, were falling back rapidly towards the village; and two dark bodies of infantry were approaching, abreast of each other, but at a distance of two or three hundred yards apart. They were some five hundred yards beyond the retreating sentries; who were, themselves, a few hundred yards below the village. The enemy had, at present, made no reply whatever to the fire of the sentries.

"Advance slowly, in skirmishing order," De Maupas said. "One flank of the company oppose each column. Open fire at once, sight for seven hundred yards, take advantage of cover, and fire steadily."

A steady fire was at once opened and, although its effects could not be perceived, they were evidently sensible; for the columns immediately threw out half their strength, as skirmishers, and opened fire. In a hundred paces De Maupas halted his men, and told them to lie down behind shelter.

The enemy were now five hundred yards off, and the franc tireurs had been joined by the sentries. The numbers were four to one and, although the position was of considerable advantage to the smaller force -- as well as the fact that they were lying quiet, in shelter, while their adversaries had to fire as they advanced -- the odds were far too great to hope for success. Every moment, however, it was getting lighter; and the franc tireurs could see that their fire was doing considerable execution, whereas only two of their men had received slight wounds. The enemy, however, pushed on steadily; and were now little more than three hundred yards distant.

"Fall back," the lieutenant shouted; "six men, alternately, of each half company. Back fifty paces, at the double!"

At the word, twelve men retreated, at full speed, for fifty yards; the others redoubling the fire from their breechloaders, to cover the retreat. The instant that the first men had gone fifty yards, they turned, threw themselves upon the ground, and opened fire; while those in front ran back at full speed, passed them, and halted, in turn, fifty paces in the rear. The maneuver was repeated three times, and they then gained the end house of the village.

Under shelter of a low wall, another stand was made; but the superior force of the enemy enabled them to threaten to outflank them. Many of the Germans had fallen; but the rest advanced, with as much coolness and precision as if on parade.

"How beautifully these fellows do fight!" Ralph exclaimed, in admiration.

"Now, lads, we must retreat," the lieutenant said. "We have done very well. Now, across the village, and then make for the forest as hard as you can. It's not over five hundred yards. When you are once there, make a stand again."

The men turned and, in another moment, would have carried out the order when -- from a house in a line with them, but about fifty yards off -- a heavy fire of musketry suddenly broke out.

"Hurrah, lads, there's the commandant! Stand to your wall; we'll thrash them, yet."

Staggered by this sudden and heavy fire, the Germans paused; and then fell back, to a spot where a dip in the ground sheltered them from the fire from above. For a short time, there was a cessation of the fight. At this moment, the commandant joined the first company.

"Well done, indeed!" he exclaimed. "Gallantly done, lads! We heard the firing, and feared you would be crushed before we could get up. It is fortunate I started half an hour before daybreak. We have done the last two miles at a run.

"Have you suffered much?"

There was a general look round. Four men had fallen, in the retreat. Another lay dead, shot through the head as he fired over the wall. Four others were wounded; three seriously, while Ralph Barclay had a ball through the fleshy part of his arm.

"Fortunately," Major Tempe said, "half a dozen men from the other village volunteered to come over to help the wounded. I will send them over here, at once. They can take some doors off their hinges, and carry these three men right back into the forest, at once. We have not done yet.

"Get your men into skirmishing line, De Maupas. I will form mine to join you. Occupy the line of gardens, and walls."

Scarcely was the movement effected, when the Germans again appeared on the hillside. They had still a very great superiority in numbers; for the two companies of franc tireurs only numbered, now, forty-five men, while the Germans -- who had lost upwards of twenty men -- were still nearly eighty strong.

Ralph Barclay still kept his place in the ranks. Tim Doyle had bandaged up his arm; for Percy, who had at first attempted it, had nearly fainted at the sight of the blood. The Irishman was in the highest glee; and occasionally indulged in whoops of defiance, and in taunting remarks -- which would not have flattered the enemy, could they have heard and understood them.

The Germans, as they emerged from their shelter, were about four hundred yards distant; and the fire at once recommenced. The franc tireurs were all lying down, and this gave them a great advantage over the Germans and, the disparity of numbers being less, the fight raged with greater obstinacy than before. Very gradually, the enemy won their way -- taking advantage of every rock and inequality of ground -- until they were within two hundred yards of the village. Nearer than this they could not come, for the ground was open and, in the face of the force in shelter, armed with breech loaders, it would have been madness to have attempted a rush.

For some time, the combatants remained in the same position; merely exchanging an occasional shot, when a head or a hat was exposed. At last, Major Tempe became uneasy at the prolonged inaction upon the part of the enemy.

"De Maupas," he said, "run up to the upper story of that house, and try and see what they are doing. Look all round. I don't like this long hesitation. They are greatly superior in force, and know it. I think that they must be going to try some flanking movement."

The lieutenant obeyed and, going up to the upper story of the house pointed out by his commander, peered cautiously out. As far as he could see, nothing was stirring. The Germans appeared to be lying in the little hollow in which they were sheltered. He was about to descend, when he remembered his orders to look around in all directions. He therefore went to a window at the end of the house, and looked carefully out.

As he did so he gave a start; and his heart seemed, for a moment, to stand still. Then, with a bound, he reached the door, sprang downstairs, and rushed out to where Major Tempe was standing, behind a wall.

"The cavalry are upon us," he said. "They are not five hundred yards off. They have made a great detour and are -- "

Major Tempe stopped to hear no more.

"Fall back, men," he shouted. "Keep well together. The cavalry are upon us. Now, at a double to the forest, for your lives.

"Steady, steady!"

The men sprang from the position behind which they had been firing, fell in hurriedly in the street; and then went off, at a fast double, towards the forest. There were a few trees near, but no shelter sufficient to be of any use nearer than five hundred yards. Fortunately they were unimpeded by wounded, every man having been carried back into the forest, immediately he was struck. Still, it was evident that they could not gain the forest in time. They had seen the leading horsemen turn into the end of the village, not more than three hundred yards distant, as they started; and the carbine balls were already whizzing over their heads.

With the rapidity and steadiness which mark the movements of the Prussian cavalry, they formed in line as they issued from the village and, before the fugitives were halfway to the forest, a line of horsemen, fifty abreast, were in full gallop behind. Then followed another, of equal strength, fifty yards behind. The franc tireurs, with their rifles and accouterments, were already slackening their speed.

"We must form square, major. They are not a hundred and fifty yards behind," De Maupas exclaimed. "We can beat them off, easily enough."

Major Tempe shook his head, and shouted cheerily:

"Keep on to the last moment, men, well together. I will tell you when the moment is come. Hold your rifles in readiness."

In ten more seconds, he gave the word. The men were in readiness, and the square was formed as if by magic. The Uhlans were not more than eighty yards off.

"File firing," the major shouted. "Steady! Don't throw away a shot."

Now was the time for breech-loading weapons, and so deadly was the fire that the center of the Prussian line melted away before it; and the men who remained reined aside their horses, as they reached the hedge of bayonets. The flanks kept on, and united again behind the square; drawing up near the edge of the wood, a hundred and fifty yards distant.

The charge of the second line was attended with precisely similar results. The instant that they had passed, however, Major Tempe shouted to his men:

"On again for the woods. Steady! Keep square. Reserve your fire till I tell you. We must break through the cavalry. They only want to keep us. Their infantry will be here in three minutes. They are through the village, already."

The position of the franc tireurs was now critical in the extreme. The enemy's cavalry -- between them and safety, only a hundred yards distant -- had unslung their carbines, and opened fire. The infantry were nearly two hundred yards behind but, fortunately, dared not fire for fear of hitting their own cavalry.

At a rapid pace -- for they were running for life -- the little knot of franc tireurs dashed forward. One or two fell from the fire of the cavalry and, as they were fifty yards distant from the wood, there was a cry and Philippe Duburg fell to the ground. In an instant Tim Doyle -- who was his next man -- stopped, caught him up as if he had been a feather and, with a desperate effort, again joined the others, just as they were within twenty yards of the cavalry.

"Fire!" Major Tempe cried; and from the front, and from each side of the little square -- which was but six deep, either way -- the rifles flashed out.

"Level bayonets; charge!"

There was a short struggle. The second ranks poured their fire into the cavalry line. There was a clashing of bayonets against swords, and then the band ran through the broken line of cavalry. There was a rush into the brushwood; and then, from behind the shelter of the trees, the fire opened again; and the cavalry fell sullenly back, having lost upwards of thirty men in that short five minutes since they had left the village.

The German infantry halted, at a distance of two hundred yards; but they would have lost too many men, in crossing the open, to make it worth while to attack the sheltered foe -- who could pick them off, to the last moment, only to withdraw deeper into the forest when they approached its edge. Accordingly they too fell back, exchanging fire with the franc tireurs until they gained the shelter of the village.

The conflict over. The men sank, exhausted, upon the ground where they stood. Major Tempe went round to each; saying a word of praise, and giving a little of the brandy -- with which he had filled his canteen, before starting -- with some water from their own kegs. Then he gave a sharp whistle, and the men again gathered round him.

"Once more, lads, I must thank you for your conduct," he said. "You have defended yourselves against forces, altogether, four times your own. You fairly kept at bay an infantry force of twice your own number. You have withstood a charge of cavalry, also double your own strength; and have performed the unusual feat of successfully charging cavalry. You have inflicted a very heavy loss upon the enemy. Not less than forty of the infantry must have been placed hors de combat; and fifteen or twenty of the cavalry, at the lowest estimate. Altogether, although forced to fall back, the affair is more creditable than many a brilliant victory.

"Our own loss has been heavy -- as heavy, in proportion to our numbers, as that of the enemy -- though, owing to an advantage of position, while engaged with the infantry, it is actually far less than theirs. Still, lads, it is very, very heavy," and the major looked round, with a saddened face, on the diminished band.

"Our only consolation is that our friends have died doing their duty, and setting a noble example. If all Frenchmen were but animated with a spirit like that which, I am proud to say, animates the franc tireurs of Dijon, there are few of the invaders who would ever recross the Rhine.

"Lieutenant Ribouville, go through the muster roll of the two companies. Our brave friend De Maupas has, alas! fallen. He was at my side when a rifle ball struck him, in the temple."

The list was now called over, and the result was a sad one. The two companies, including officers, had gone into the fight fifty-five strong. Only thirty-one answered to their names. Besides these, eight had been removed farther into the forest, severely wounded; and Philippe Duburg lay a short distance off -- the surgeon being employed bandaging his leg, which a rifle ball had entered, above the knee. Fifteen, therefore, were dead or missing -- which, as the Germans bayoneted all wounded franc tireurs, was the same thing. Of the thirty-one who answered to their names, nine had wounds more or less severe; and the surgeon, with his assistants, had work on his hands which would take him far into the night.

The instant that they were dismissed from parade, the boys hurried to their cousin. He was very pale from loss of blood, but was perfectly sensible. His brother sat on a bench beside him, holding his head on his knee.

Philippe smiled faintly as the boys came up.

"I am so glad you have escaped," he said, in a low voice.

They clasped his hand.

"Does it hurt you much, Philippe?"

"Not very much; not so much as I should have thought."

"Did the doctor say anything about it, Philippe?"

"Yes, he said that it had just missed the great arteries; and that he thinks it struck the bone, and has glanced up somewhere; but he can't say till he probes it, when -- "

"Then your leg is not broken?"

"No, he says it is certainly not broken, but it may be splintered."

"Thank God for that, anyhow," the boys said.

"We owe his life to Tim Doyle," Louis said. "I was not next to him; and did not see him fall, or know he was hit till I saw Tim come up, with him on his shoulders -- and even if I had, I could not have lifted him, and carried him off. Tim saved his life. There is no doubt about that."

As it was evident that Philippe was too weak to talk, and would be better for being quiet awhile, the boys now left him with his brother.

Looking through the trees towards the village, a dense smoke could now be seen rising in several places and, in a few minutes, the whole village was in a blaze. Moved by the sight, the unfortunate inhabitants came out from their hiding places in the forest; wringing their hands, crying, and cursing the invaders. In spite of the advice of Major Tempe, several of the women went off towards the scene of conflagration, to endeavor to save some little household treasure from the flames. In a short time one of them returned to fetch her husband, saying that the enemy had all left before they reached the village, and were already far down the hillside. Major Tempe at once sent forward the unwounded men; to assist the villagers to put out the fire, and to save property. Their efforts were, however, altogether unavailing; the Germans had scattered large quantities of petroleum, before leaving, upon the beds and such other furniture as they could not carry away, or destroy.

It was a pitiable sight to see the poor homeless people sitting about, looking at the ruins of their houses. Some cried piteously; others gazed with listless faces, but with a cold despair even more painful to see. Fortunately, they had saved all their animals but, at present, they were too much absorbed in the thoughts of what they had lost, to bestow even a thought of satisfaction on what they had saved.

Major Tempe, grieved and touched at the painful scene of which he and his men had been the cause, called the franc tireurs together; and made a proposition to them, which was at once heartily agreed to. He then called together the cure and schoolmaster and -- after a few well-chosen words of regret, at the ills which he and his had involuntarily brought upon the village -- he handed over to them, in the name of the whole corps, the hundred pounds in thaler notes which had been found upon the schoolmaster whom they had executed for treachery; to be distributed among the inhabitants, according to their necessities.

The offer was gratefully received, and the priest and schoolmaster at once went round and told the poor people, whose gratitude and delight were unbounded. To so poor a population, the sum seemed immense; and although it would not replace what was destroyed, it would go far towards making their abodes habitable. The village only contained about twenty houses. The walls were still standing. Timber for the roofs and floors was to be had for cutting, in the forest. Bushes for thatching could be found in abundance. The principal portion of the houses, therefore, would cost only labor, and this money would suffice to keep them alive, while engaged upon it; and enough would remain to get at least a few blankets to lay upon the straw -- which would, for the time, serve for beds -- together with a few other simple necessaries. The sale of a portion of the animals would do the rest and, in their gratitude to the franc tireurs, for having thus relieved their first and most pressing difficulties, the inhabitants altogether forgot the ill-feeling which they had before felt against them, as the authors of their disaster.

After burying their dead, the men set to work to assist the villagers in building temporary huts -- or rather bowers -- to the edge of the forest; in which, before nightfall, they had the satisfaction of seeing them installed. The few articles of bedding, blankets, etc. saved at the approach of the Prussians were spread on heaps of freshly-cut grass; and one of the oxen of the franc tireurs, which had arrived the day before, was killed and divided. Great fires were lighted and -- had it not been for the bandages on the heads, and the arms in slings of several of the franc tireurs -- no one coming upon the scene would have guessed how desperate a skirmish had raged here.

The next day the carts which had been sent for arrived; and the wounded were placed in them, upon heaps of straw, and sent off with one of the surgeons; with instructions to travel among the hills, until they reached a point where it would be quite safe to descend into the valley, and take the train to Dijon, at the first station at which it was open. Among them was Philippe Duburg, who was accompanied by his brother. Louis had obtained a week's leave of absence, for the purpose; and was the bearer of letters, and innumerable messages, from the boys to their parents and sisters. A few hours later, the remnants of the first and second companies marched to join their comrades.



Chapter 10: The Bridge Of The Vesouze.


The very day after the fight, news arrived which induced a sudden change of position. Upon the Sixteenth of September the Baden troops occupied Mulhouse, having entered Colmar on the preceding day. It was evident that the railway was so strongly guarded, between Strasburg and Nancy, that it was hopeless to expect to be able to interrupt it, seriously, with so small a force as that at Major Tempe's command; still less possible was it to render any assistance, whatever, to the doomed city of Strasburg. After taking counsel, therefore, with his officers, Major Tempe decided to march more to the south; so as to assist to oppose the passage of the enemy west from Colmar, or Mulhouse, through the passes of the Vosges.

The alarm was, however, but temporary for, having made requisitions as usual, the Prussians retired; and the corps returned to their old quarters. There another ten days passed; spent not in ease, but in constant marchings and counter-marchings. Whenever news arrived that any parties of Uhlans were approaching the mountains, with the object of making requisitions, the corps were instantly set in motion. Sometimes severe skirmishes were the result. Sometimes the news turned out to be untrue and, after a long day's march, and a night spent watching, the men had nothing to do but to march back again.

Upon the 28th came the news of the surrender of Strasburg, upon the preceding day, after one of the most heroic defenses in history. There was now no doubt that the Germans would, ere long, advance seriously. By this time, the total of the French forces among the Vosges mountains was considerable. Scarce a day passed without the arrival of a corps of franc tireurs and -- had all these corps been animated with a spirit such as that evinced by the franc tireurs of Dijon; and had they acted in unity, with discipline and intelligence -- they might have rendered immense services to France.

Unfortunately, this was very far from being the case. Very many of the men had entered the ranks only to avoid being called upon to go out with the Mobiles -- or mobilized national guard. Others had only entered from the impulse of the moment. Very many were altogether unwilling to submit to any steady discipline while, in a great number of cases, the corps were completely paralyzed from the utter incapacity of their officers. Owing to these various causes, the corps of franc tireurs distinguished themselves, in a great number of cases, only by the extreme ingenuity and foresight which they displayed in keeping at a prudent distance from the enemy. Some, too, earned a bad name not only for themselves, but for the whole body of franc tireurs, by their conduct towards the villagers; helping themselves freely to what they required, and making themselves almost as much dreaded by the peasantry as even the Germans, themselves.

At the same time the villagers had, in very many cases, only themselves to blame for the rough measures adopted by the franc tireurs; for often, instead of doing all in their power for the men who had taken up arms in the cause of France, the villagers looked upon them only as strangers, out of whom the richest possible harvest was to be obtained; and charged the most exorbitant prices for all articles of necessity supplied to them. In fact, they sometimes did not hesitate to say that they would not provide them, at any price, with the provisions required; as these would be wanted to satisfy the requisition of the Germans, upon their arrival.

Perhaps in the whole world there is no class of people so completely engrossed by the thought of gain as are the French bourgeois, and rustic population. Every change of Government, every political alteration, every law passed, is regarded by them simply, and solely, from the view of how it will affect their own pockets. Thus, instead of driving away their flocks and herds, at the approach of the invaders; the people remained quietly in their houses, and shamelessly trafficked with the invaders. This apathy, faint heartedness, and want of patriotism, upon the part of the inhabitants of the small towns and villages, caused innumerable difficulties to the franc tireurs; and Major Tempe was sometimes obliged to take the law into his own hands, when the villagers absolutely refused to sell provisions, or to give quarters to his men.

In these cases he summoned the priest, the schoolmaster, and two other head men of the place, and formed a committee with them and his own officers. These fixed a fair price upon the articles required, and Major Tempe then sent round a notice to the effect that, if these articles were furnished in two hours, they would be paid for at the agreed rates; but that if not furnished, he should quarter his men upon the inhabitants, in accordance with the size of their houses, and should remain there at least a week -- a threat that never failed in producing the required effect.

It was but seldom, however, that the major encountered any difficulties of this sort. The corps was, for the most part, composed of men with some money. They had now, too, sold the sheep and cattle which they had captured at Blamont; finding the inconvenience of sending for them, whenever meat was required. The proceeds of these, and of the horses captured at the same time, had given them a good sum in their regimental chest; and they were, therefore, able and willing to pay a fair price for such articles as they required. Besides this, the report of the actions of Blamont and Still had now widely circulated and -- as a general thing -- the people were glad to do all in their power, for a corps composed of men who really meant work, and had given good proofs of their courage and energy.

By this time, the boys had received several letters from home; and it may be readily imagined the pleasure these letters afforded them. Major Tempe's official report of the doings of his corps had been published in the Dijon papers and, from these, had been copied far and wide through France; and the people of Dijon were not a little proud of their corps. The names of the two Barclays had appeared, in the report, as specially distinguishing themselves; and their father had written, saying how pleased and gratified he was at their conduct. Mrs. Barclay and Milly had also written; but their expressions of pleasure were mingled with many hopes that the boys would not expose themselves, unnecessarily.

The band had dwindled much, in the month since they left Dijon. Upwards of thirty had been killed, or disabled, in the fights of Blamont and Still. Half as many more had been killed or wounded in smaller skirmishes; and ten or twelve had gone home, or into hospital, completely knocked up with the hard work and exposure. Only about sixty men, therefore, remained.

Schlestadt and Neu Brisach were now invested by the Germans and, after waiting for a few days, to ascertain the course that they were likely to take, Major Tempe determined (as General Cambriels was forming an army, down by Besancon) to defend the upper passes of the Vosges and -- as it was rumored that a second German army was likely to advance south, from Nancy -- that he would recross the Vosges, and aid in the defense against this second army of invaders.

Three days' fatiguing marches brought them to Epinal; where the boys, in accordance with their promise, went straight to the house of the gentleman who had so hospitably served them, at their last visit. Their friends were delighted to see them, and expressed great regret that one of the party was missing. The boys were, however, able to say that their last letter from Dijon had given good accounts of Philippe Duburg, who was now considered out of danger. There was, however, no hope of his being able to rejoin them; as the surgeon considered it probable that his leg would be a very long time, before it would be sufficiently healed to allow him to use it.

Their host had read the account in the papers of the doings of the franc tireurs; and his wife laughingly made a further apology to the Barclays, and their cousin, for her remark at their first visit about boys.

"My girls have talked about nothing else but your doings, ever since we had the news of your attack upon the Uhlans, near Blamont," she said. "One would think, from the interest they take in the corps, that the whole future of France depended upon the franc tireurs of Dijon."

The young Barclays laughed, and Percy muttered something under his breath; while Louis Duburg replied, seriously, that he hoped the franc tireurs of Dijon would always do their best to deserve the kind thoughts of mademoiselles -- at which piece of politeness Percy muttered, "Bosh!"

Epinal had, as yet, escaped; but it was feared that, ere long, the enemy would advance. The town looked deserted, for all the young men had left with the Mobiles -- or mobilized national guard -- and all men under forty were drilling, in readiness to march at a moment's notice. No serious movement of the enemy, south of Luneville, was as yet signalized.

After two days' rest, the corps again marched north; their destination being kept a profound secret, even from the men. So anxious, apparently, was Major Tempe that, this time, their object should not be foiled by treachery; that after the first day's march he left the main road and, having secured the services of a peasant, as a guide, he made two long days' marches through forests, and over mountains -- avoiding even small villages. Four led horses accompanied the march; one laden with the gun cotton, and the other three carrying provisions, so that they might be independent of the local supply. Each night they bivouacked in the forests but, as the weather was now fine -- although the nights were cold -- this was no hardship, whatever.

Upon the morning of the fourth day from their leaving Epinal, Major Tempe told his men that he had learned, at Epinal, that the line was no longer so closely guarded as before -- the Germans being confident, now, of the impotence of the French to harm them -- and that they were now in the forest of Moudan, within three miles of the railway between Luneville and Rechicourt, on the line to Strasburg. His intention was to reconnoiter that day and -- if success should be found possible -- to attempt, at daybreak next morning, to blow up the railway bridge over the Vesouze.

The news was received with great satisfaction, as the corps were burning to distinguish themselves; and in no way could they do such service as to cut the line of communication -- although, as the Germans were no longer dependent upon a single line, the advantage would not be of so signal a nature as it would have been, could they have cut it at the time when they first made the attempt. The Barclays were naturally selected to reconnoiter and, as their change of clothes had been always -- by Major Tempe's orders -- carried on the baggage horse, they had no difficulty upon that score.

Their expedition was uneventful. At the village nearest to the bridge, they went in and bought some cheese and other articles and -- after gaining all the information they were able, without exciting attention -- they made their way, through broken ground, to a point near enough to the bridge to enable them to reconnoiter it, undiscovered.

A sentry was posted at each end. At a cottage hard by were ten others, while there were twenty in the village they had just left. There were also sentries down the line; but these were far enough apart to render it certain that they could not muster in time to interfere, seriously, with the enterprise. With this information, they returned to the forest.

A council of war was held; and it was decided that the news was satisfactory, and that the attack should take place at daybreak. Each man was instructed in the work he would have to perform. Lieutenant Houdin, with thirty men, was to surprise the German party in the village. The rest -- having made a detour to avoid the village -- were to be in readiness to attack the posts near the bridge, immediately a gun was fired in the village. The attack was to be made at daybreak. From the bridge, to the nearest point where the forest was thick enough to afford a safe shelter, was a distance of about two miles.

As soon as it became dark, the camp fires were allowed to bum low; and shortly afterwards the whole corps, with the exception of the sentries, were sound asleep. At four o'clock they were roused, and marched silently off in the appointed direction. By five o'clock each party was at its post and, for half an hour, they lay in expectancy. The Barclays were with Major Tempe's party, near the bridge. Louis Duburg, and Tim, were with the party at the village.

The attack upon the village was to take place at half-past five; and never did moments appear so slow, to the boys, as those which passed as they awaited the signal. At last the silence was broken by the sharp crack of a rifle, followed by three or four others.

"There goes the Prussian sentry, and there is our reply," Major Tempe said. "Now, lads, forward!"

As he spoke, the sentry on the bridge fired his rifle; immediately, this was repeated by the next sentry on the line, and the signal was taken up by each sentry, until the sound died in the distance. As it had done so, the franc tireurs had made a rush forwards. They were met by a straggling discharge from the Germans as, half asleep, they hurried out from the guard room. This was answered by the fire of the franc tireurs, who surrounded them. Five fell; and the others, surprised and panic stricken, threw down their arms. They were instantly secured, and the bridge was at once seized.

The firing still continued in the village; but in another five minutes it ceased and, shortly afterwards, Louis Duburg ran up with the tidings that the village was taken. The Germans, surprised in their beds, had offered but a slight resistance. Four were killed, and sixteen taken prisoners; one franc tireur, only, was slightly wounded.

"Take two men with you," Major Tempe said, "and escort those five prisoners to the village. Give them over to Lieutenant Houdin; and tell him to send them, with the prisoners he has taken, under charge of six men to the forest. Let their hands be tied behind their backs, for we cannot spare a larger escort. Tell him to be sure that the escort are loaded, and have fixed bayonets. Directly he has sent off the prisoners let him join me here, with the rest of his force."

Lieutenant Ribouville now set to work to inspect the bridge; and ordered the men -- who were provided with the necessary implements -- to set to, and dig a hole down to the crown of the principal arch. It was harder work than they had expected. The roadway was solid, the ballast pressed down very tightly, and the crown of the arch covered, to a considerable depth, with concrete. Only a few men could work at once and, after a half-hour's desperate labor, the hole was nothing like far enough advanced to ensure the total destruction of the bridge, upon the charge being fired. In the meantime the Prussian sentries were arriving from up and down the line and, although not in sufficient force to attack, had opened fire from a distance.

"Don't you think that will do, Ribouville?" Major Tempe asked.

"No, sir," the other replied. "It might blow a hole through the top of the arch, but I hardly think that it would do so. Its force would be spent upwards."

At this moment Ralph -- who had done his spell of work, and had been down to the stream, to get a drink of water -- came running up.

"If you please, Lieutenant Ribouville, there is a hole right through the pier, just above the water's edge. It seems to have been left to let any water that gets into the pier, from above, make its escape. I should think that would do to hold the charge."

"The very thing," Lieutenant Ribouville said, delightedly. "What a fool I was, not to have looked to see if such a hole existed!

"Stop work, men, and carry the barrels down to the edge of the water."

The stream was not above waist deep; and the engineer officer immediately waded into it, and examined the hole. He at once pronounced it to be admirably suited to the purpose. It did not -- as Ralph had supposed -- go straight through; but there were two holes, one upon each side of the pier, nearly at the same level, and each extending into the center of the pier. The holes were about four inches square.

The barrels of gun cotton were now hastily opened on the bank, and men waded out with the contents. Lieutenant Ribouville upon one side, and Ralph upon the other, took the cotton and thrust it, with long sticks, into the ends of the hole. In five minutes the contents of the two barrels were safely lodged, the fuse inserted, and the operation of tamping -- or ramming -- in dry sand, earth, and stones commenced.

"Make haste!" Major Tempe shouted. "Their numbers are increasing fast. There are some fifteen or twenty, on either side."

A brisk fire of rifles was now going on. The day had fairly broken; and the franc tireurs, sheltered behind the parapet of the bridge, on the bank of the river, were exchanging a lively fire with the enemy. Three-quarters of an hour had passed since the first shot was fired.

Suddenly a distant boom was heard, followed in a few seconds by a slight whizzing noise, which grew rapidly into a loud scream and, in another moment, there was an explosion close to the bridge. The men all left off their work, for an instant.

"And what may that be, Mister Percy? A more unpleasant sound I niver heard, since I was a baby."

"I quite agree with you, Tim, as to its unpleasantness. It is a shell. The artillery are coming up from Luneville. The fire of the sentries would take the alarm, in a couple of minutes; give them another fifteen to get ready, and half an hour to get within range.

"Here comes another."

"Are you ready, Ribouville?" the commandant shouted. "They have cavalry, as well as artillery. We must be off, or we shall get caught in a trap."

"I am ready," was the answer.

"Barclay, strike a match, and put it to the end of your fuse, till it begins to fizz.

"Have you lit it?"

"Yes, sir," Ralph said, a moment later.

"So have I," the lieutenant said. "They will burn about three minutes.

"Now for a run!"

In a couple of minutes the franc tireurs were retreating, at the double; and they had not gone a hundred yards when they heard the sound of two tremendous explosions, following closely one upon another. Looking back, they saw the pier had fallen in fragments; and that the bridge lay, a heap of ruins, in the stream.

"Hurrah, lads!" shouted the commandant. "You have done your work well. Those who get out of this with a whole skin may well be proud of their day's work.

"Don't mind the shells," he continued, as two more of the missiles burst, in quick succession, within a short distance of them. "They make an ugly noise; but they won't hurt us, at this distance."

The German artillerymen had apparently arrived at the same conclusion, for they now ceased to fire; and the retreating corps were only exposed to an occasional shot from the infantry, who had followed them from the bridge.

"The artillery and cavalry will be up, before we reach the wood," Percy said to his brother, as they trotted along, side by side.

"They may come up," Ralph said, "but they can do us no harm, on the broken ground; and will catch a Tartar, if they don't mind."

The ground was indeed unfavorable for cavalry, and artillery. It was broken up with the spurs of the hill. Here and there great masses of rock cropped out of the ground, while patches of forest extended over a considerable portion of the ground. In one of these, standing upon rising and broken ground, Major Tempe halted his men; and opened so heavy a fire upon the enemy's cavalry, when the column appeared, that they were at once halted; and although, when the artillery arrived, a few shells were fired into the wood, the franc tireurs had already retired, and gained the forest without further molestation. Upon calling the roll, it was discovered that six men, only, were missing. These had fallen -- either killed or wounded -- from the fire of the enemy's infantry, during the time that the operation at the bridge were being carried out.

There was great rejoicing at the success of their enterprise, the effect of which would certainly be to block the traffic along that line, for at least a week. Their satisfaction was, however, somewhat damped by the sight of several dense columns of smoke in the plain; showing that the Germans had, as usual, wreaked their vengeance upon the innocent villagers. The feeling of disgust was changed to fury when some of the peasants -- who had fled into the woods, upon the destruction of their abodes -- reported that the Germans, having found that three of the franc tireurs were only wounded, had dragged them along to the entrance to the village; and had hung them there upon some trees, by the roadside. Had it not been for Major Tempe's assurance, that their comrades should be avenged, the franc tireurs would at once have killed their prisoners.

In the evening the men were formed up, the prisoners ranged in line, and twelve were taken by lot; and these, with the officer taken with them -- when night fell -- were bound and marched off, under a guard of thirty men. Neither of the boys formed part of the escort, which was an immense relief to them for, although they were as indignant as the rest, at the murder of their wounded comrades by the Germans; and quite agreed in the justice of reprisal, still, they were greatly relieved when they found that they would not have to be present at the execution.

Two hours later Major Tempe returned, with the escort. The officer, and eleven of his men, had been hung on trees by the roadside, at a distance of half a mile, only, from the village; the twelfth man had been released, as bearer of a note from Major Tempe to the German commanding officer saying that, as a reprisal for the murder of the three wounded franc tireurs, he had hung twelve Germans; and that, in future, he would always hang four prisoners for every one of his men who might be murdered, contrary to the rules of war.

This act of retributive justice performed, the corps retreated to join the army of the Vosges, under General Cambriels. The news of the destruction of the bridge across the Vesouze had preceded them; and when, after three days' heavy marching, they reached the village which formed the headquarters of the general, they were received with loud cheers by the crowds of Mobiles who thronged its little streets. It was out of the question to find quarters; and the major therefore ordered the men to bivouac in the open, while he reported himself to General Cambriels.

The commandant of the franc tireurs was personally known to General Cambriels, having at one time served for some years under his command; and he was most warmly received by the veteran, one of the bravest and most popular of the French generals. As general of the district, he had received all Major Tempe's reports; and was therefore acquainted with the actions of the corps.

"Ah, major!" he said, after the first greetings, "if I had only a few thousand men, animated with the spirit and courage of your fellows, the Germans would never get through the Vosges. As it is I shall, of course, do my best; but what can one do with an army of plow boys, led by officers who know nothing of their duty, against troops like the Germans?

"As for my franc tireurs, they are in many cases worse than useless. They have no discipline, whatever. They embroil me with the peasantry. They are always complaining. The whole of them, together, have not done as much real service as your small band. They shoot down Uhlans, when they catch them in very small parties; but have no notion, whatever, of real fighting.

"However, I cannot thank you too warmly. Your name will appear in the Gazette, tomorrow, as colonel; and I must ask you to extend the sphere of your duties. We want officers, terribly; and I will brigade four or five of these corps of franc tireurs under your orders, so as to make up a force of a thousand men. You will have full authority over them, to enforce any discipline you may choose. I want you to make a body to act as an advanced guard of skirmishers to my army of Mobiles. I have a few line troops, but I want them as a nucleus for the force.

"What do you say?"

"Personally, general, I should greatly prefer remaining with my own little corps, upon every man of whom I can rely. At the same time, I should not wish for a moment to oppose my own likings, or dislikings, to the general good of the service. Many of these corps of franc tireurs are composed of excellent materials and, if well led and disciplined, would do anything. I can only say I will do my best."

"Thank you, Tempe. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"I should like to see a step given to the three officers serving under me," the major said. "They have all served in the regular army, and all have equally well done their duty."

"It shall be done; and two of them shall be posted to other corps, while one takes the command of your own," the general said. "Do you wish commissions for any of the men?"

Major Tempe named three of the men, and then added:

"The two members of the corps who have most distinguished themselves I have not mentioned, general, because they are too young to place over the heads of the others; at the same time, their services certainly deserve recognition. I mentioned them, in the dispatches I sent to you, as having done immense service by going down, in disguise, into the midst of the Germans. In fact, at Saverne they saved the corps from destruction. They are two young English lads, named Barclay."

"I remember distinctly," General Cambriels said. "They speak French fluently, I suppose, as well as German?"

"Both languages like natives," the major answered.

"And can they ride?"

"Yes, admirably," Major Tempe said. "I knew them before the war, and they are excellent horsemen."

"Then they are the very fellows for me," General Cambriels said. "I will give them commissions in the provisional army, at once; and put them upon my own staff. They would be of great value to me.

"You will spare them, I hope?"

"I shall be extremely sorry to do so, general; but for their own sakes, and for the good of the service, I will of course do so."

"Thanks, colonel. I shall put the franc tireurs of Dijon in general orders, tomorrow, as having performed good service to the country; and please to thank them, in my name, for their services."

"Thank you very much, general. It will give me more pleasure than even the step that you have been kind enough to give to myself."

"Good evening, colonel. We must have a long chat together, one of these days.

"The chief of my staff will give you the names of the corps to be placed under your orders. The matter was settled this morning, and I have picked out the best of those here. Orders have been sent for them to assemble at Raoul -- a village, a mile from here -- in the morning; with a notification that they are placed under your command.

"Goodbye."



Chapter 11: A Fight In The Vosges.


Upon Colonel Tempe's rejoining the men -- who were already busy preparing their suppers -- he ordered the assembly to be sounded and, when they were formed up, he formally thanked them, in the name of the general, for the service that they had rendered; adding that they would appear in general orders, upon the following day.

The men replied with a cheer of "Vive la France!"

Their commander then informed them that he, himself, had received a step in rank and would, in future, command them with several other corps; that Lieutenant Ribouville would, in future, be their special commander, with the rank of captain; that the other two lieutenants would be promoted; and that three of their number would receive commissions and, while one of them remained under Captain Ribouville, the others would -- with the newly-made captains -- be attached to other corps. The two Barclays would receive commissions as officers, on the staff of General Cambriels, himself.

When Colonel Tempe finished speaking, the boys could hardly believe their ears; and looked at each other, to inquire if they heard aright. There could be no mistake about it; for Colonel Tempe called them forward and, shaking hands with them, congratulated them on the promotion which, he said, they had well earned. The men gave a hearty cheer; for the young English lads were general favorites, for their good temper and willingness to oblige.

Directly the men were dismissed, the colonel again called the lads to him.

"I am sorry to lose you," he said, "but of course it is for your good. Come with me, at once, to General Cambriels. I will introduce you, and you had better ask for four days' leave. You can get the railway in four hours' ride from here. You will have no difficulty in finding a place in some of the commissariat cities going to fetch stores. If you start tonight, you can catch a train before morning, and be in Dijon quite early. A couple of days will be sufficient to get your uniforms made, and to buy horses.

"Your cousin will go with you. I gave him leave, last night, to start upon our arrival here. He is not so strong as you are; and the surgeon says that he must have rest, and quiet. He is quite worn out.

"Now, pile your rifles -- you will not want them any more -- and come with me. I have said good night to the general, but he will excuse me."

Still bewildered, the boys did as they were ordered. As they were piling their rifles, they heard a loud blubbering. Looking round, they saw Tim Doyle, weeping most copiously.

"What is the matter, Tim?"

"Matter! Your honor, ain't yer going to lave us? What am I going to do, at all?"

The boys hurried away, without reply -- for Colonel Tempe was waiting for them -- and, on the way to headquarters, mentioned Tim's grief at parting with them.

The general received the lads most kindly and, at once, granted them four days' leave to go to Dijon, to procure uniform.

Colonel Tempe then said:

"You do not want orderlies, do you, general?"

"I do, indeed," the general answered. "I have about a dozen cavalry men, of different regiments, who form my escort and act as orderlies; but they are my entire force of cavalry."

"I have an Irishman in my corps, general, who only joined to be near these young fellows. He was brought up among horses; and you have only to put him in a hussar uniform, and he would make a capital orderly, and would act as servant to your new staff officers."

"By all means," the general said; "send him over, in the morning. We will make a hussar of him, in half an hour; we have got a few uniforms in store."

What a meeting that was, near Dijon! The boys, upon reaching the station, had found a train on the point of starting; and it was seven in the morning when they reached the town. The shops open early, in French country towns; and although their tailor had not as yet taken his shutters down, he was up and about, and willingly measured them for their new uniforms -- promising that they should have them, without fail, the next afternoon. They then walked up to the cottage; and dropped in just as the party, there, were sitting down to breakfast.

There was a loud exclamation from Captain Barclay, and a scream of delight from their mother, and Milly; and it was a good ten minutes before they were sitting round the table, talking coherently. It was but six weeks since they had left, but it seemed like years; and there was as much to tell, and to talk about, as if they had just returned, after an absence of half a lifetime, in India.

"How long have you got leave for?" was one of the first questions.

"Only four days," Percy said. "The corps has now joined the army of the Vosges, and will act regularly with it. A move forward will take place, in a few days, so that we could not ask for longer."

"Only four days!" Mrs. Barclay and Milly repeated, aghast.

"It is not much, mamma," Ralph put in, "but it is better than nothing. You see, you did not expect us at all."

"Quite so," Captain Barclay said, cheerfully. "It is a clear gain, and we waste the time in regretting that it is not longer. It is a great delight to have you back again, even for a few hours. You both look wonderfully well, and fully a year older than when you left. Roughing it, and exposure, evidently suits you.

"Has Louis come back with you?"

"Yes, papa, he has come back to stay, for some time. He is completely done up, and the surgeon has ordered rest and quiet, for a while.

"How is Philippe?"

"He is getting on well; and will walk, the doctor hopes, in another fortnight, or three weeks; but I have not seen him for -- although your uncle comes in, as usual, for a chat with me -- Madame Duburg has never forgiven me for having, as she says, influenced him in allowing the boys to go; and of course, since this wound of Philippe's, she has been more angry than ever."

The boys laughed. They understood their aunt's ways.

"Tim has not been hurt, I hope?" Milly asked.

"Oh no; Tim is as well as ever, and the life and soul of the corps."

As breakfast went on, the boys gradually related the changes that were taking place: Major Tempe's promotion to be colonel, and the fact that he was placed in command of several corps of franc tireurs, who were hereafter to act together. They said no word, however, about their own promotion; having agreed to keep that matter secret, until the uniforms were completed. They had also asked their cousin to say nothing about it, at home; as otherwise their uncle would have been sure to have come in to congratulate them, and the secret would have been at an end, at once.

An hour later, Monsieur Duburg came in to see them. After the first talk, he said to Captain Barclay:

"The way in which your boys have stood the fatigue is a proof, in itself, how much the prosperity of a nation depends upon the training of its boys. England is strong because her boys are all accustomed, from their childhood, to active exercise and outdoor, violent games. In case of a war, like this which we are going through, almost every man could turn soldier, and go through the fatigues of a campaign; and what is more, could make light of -- not to say enjoy -- them.

"Here, upon the contrary, our young fellows do nothing and, in an emergency like the present, want both spirit and strength to make soldiers. Almost all the boys who went from here in Tempe's corps have returned, completely worn out. Even Louis is a wreck; although, thanks to the companionship of your boys, he has supported it better, and longer, than the majority of them. Had he began, as a child, to take pleasure in strong exercise; no doubt he could have stood it as well as Ralph and Percy, who look absolutely benefited by it. Unfortunately, I allowed my wife's silly objection to prevail; until the last three years, when I insisted that they should do as they liked.

"As I have said before, Barclay, I say again: I congratulate you on your boys. You have a right to be proud of them. I wish the race of young Frenchmen were only like them."

Great indeed was the astonishment -- upon the afternoon of the following day -- when Ralph and Percy walked into the sitting room, dressed as staff officers; feeling a little awkward with their swords, but flushed with an honorable pleasure and pride -- for their epaulets had been gained by no family interests, no private influence. They were worn as the reward of good service. Captain Barclay wrung the boys' hands, silently. Their mother cried with delight, and Milly danced round the boys like a small possessed one.

"It is not for the absolute rank itself, boys, that I am pleased," their father said, when they had related the whole circumstances; "for you have no idea of remaining in the French service and, consequently, the rank will be of no use to you, after the end of the war. Still, it is a thing all your lives to be proud of -- that you won your commission in the French army, by good service."

"What I am thinking of most," Mrs. Barclay said, "is that, now they are officers in the regular army, they will run no risk of being shot, if they are taken prisoners."

"We don't mean to be taken prisoners, mamma. Still, as you say, it is certainly an advantage in favor of the regular uniform."

"And what is to become of Tim?" Milly asked.

"Oh, Tim is going to become a hussar, and act as one of the general's orderlies; and be our servant, when he has nothing else to do. You see, now we are officers, we have a right to servants."

"I am very glad Tim is going with you," Mrs. Barclay said. "My brother tells us that he saved Philippe's life, and it seems a comfort to know that he is with you."

The next morning Captain Barclay went down with them to the town, and purchased a couple of capital horses which, by great good fortune, were on sale.

Upon the morning of the fourth day of their visit, the boys took leave of their father and mother, and left to join the headquarters of General Cambriels. The parting was far less trying than it had been, the first time they went away. The boys were not, now, going out to an unknown danger. Although the risk that a staff officer runs is, absolutely, somewhat greater than that incurred by a regimental officer; still, it is slight in comparison with the risk run by a franc tireur, employed in harassing an enemy, and in cutting his communications -- especially when capture means death. Those who remained behind were encouraged partly by this thought, but still more by the really irrational one that, as the boys had gone away and come back safe, once, they would probably do so again.

The evening of the same day, the Barclays reported themselves for duty to the general and, next morning, began work. Their duty was hard, though simple. By day they were constantly on duty -- that is to say, either riding over the country, or waiting near the general's quarters in readiness for a start or -- more seldom -- writing, and drawing up reports in the office. By night they took it in turns with the other staff officers to be on duty -- that is to say, to lie down to sleep in uniform, with the horse saddled at the door, in readiness to start at an instant's notice.

Tim's duties as an orderly were not heavy, and were generally over by five o'clock; after which he acted as servant to the boys. It was impossible, under the circumstances, for the staff to mess together, as usual. There was neither a room available nor, indeed, any of the appliances. Among Tim's other duties, therefore, was that of cooking. They had also another orderly allotted to them, and he devoted himself to the care of the horses; Tim undertaking all other work.

The boys liked their new duties much. The work was hard, but pleasant. Their fellow officers were pleasant companions, and their general most kind, and genial.

A week after they had joined, General Cambriels advanced into the Vosges to oppose the Prussians, who were marching south. The progress of the army was slow, for they had to carry what supplies they required with them. Colonel Tempe kept, with his command, a few hours' march ahead; and one or other of the boys was frequently dispatched with orders, etc. to obtain reports from him.

After three days' marching, they neared the enemy. All was now watchfulness, and excitement. The franc tireurs were already engaged in skirmishing and, early one morning, Ralph received orders to ride forward and reconnoiter the enemy's position. Passing through the posts of franc tireurs, he rode cautiously along the road; with his hand on the butt of his revolver, and his horse well in hand -- ready to turn and ride for his life, on an instant's notice.

Presently, as the road wound through a narrow gorge, lined with trees, he heard a voice say, close in his ear, "Stop!"

He reined in his horse, and drew his pistol. The leaves parted; and a man of some sixty years of age, armed with an old double-barreled fowling piece, stepped out.

"The Germans are just beyond," he said. "I expect them every moment."

"And what are you doing here?" Ralph asked.

"What am I doing?" repeated the peasant. "I am waiting to shoot some of them."

"But they will hang you, to a certainty, if they catch you."

"Let them," the old man said, quietly; "they will do me no more harm than they have done me. I had a nice farm, near Metz. I lived there with my wife and daughter, and my three boys. Someone fired at the Prussians from a wood near. No one was hit, but that made no difference. The black-hearted scoundrels came to my farm; shot my three boys, before their mother's eyes; ill treated her, so that she died next day and, when I returned -- for I was away, at the time -- I found a heap of ashes, where my house had stood; the dead bodies of my three boys; my wife dying, and my daughter sitting by, screaming with laughter -- mad -- quite mad!

"I took her away to a friend's house; and stayed with her till she died, too, a fortnight after. Then I bought this gun, and some powder and lead, with my last money; and went out to kill Prussians. I have killed thirteen already and, please God," and the peasant lifted his hat, devoutly, "I will kill two more, today."

"How is it that you have escaped so long?" Ralph asked, in surprise.

"I never fire at infantry," the peasant said. "It was Uhlans that did it, and it's only Uhlans I fire at. I put myself on a rock, or a hillside, where they can't come -- or in a thick wood -- and I content myself with my two shots, and then go. I don't want to be killed, yet. I have set my mind on having fifty -- just ten for each of mine -- and when I've shot the last of the fifty, the sooner they finish me, the better.

"You'd better not go any farther, sir. The valley widens out, round the corner; and there are Prussians in the nearest village."

"Thank you," Ralph said, "but my orders are to reconnoiter them, myself, and I must do so. I am well mounted, and I don't think that they will catch me, if I get a couple of hundred yards' start. There are franc tireurs in the village, a mile back."

Ralph now rode carefully forward, while the peasant went back into his hiding place by the wood. As he had said, the gorge widened into a broad valley, a few hundred yards farther on. Upon emerging from the gorge, Ralph at once saw a village -- almost hidden among trees -- at a distance of less than a quarter of a mile. After what he had heard, he dared not ride on farther. He therefore drew his horse aside from the road, among some trees; dismounted, and made his way carefully up the rocky side of the hill, to a point from which he could command a view down the whole valley.

When he gained this spot, he looked cautiously round. Below, beyond the village, he could see large numbers of men; could make out lines of cavalry horses, and rows of artillery. A considerable movement was going on, and Ralph had no doubt that they were about to advance. In his interest in what he saw, he probably exposed his figure somewhat; and caught the eye of some sharp-sighted sentry, in the village.

The first intimation of his danger was given him by seeing some twenty Uhlans dart suddenly out of the trees, in which the village lay, at the top of their speed while, almost at the same moment, eight or ten rifles flashed, and the balls whizzed round him in most unpleasant propinquity. Ralph turned in an instant; and bounded down the rock with a speed and recklessness of which, at any other moment, he would have been incapable. Fierce as was the pace at which the Uhlans were galloping, they were still a hundred yards distant when Ralph leaped upon his horse, and galloped out in front of them.

There was a rapid discharge of their carbines, but men at full gallop make but poor shooting. Ralph felt he was untouched but, by the convulsive spring which his horse gave, he knew the animal was wounded. For a couple of hundred yards, there was but little difference in his speed; and then Ralph -- to his dismay -- felt him flag, and knew that the wound had been a severe one. Another hundred yards, and the animal staggered; and would have fallen, had not Ralph held him up well, with knee and bridle.

The Uhlans saw it; for they gave a shout, and a pistol bullet whizzed close to his head. Ralph looked round. An officer, twenty yards ahead of his men, was only about forty yards in his rear. In his hand he held a revolver, which he had just discharged.

"Surrender!" he shouted, "or you are a dead man!"

Ralph saw that his pursuers were too close to enable him to carry out his intention of dismounting, and taking to the wood -- which, here, began to approach thickly close to the road -- and was on the point of throwing up his arm, in token of surrender; when his horse fell heavily, with him, at the moment when the Prussian again fired. Almost simultaneously with the crack of the pistol came the report of a gun; and the German officer fell off his horse, shot through the heart.

Ralph leaped to his feet, and dashed up the bank in among the trees; just as another shot was fired, with a like fatal result, into the advancing Uhlans. The rest -- believing that they had fallen into an ambush -- instantly turned their horses' heads, and galloped back the road they had come.

Ralph's first impulse was to rush down into the road, and catch the officer's horse; which had galloped on a short distance when its master fell, and was now returning, to follow its companions. As he did so, the old peasant appeared, from the wood.

"Thank you," Ralph said warmly. "You have saved my life or, at any rate, have saved me from a German prison."

The peasant paid no attention to him; but stooped down to examine, carefully, whether the Germans were both dead.

"Two more," he said, with a grim smile. "That makes fifteen. Three apiece."

Then he picked up the officer's revolver, took the cartridge belonging to it from the pouch and, with a wave of the hand to Ralph, strode back into the wood.

Ralph removed the holsters from the saddle of his own horse -- which had fallen dead -- placed them on the horse of the German officer and then, mounting it, rode off at full speed, to inform General Cambriels of the results of his investigation.

"Hallo, Barclay!" one of his fellow officers said, as he rode up to the headquarters, "what have you been up to? Doing a little barter, with a German hussar? You seem to have got the best of him, too; for your own horse was a good one, but this is a good deal better, unless I am mistaken.

"How has it come about?"

Quite a crowd of idlers had collected round, while the officer was speaking; struck, like him, with the singularity of the sight of a French staff officer upon a horse with German trappings. Ralph did not wish to enter into explanations, there; so merely replied, in the same jesting strain, that it had been a fair exchange -- the small difference in the value of the horses being paid for, with a small piece of lead. Then, throwing his reins to his orderly -- who came running up -- he went in to report, to the general, the evident forward movements of the Germans.

"Are they as strong as we have heard?" the general asked.

"Fully, I should say, sir. I had no means of judging the infantry, but they seemed in large force. They were certainly strong in cavalry, and I saw some eight or ten batteries of artillery."

"Let the next for duty ride, with all speed, to Tempe; and tell him to hold the upper end of this valley. Send Herve's battery forward to assist him. Have the general assembly sounded."

Ralph left to obey these orders, while the general gave the colonel of his staff the instructions for the disposition of his forces.

The army of the Vosges -- pompous as was its name -- consisted, at this time, of only some ten thousand men; all Mobiles or franc tireurs, with the exception of a battalion of line, and a battalion of Zouaves. The Mobiles were almost undisciplined, having only been out a month; and were, for the most part, armed only with the old muzzle loader. Many were clothed only in the gray trousers, with a red stripe, which forms part of the mobile's uniform; and in a blue blouse. Great numbers of them were almost shoeless; having been taken straight from the plow, or workshop, and having received no shoes since they joined. Half disciplined, half armed, half clothed, they were too evidently no match for the Germans.

The fact was patent to their general, and his officers. Still, his instructions were to make a stand, at all hazards, in the Vosges; and he now prepared to obey the orders -- not hoping for victory, but trusting in the natural courage of his men to enable him to draw them off without serious disaster. His greatest weakness was his artillery, of which he had only two batteries; against eight or ten of the Germans -- whose forces were, even numerically, superior to his own.

In half an hour, the dispositions were made. The valley was wide, at this point; and there were some five or six villages nestled in it. It was pretty thickly wooded and, two miles behind, narrowed again considerably. Just as the troops had gained their appointed places, a faint sound of heavy musketry fire was heard, in the gorge ahead; mingled, in a few minutes, with the deep boom of cannon.

The general, surrounded by his staff, moved forward towards the spot. From the road at the entrance to the narrow part of the valley, nothing could be seen; but the cracking of rifles among the trees and rocks on either side, the bursting of shells and the whistling of bullets were incessant. The general and his staff accordingly dismounted, handed their horses to the men of the escort, and mounted the side of the hill.

After a sharp climb, they reached a point from whence they could see right down the long narrow valley. On beyond, the trees -- except near the road -- were thin; the steep sides of the hills being covered with great blocks of stone, and thick brushwood. Among these -- all down one side, and up the other -- at a distance of some five hundred yards from the post taken up by the general, a succession of quick puffs of smoke told where Colonel Tempe's franc tireurs were placed; while among the trees below there came up great wreaths of smoke from the battery, which was supporting them by firing at the Germans.

These formed a long line, up and down the sides of the valley, at three or four hundred yards distance from the French lines. Two German batteries were down in the road, a few hundred yards to the rear of their skirmishers; and these were sending shells thickly up among the rocks, where the franc tireurs were lying hid; while two other batteries -- which the Germans had managed to put a short way up on the mountain sides, still farther in the rear -- were raining shell, with deadly precision, upon the French batteries in the road.

A prettier piece of warfare it would have been difficult to imagine -- the lofty mountain sides; the long lines of little puffs of smoke, among the brushwood and rocks; the white smoke arising from the trees, in the bottom; the quick, dull bursts of the shells -- as a spectacle, it was most striking. The noise was prodigious. The steep sides of the mountain echoed each report of the guns into a prolonged roar, like the rumble of thunder. The rattle of the musketry never ceased for an instant, and loud and distinct above the din rose the menacing scream of the shells.

"This is grand, indeed, Ralph!" Percy said, after a moment's silence.

"Splendid!" Ralph said, "but it is evident we cannot hold the gorge. Their skirmishers are three to our one, and their shells must be doing terrible damage."

"Barclay," General Cambriels said, "go down to the battery, and bring me back word how they are getting on."

The scene quite lost its beauty to Percy, now, as he saw Ralph scramble rapidly down the hillside in the direction of the trees; among which the French battery was placed, and over and among which the shells were bursting, every second. It seemed like entering a fiery furnace.

It was a terribly long ten minutes before Ralph was seen, climbing up the hillside again; and Percy's heart gave a jump of delight, when he first caught sight of his figure. As Ralph came near, his brother saw that he was very pale, and had a handkerchief bound round one arm. This was already soaked with blood. He kept on steadily, however, until he reached the general; who had, upon seeing he was wounded, advanced to meet him.

"One gun is dismounted, sir, and half the men are killed or wounded."

"Go down, Harcourt, and tell Herve to fall back at once; and to take position in the clump of trees, a quarter of a mile down the valley, so as to sweep the entrance.

"Laon, go to the right, and you, Dubois, to the left. Order the franc tireurs to retreat along the hillside and, when they get to the end of the gorge, to form in the plain, and fall back to the first village.

"You are wounded, Barclay. Not seriously, I hope?" he said, kindly, as the officers hurried away on their respective missions.

"A splinter of a shell, sir," Ralph said, faintly. "I don't think it has touched the bone, but it has cut the flesh badly."

Ralph was just able to say this, when his head swam; and he would have fallen, had not Percy caught him in his arms, with a little cry.

"He has only fainted from loss of blood," the general said. "Two or three handkerchiefs, gentlemen.

"Now, major, bind them round his arm.

"Now take off his sash, and bind it as tightly as you can, over them. That's right.

"Now carry him down the rocks, to the horses. We have no time to lose."

Two of the officers at once put their arms under Ralph's shoulders, while Percy took his feet; and they hastened down to the horses. As they did so, Ralph opened his eyes.

"I am all right, now," he said, faintly.

"Lie quiet," the major said, kindly. "It is only loss of blood. There is no real harm done.

"There, here are the horses."

Ralph was placed, sitting, on the ground; a little brandy and water was given to him and, as the blood was oozing but slowly through the bandage, he felt sufficiently restored to sit on his horse.

"Doyle, you go with Lieutenant Barclay," the colonel of the staff said. "Ride slowly, and keep close beside him; so as to catch him, if you see him totter. You will find the surgeons ready at the general's quarters.

"Halt, stand aside for a moment. Here comes the artillery."

"Well done, lads, well done!" the general said, as the diminished battery rattled past, at full gallop.

Then he himself, with his staff, put spurs to his horse and went off at full speed; while Tim followed at a walk, riding by the side of Ralph. The flow of blood had now stopped, and Ralph was able to sit his horse until he reached the house which had served as the general's headquarters, in the morning. Here one of the staff surgeons had fitted up a temporary ambulance; and Ralph's bandages were soon taken off, and his coat removed. Tim turned sick at the sight of the ugly gash in his young master's arm, and was obliged to go out into the air.

The artillery were already at work, and their fire told that the franc tireurs had retired from the gorge, and that the Germans were entering the wider valley.

"You have had a narrow escape," the surgeon said, after examining Ralph's arm, "a quarter of an inch lower, and it would have cut the main artery; and you would have bled to death in five minutes. As it is, there is no great harm done. It is a deepish flesh wound but, with your youth and constitution, it will heal up in a very short time. I will draw the edges together, with a needle and thread: put a few straps of plaster on, and a bandage; and then you had better get into an ambulance wagon and go to the rear, at once."

"Can't I go into the field again, now?" Ralph asked; "I feel as if I could ride again, now."

"No, you can do nothing of the sort," the surgeon said. "You have lost a lot of blood; and if you were to ride now, it might set off the wound bleeding again, and you might be a dead man before you could be brought back here. Keep quiet, and do as you are ordered, and in a week you may be in the saddle again."

"It seems very hard," Ralph began.

"Not at all hard," the surgeon said. "You will see plenty more fighting, before this war is over.

"This is a hard case, if you like; you have every reason to be thankful."

As he spoke, he pointed to a young mobile who was brought in, his chest literally torn open with a shell.

"I can do nothing for him," the surgeon said, after a brief inspection of his wound; "he has not half an hour to live, and will probably not recover consciousness. If he does, give him some weak brandy, and water."

Wounded men were now being brought in fast, and Ralph went out and sat down by the door.

"Fasten my horse up here, Tim. The ambulance will be full of poor fellows who will want them more than I shall. If I see that we are being driven back, I shall mount and ride quietly back.

"No, there is nothing more you can do for me. Go and join Percy."

The fight was now raging furiously. The Germans, covered by the fire of their artillery, had debouched from the pass and were steadily pressing forward. They had already carried the village nearest to them. This the French had set fire to, before retreating, to prevent its serving as a shelter for the enemy. The Mobiles stood their ground, for the most part well, under the heavy fire of shot and shell; but their muzzle loaders were no match for the Germans' needle guns, and the enemy were pressing steadily forward. Just as Tim Doyle rode up to the staff, the Germans had taken another village.

"That village must be retaken," the general said. "Barclay, ride and order the Zouaves to carry it, with the bayonet."

Percy galloped off to where the Zouaves, lying behind a ridge in the ground, were keeping up a heavy fire in answer to the storm of shot and shell which fell around them. He rode up to the officer in command.

"The Zouaves are to retake the village, with the bayonet," he said.

The colonel gave the order, but the fire was so heavy that the men would not face it. Again and again the officer reiterated the order; standing exposed on the bank, in front of his men, to give them confidence. It was in vain, and the colonel looked towards Percy with an air of despair. Percy turned his horse, and galloped back to the general.

"The colonel has done all he can, sir, but the men won't advance."

"The fire is very heavy," the general said, "but we must have the village back again."

And he rode off, himself, to the battalion of Zouaves. The shot and shell were flying around him, but he sat on his horse as immovable as if at a review.

"My lads," he said, in a loud, clear tone, "generally the difficulty has been to prevent the Zouaves rushing to an attack. Don't let it be said that a French general had to repeat, to French Zouaves, an order to charge before they obeyed him."

In an instant the Zouaves were on their feet and, with a cheer, went at the village. The Germans in possession fired rapidly, as the French approached, and then hastily evacuated it; the Zouaves taking possession, and holding it, under a tremendous fire.

All the afternoon the battle raged, villages being taken and retaken, several times. The Germans, however, were gradually gaining ground. Some of the regiments of Mobiles had quite lost all order and discipline, and their officers in vain tried to persuade them to hold the position in which they were placed. Two of the staff officers were killed, three others wounded.

Percy had escaped, almost by a miracle. Over and over again, he had carried the general's orders across ground swept by the enemy's shot and shell. A horse had been killed under him, but he had not received even a scratch; and now, mounted upon the horse of one of the officers, who was killed, he was returning from carrying an order across a very open piece of ground, at full gallop. Suddenly he came upon a sight which -- hurried as he was, and exposed as was the position -- caused him instantly to draw his rein, and come to a full stop.

Illustration: The Children on the Battlefield.

There, in the open field, were two children: the one a boy, of six or seven years old; the other a little flaxen-haired, blue-eyed girl, of five. They were quietly picking flowers.

"What are you doing here?" Percy asked, in astonishment.

He spoke in French and, receiving no answer, repeated the question in German.

"What are you doing here?"

"If you please, sir," the boy answered, "I have been out in the wood, with Lizzie, to pick flowers; and when I came back there was a great fire in the house, and a great noise all round, and I couldn't find father and mother; and so we came out, to look for them."

Percy did not know what to do. It was too pitiful to leave the poor little creatures where they were; and yet, he could not carry them away. He had no doubt that their parents were hid in the woods.

"Look here," he said; "if I take Lizzie upon my horse, will you run along after me?"

"No, no," the little girl said, vehemently.

There was no time for parley.

"Look here, do you see those soldiers lying down in a ditch?" Percy asked, pointing to a line of Mobiles, not fifty yards in front.

The children nodded.

"Now look here, the best thing you can possibly do is to play at being soldiers. It is capital fun. You lie down quite flat in that ditch, and throw little stones over the bank. Don't you go away. Don't get up, whatever you do; and if you are good children, and play nicely, I will send father and mother to you, if I can find them. If they don't come, you go on playing at soldiers till all this noise stops; and then, when it is quite quiet, you go home, and wait there till father and mother come back."

The children were delighted with the idea, and threw themselves flat in the bottom of the ditch; and Percy went on again, at full gallop. The French were now being driven back, towards the point where the valley narrowed again; and many of the Mobiles were in full flight. General Cambriels, therefore, withdrew his artillery to a point where they could cover the movements; and then ordered a rapid retreat -- ten regiments of line, and the Zouaves, acting as rear guard.

It was already getting dark, and the movements were carried out with but slight loss. The Germans, contented with their success, attempted no movement in pursuit.



Chapter 12: The Surprise.


After the check in the Vosges, General Cambriels found it impossible to restore sufficient order, among the Mobiles, to enable him to show face again to the enemy. He was, besides, in want of many articles of urgent necessity. Half his force were shoeless; and the thin blouses which were -- as has been said -- all the covering that many of the Mobiles had, were ill calculated to resist the bitter cold which was already setting in. Ammunition, too, as well as food, was short.

The general determined, therefore, upon falling back upon Besancon, and reorganizing his forces there. A wound in his head, too, which was insufficiently healed when he took the command, had now broken out again; and his surgeon ordered absolute repose, for a while.

Upon the day of the fight, Ralph had ridden slowly to the rear, when he saw that the fight was going against the French. Hardened as he was by his work, and with an excellent constitution, his wound never for a moment assumed a troublesome aspect; but at the end of a week he was able -- keeping it, of course, in a sling -- to mount his horse, and report himself ready for duty. The headquarters were now at Besancon; and Ralph could, had he applied for it, have obtained leave to go to Dijon; but he had not done so, as he had been so lately at home, and he thought that the sight of his arm in a sling would be likely to make his mother more nervous, and anxious on their account, than before.

The Germans were still at some distance from Besancon, being watched by Colonel Tempe and his franc tireurs, and by the irregular forces. A considerable army was now fast gathering at Besancon, and the regimental and superior staff officers were hard at work at the organization As aides-de-camp, the boys had little to do; and therefore requested leave, for two or three days, to go up to their old friends, the franc tireurs of Dijon. The general at once granted the required permission; adding, with a smile:

"Don't forget you are officers now, lads, and get into any hare-brained adventures, you know; and be sure you are back on Thursday, as I expect General Michel -- my successor -- to arrive on Friday; and I shall have to give you, as part of my belongings."

"We are sure to be back, general."

And so they set off; taking, as usual, Tim Doyle with them, as orderly and servant.

"Faith, and I am glad enough to be out in the open again, Mister Ralph," Tim said, as they left Besancon behind. "After living out in the woods, for six weeks; there does not seem room to breathe, in a crowded town."

"It's jolly to be out again, Tim; but I don't know that I mind a town again, for a few days."

"Ah, it's all very well for the likes of yees, Mister Ralph -- with your officer's uniform, and your arm in a sling, and the girls all looking at you as a hero -- but for me it's different, entirely. Out in the open I feel that -- except when there's anything to do for your honors -- I am my own master, and can plase myself. Here in the town I am a common hussar; and my arm is just weary with saluting to all the fellows, with a sword by their side, that I meet in the street.

"Then there's no chance of any fighting, as long as we're shut up in the walls of a town; and what's the use of being decked up in uniform, except to fight? Is there any chance of just the least scrimmage in the world, while we are back again with the boys?" he asked, persuasively.

The boys laughed.

"Not much, Tim; but we shall be pretty close to the enemy, and something may turn up, at any moment. But surely you've had enough, in the last six weeks?"

"Pretty well, Mister Percy -- pretty well; but you see, the last affair didn't count."

"Oh, didn't it count!" Ralph said, looking at his arm. "I think it counted for two or three fights and, if you were not hit, I am sure you were fired at often enough to satisfy the most desperate lover of fighting, Tim."

"I was fired at often enough, I daresay, Mister Ralph; and I can't say that I liked it, entirely. It isn't so mighty pleasant -- sitting like a stiff statue behind the general, with the shells falling about you like peas, and not allowed the divarshin of a single shot back, in return.

"'Shoot away,' says I, 'as hard as you like; but let's shoot back, in return.'"

The boys laughed, and the day passed pleasantly as they rode, and talked. The dusk had already fallen when they reached a party of franc tireurs. It was not their own corps, nor could the officer in command tell exactly where they could find them.

"We are scattered over a considerable extent of country," he said; "and the colonel, alone, could tell you how we are all placed. I expect that he will be here, tonight; and your best plan will be to stay here, till he comes. We have not much to offer you, but such as it is, it is at your service."

After a moment's consultation, the boys agreed to accept the offer; as they had palpably more chance of meeting Colonel Tempe, there, than in a journey through the woods, at night; and in another ten minutes their horses were tied to trees, and they were sitting by a blazing fire, with the officers of franc tireurs. The village consisted of only three or four houses and, as there were fifty men in the party upon which they had come, they bivouacked under the trees, hard by.

"How far off are the Germans?" Ralph asked, when dinner was over; and they lay by the fire, smoking cigars.

"Ten miles or so," the officer answered, carelessly.

"No chance of their coming this way, I hope," Ralph laughed. "We were very nearly caught near Saverne, once."

"So I heard," the officer said, "but I am rather skeptical as to these night surprises. In nine cases out of ten -- mind, I don't mean for a moment that it was so in your case -- but in nine cases out of ten, these rumors of night attacks are all moonshine."

"Perhaps so," Ralph said, a little gravely -- for he had already noticed that the discipline was very different, among these men, than that to which he had been accustomed among the franc tireurs of Dijon; "perhaps so, but we can hardly be too careful.

"How do you all like Colonel Tempe?"

"The colonel would be an excellent fellow, were he not our colonel," the officer laughed. "He is a most unconscionable man. For ever marching, and drilling, and disciplining. If he had his way, he would make us like a regiment of line; as if there could be any good in carrying out all that sort of thing, with franc tireurs. He had about half of us together, for three or four days; and I give you my word it was as bad as slavery. Drill, drill, drill, from morning till night. I was heartily glad, I can tell you, when I got away with this detachment."

Ralph saw that his new acquaintance was one of that innumerable class who conceived that drill and discipline were absurdities, and that it was only necessary for a Frenchman to shoulder a gun for him to be a soldier; so he easily avoided argument, by turning the subject. For a couple of hours they chatted; and then, as the fire was burning low, and the men had already laid down to sleep, Ralph suggested that they should do the same.

"I will walk round the sentries first, with you, if you like," he said.

"Sentries!" the other said, with a laugh; "there is my sentry," and he pointed to a man standing, ten paces off, leaning against a tree. "The men have marched all day -- they only came in an hour before you did -- and I am not going to waste their strength by putting half of them out to watch the forest.

"No, no, I am no advocate for harassing my men."

"Good night, then," Ralph said, briefly, and he wrapped himself in his cloak, and lay down.

"We are not accustomed to this sort of thing, Percy," he whispered to his brother, in English, "and I don't like it. No wonder our franc tireurs do so badly, if this is a sample of their discipline."

"I don't like it either, Ralph. The Prussians are advancing; and if that fellow last heard of them as ten miles off, they are as likely as not to be only two. I shan't be sorry when morning comes."

"Nor I either, Percy. However, here we are, and we have no authority over this fellow; so we must make the best of it, and hope that -- for once -- folly will not have its just reward."

So saying, the boys remained silent for the night. But although silent, neither of them slept much -- Ralph especially, whose arm was still very sore, and at times painful, hardly closed his eyes. He told himself it was absurd, but he could not help listening, with painful attention.

Had the night been a quiet one, he need not have strained his ears; for as he knew, from the many hours he had passed at night upon guard, the hush is so intense -- in these great forests -- that one can hear the fall of a mountain stream, miles away; and the snapping of a twig, or almost the falling of a leaf, will catch the ear. The night, however, was windy; and the rustle of the pine forest would have deadened all sound, except anything sharp, and near.

The sentry did not appear similarly impressed with the necessity for any extraordinary attention. He was principally occupied in struggling against cold, and drowsiness. He walked up and down, he stamped his foot, hummed snatches of songs, yawned with great vigor, and so managed to keep awake for two hours; when he roused the next for duty, and lay down with a grunt of relief.

At last, after keeping awake for hours, Ralph dozed off. How long he slept, he knew not; but he was roused into full wakefulness by a touch on the shoulder, and by hearing Tim Doyle whisper:

"Hist, Mister Ralph, I've my doubts that there is something wrong. I couldn't sleep, in this camp without watch or outposts; and for the last quarter of an hour, I fancy I've been hearing noises. I don't know which way they are coming, but it seems to me they are all round us. I may be wrong, sir, but as sure as the piper -- "

"Hush, Tim!" Ralph said to the Irishman, who had crawled noiselessly along, and had lain down by his side.

"Percy, are you awake?"

"Yes, I woke at Tim's whisper. Listen."

They did listen; and distinctly, above the sighing of the wind, they could hear a rustling, cracking noise. Day was just breaking, but the light was not sufficiently strong to show objects with any distinctness, among the trees.

"By Jove, we are surrounded!" Percy said; and was just going to alarm the camp when the sentry, startled into wakefulness, challenged and fired.

The franc tireurs woke, and leaped to their feet. Percy and Tim were about to do the same, when Ralph held them down.

"Lie still," he said, "for your lives."

His words were not out of his lips, when a tremendous volley rang out all round them; and half the franc tireurs fell.

"Now!" Ralph said, leaping up, "make a rush for a house.

"To the houses, all of you," he shouted, loudly. "It is our only chance. We shall be shot down, here, like sheep."

The officer of the franc tireurs had already atoned for his carelessness, by his life; and the men obeyed Ralph's call and, amidst a heavy fire, rushed across the fifty yards of open space to the houses. The door was burst in, with the rush.

Ralph had not stopped at the first house but, followed by his brother and Tim Doyle, had run farther on; and entered the last house in the village.

"Why did you not go in with the others, Ralph? We have no chance of defending ourselves, here. We have only our revolvers."

"We have no chance of defending ourselves anywhere, Percy," Ralph said. "There must be a couple of hundred of them, at least; and not above fifteen or twenty, at most, of the franc tireurs gained the houses. Resistance is utterly useless; and yet, had I been with those poor fellows, I could not have told them to surrender, when they would probably be shot, five minutes afterwards. We should be simply throwing away our lives, without doing the least good."

There was a heavy firing now heard and, a moment after, half a dozen shots were fired through the window. Then there was a rush of soldiers towards the door, which Ralph had purposely left open.

"We surrender," Ralph shouted, in German, coming forward to meet them. "We are French officers."

"Don't fire," a voice said, and then a young officer came forward.

"You are not franc tireurs?" he asked, for the light was still insufficient to enable him to distinguish uniforms.

"We are officers of the army, upon General Cambriels' staff. This man is an orderly.

"Here are our swords. We surrender, as prisoners of war."

The German officer bowed.

"Keep your swords, for the present, gentlemen. I am not in command."

At this moment, another officer came up.

"Who have we here, Von Hersen? Why do you make prisoners?"

"They are two staff officers, major."

"Hem," said the major, doubtfully.

"Well, if you are an officer," he continued, "order your men to cease their resistance."

The franc tireurs, most of whom had taken refuge in the same cottage, were still defending themselves desperately; and were keeping up a heavy fire, from the windows.

"I will order them to surrender, at once," Ralph said, quietly; "if you give me your word that they shall be treated as prisoners of war."

"I will do nothing of the sort, sir," the German answered.

"Then I shall certainly not advise them to surrender," Ralph said, firmly. "I have no authority, whatever, over them; but if I give advice, it would be that they should sell their lives as dearly as possible."

The officer swore a deep German oath, and strode off. For five more minutes the fight continued round the cottage, many of the Germans falling; then a rush was made, there was a fierce contest inside the house -- shouts, shrieks, cries for mercy -- and then all was still.

The young Barclays and Tim were now told to sit down near a tree, at a short distance off; with two sentries, with loaded rifles, standing over them. The German soldiers took from the houses what few articles they fancied, and then set fire to them; sitting down and eating their breakfast as the flames shot up. At a short distance from where the Barclays were sitting was a group of some eight or ten franc tireurs, and six or seven peasants, guarded by some soldiers.

Near them the German major and two lieutenants were talking. One of the young men appeared to take little interest in the conversation; but the other was evidently urging some point, with great earnestness; and the major was equally plainly refusing his request, for he stamped his foot angrily, and shook his head.

"What a type that major is, of the brutal species of German," Ralph said. "One used to meet them, sometimes. Their officers are either particularly nice fellows, mere machines, or great brutes; apparently we have a specimen of each of them, here."

The officers passed near enough for the Barclays to catch what they were saying.

The young lieutenant was very pale.

"For the last time, major, I implore you."

"For the last time, Lieutenant von Hersen," the major said, brutally, "I order you to do your duty and, by Heavens, if you speak another word, I will put you in arrest!"

The young lieutenant turned silently away, called up twenty men, and ordered them to place the franc tireurs and the peasants against a wall.

"This is horrible, Ralph," Percy said. "That scoundrel is going to shoot them, in cold blood."

"I protest against this execution," Ralph said, in a loud tone, advancing towards the major, "as a cold-blooded murder, and a violation of all the rights of war."

"Hold your tongue, sir," the German major said, turning to him furiously, "or, by Heavens, I will put you up there, too!"

"You dare not," Ralph said, firmly. "Outrage, as you do, every law of civilization and humanity; you dare not shoot an officer of the army, in cold blood."

The major turned black with passion.

"By Heavens!" he exclaimed.

But the officer who had not -- hitherto -- interposed, threw himself before him.

"Pardon me, major," he said, respectfully, "but the Frenchman is right. It would bring discredit upon the whole army to touch these prisoners of war.

"In the other matter, I have nothing to say. The order has been published that franc tireurs, and peasants sheltering them, shall be shot; and it is not for me to discuss orders, but to obey them -- but this is a matter affecting all our honors."

The major stood, for a moment, irresolute; but he knew well that the German military authorities would punish, probably with death, the atrocity which he meditated; and he said hoarsely, to some of the men near:

"Tie their arms behind their backs, and take them farther into the wood."

Ralph, his brother, and Tim Doyle were hurried into the wood by their guards but -- strict as is the discipline of the German army -- they could see that they disapproved, in the highest degree, of the conduct of their commanding officer.

They were still near enough to see what was passing in the village. Not a man of the franc tireurs begged his life, but stood upright against the wall. Two of the peasants imitated their example, as did a boy of not over thirteen years of age. Two other lads of the same age, and a peasant, fell on their knees and prayed piteously for life.

The young officer turned round towards the major in one, now mute, appeal. It was in vain.

"Put your rifles within a foot of their heads," the lieutenant said. "Fire!"

When the smoke cleared away, the soldiers were standing alone; and the peasants and franc tireurs lay, in a confused mass, on the ground.

The lieutenant walked up to the major with a steady step, but with a face as pale as ashes.

"I have done my duty, Major Kolbach; your orders are obeyed."

Then, without another word, he drew out his revolver, put it rapidly to his temple, and blew out his brains [an historical fact].

Brutal as Major Kolbach was, he started back in horror as the young lieutenant fell dead at his feet; while a cry of surprise and consternation broke from the men. The major did not say a word, but turned away and paced up and down, with disturbed steps; while the other lieutenant bent over the body of his comrade and, seeing that he was dead, in a hushed voice ordered the men who had run up to dig a grave, under the trees, and bring him there.

When this was done he ordered the men to fall in -- placing the Barclays, and Tim in their midst -- and then went up to the major and saluted, saying coldly that the men were ready to march. The major nodded, signed to the orderly who was holding his horse to approach, vaulted into the saddle, and rode along the road back toward the main body of the army. The lieutenant gave the word, and the column marched off; leaving behind it the still smoking houses, and the still warm bodies of some sixty men.

There was a general gloom over the faces of the men; and no one could suppose, from their air, that they were returning from a successful expedition, in which they had annihilated a body of enemy fifty strong, with the loss of only five or six of their own men. Discipline was, however, too strict for a word of blame, or even of comment to be spoken; and not a sound was heard but the heavy, measured tramp as the troops marched back through the forests. The major rode on, moodily, some forty or fifty yards ahead of the main body.

They had not gone half a mile before there was a shot fired in the wood, close to the road. The major gave a start, and nearly fell from his horse; then recovered himself, and turned to ride back to the column, when there was another shot, and he fell off his horse, heavily, to the ground.

The column had instinctively halted, and the lieutenant gave the word, "Load."

A shout of triumph was heard in the wood, "Thirty-one!" and then all was still.

"That's the old fellow who saved my life, ten days ago, Percy," Ralph said; "and by Jove! much obliged to him as I was, then, I do think that I am more grateful now."

Finding that the shots were not repeated, some twenty or thirty skirmishers were sent into the woods; but returned, in ten minutes, without finding any trace of the man who had shot the major.

The lieutenant now took the command. There was a continuation of the halt, for ten minutes, while the major was hastily buried by the roadside; a rough cross being put up to mark the spot, and a deep cross cut made in the two nearest trees so that, even if the cross were overthrown, the place of the burial might be found afterwards, if necessary. Then the corps marched on again.

The first use which the lieutenant made of his authority -- even before giving directions for the burial -- was to order the cords of the prisoners to be cut. Then the corps continued its march and, by the brightened faces of the men, it could be seen easily enough how unpopular their late commander had been; and that they cherished but slight animosity against the slayer. In a short time they struck up one of their marching songs and -- prisoners as they were -- the Barclays could not but admire the steady, martial bearing of the men, as they strode along, making the woods echo with the deep chorus.

In three hours' march they reached the village which the troops had left, the evening before, to surprise the franc tireurs; having, as Ralph had learned from the lieutenant in command, received information from a spy of their arrival at the village, late at night; and having started at once, under his guidance.

Here a considerable German force was assembled. The prisoners were not unkindly treated; but Tim Doyle was, of course, separated from them. Some astonishment was expressed at their youth; but it was assumed that they had been pupils at Saint Cyr or the Polytechnic, many of whom received commissions owing to the impossibility of finding officers for the immense new levies. Several of the officers came in to chat with them and, as these had been also engaged in the fights, ten days before, there were many questions to ask, upon either side.

The boys learned that they would be sent on, next day; would be marched to Luneville, and sent thence by train.

"They are a fine set of fellows," Ralph said, when their last visitor had left them. "Good officers, unquestionably; and when they are nice, capital fellows. I can't make out why they should be so brutal, as soldiers; for they are undoubtedly a kindly race."

"No doubt," Percy said, but he was thinking of other matters, and not paying much attention to his brother.

"Do you think we have any chance of making our escape, Ralph?"

"Oh, we shall escape, fast enough," Ralph answered, confidently. "With our knowledge of German, and looking so young, there can be no great difficulty about it, when we once get to the end of our journey; but it's no use our thinking about it, at present. We shall be a good deal too closely looked after. I only hope they will send us to Mayence, or Coblentz; and not to one of the fortresses at the other end of Germany.

"Mind, we must not give our parole."

The next day, when they were summoned to start, they found that there were fifty or sixty other prisoners who had been brought in, from other directions. Some belonged to line regiments; but the greater portion, by far, were Mobiles who, in the retreat of General Cambriels, had been cut off or left behind and, after hiding in the woods for some days, were being gradually found and brought in. The Barclays were the only officers. They therefore took their places at the head of the prisoners; who formed, four deep -- with an escort of Uhlans -- and set off on their march.

It was four days' march. The weather was cold and clear, and the Barclays were but little fatigued when they marched into Luneville. The greater part of the prisoners were, however, in a pitiable condition. Some were so footsore that they could hardly put one foot before the other. Others tottered with fatigue, and the men of the escort frequently used the flats of their swords, to compel them to keep together. As they marched through the streets of Luneville, the people in the streets uncovered; and the women waved their hands to them, and pressed forward and offered them fruit and bread, in spite of the orders of the escort.

They were taken straight to the railway station, where they were put into a shed. Ralph and Percy had gained the goodwill of the sergeant in command of the escort, by the manner in which they had aided him by interpreting to the rest of the prisoners, and by doing their best to cheer them up, and take things smooth; and they now asked him to request the officer in command, at the railway station, to allow them to walk about until the train started, on parole. The request was -- upon the favorable report of the sergeant -- granted at once; and they were told that no train would go off until next morning, and that they might sleep in the town, if they chose.

Thanking the officer for the permission, they went out of the station; when a tall, big-bearded German sergeant stopped before them.

"Donner wetter!" he exclaimed, "so here you are, again!"

The boys gave a little start; for they recognized, at once, the sergeant who had so closely questioned them in the cabaret, upon the night when they had carried off and hung the schoolmaster. Ralph saw, at once, the importance of conciliating the man; as a report from him of the circumstances might render their position a most unpleasant one and -- even in the event of nothing worse coming of it -- would almost ensure their captivity in some prison upon the farther side of Prussia, instead of at one of the frontier fortresses.

"Ah, sergeant, how are you?" he said, gaily. "It is our fate, you see, to be made prisoners. You were very nearly taking us, and now here we are."

"A nice trick you played me," the sergeant said, surlily, "with your woodcutters, and your lame brother, and your sick sister, and your cask of beer. I got a nice reprimand over that affair."

"Come, sergeant," Ralph said, laughing, "let bygones be bygones. All is fair in war, you know, and we did not touch a single hair of any of your men's heads. All we wanted was the schoolmaster. It would not do you any good to talk about it, now, and it might do us harm. It's quite bad enough for us, as it is."

"You're nice boys, you are," the sergeant said, with his face relaxing into a smile. "To think of my being taken in, by two lads like you. Well, you did it well -- monstrously well, I will say -- for you never flinched an eyelash.

"So you are officers, after all. I never suspected anything about it, till three hours afterwards, when we went to relieve the sentry; and found him lying there, tied up like a bundle. We couldn't think, even then, what it meant, for you had made no attack; and it wasn't till morning that we found that the old schoolmaster had been fetched out of bed, and carried off on the heads of twenty men.

"Well, it was well done, and I bear you no malice."

"That's right, sergeant. Now come and have a jug of beer with us; you know, we had one with you, before. Don't you remember, we drank to the health of King William? If you like, you shall return the pledge, by drinking to Napoleon."

The sergeant laughed.

"I'll do that," he said. "You said, if you remember, when I proposed the king, that you did not wish to hear of his death; and I can say the same for your Napoleon. Especially," he added with a chuckle, "as he's our prisoner."

The boys went into a cabaret near, and drank a glass of beer with the sergeant; and then -- saying "Goodbye," very heartily -- left him, and went into the town; well pleased to have got so well out of a scrape which might have been a very unpleasant one.

They slept at a hotel, and were down at the station at the appointed time. It was a long journey -- thirty-six hours -- to Mayence. But the boys were too pleased -- when they saw the line that the train was following -- to have cared, had it been twice as far. The difficulties of escape from the western fortresses would have been immense; whereas, at Mayence, they were comparatively close to the frontier. At Mayence, too, the position of the prisoners was comfortable. They were allowed to live anywhere in the town, and to take their meals when they chose. They were obliged, twice a day, to answer at the muster roll; and were not, of course, allowed to go outside the fortifications.

The one drawback, to the position of the French officers, was the utterly insufficient sum which the Prussian Government allowed them for board and lodging -- only forty-five francs a month; that is to say, fifteen pence a day. It is needless to say that the officers who had nothing else to depend upon literally starved, upon this pittance; which was the more inexcusable that the French Government allowed more than twice this sum to the German officers who were taken prisoners.

Upon this head, however, the boys had no discomfort. They had plenty of money in their pockets, for present uses; and they knew that they could obtain further supplies by writing home, via Switzerland. They were, therefore, unaffectedly glad when the train came to a stop at the station of Mayence, and the order was given for all to alight.



Chapter 13: The Escape.


The first thing that the Barclays did, after reporting themselves, was to settle themselves in a lodging -- no very easy thing to find, for the town was crowded with troops, and prisoners. However, as they were able to pay a higher sum than the great majority of French officers, in their position, they had no very great difficulty in finding a place to suit them. The rooms were purposely taken in a large house, with a staircase common to a number of families living on different floors; so that anyone going in or out would be less likely to be noticed than in a smaller house. They were also careful in choosing rooms so placed that they could go in and out of the door on to the staircase, without being noticed by the people with whom they lodged.

Ralph's arm was now extremely painful, the long march having inflamed the wound. He had, therefore, on reporting himself, begged that a surgeon might attend him; and had also asked, as a great favor, that his servant -- the hussar Doyle -- might be allowed to remain with him; stating that, in that case, he would pay for his lodgings and provide him with food. As the prison in which the private soldiers were confined was, at the time, crowded; the request was complied with.

For the next week Ralph suffered greatly with his arm, and had to keep his room. After that the inflammation subsided; and in another fortnight he was able to dispense, for the first time since he received his wound, with a sling. In the meantime he had made the acquaintance of the people with whom he lodged; who were very kind to their wounded lodger, and whose hearts he completely won by being able to chat to them in their native tongue, like one of themselves. The family consisted of a father, who was away all day at the railway station, where he was a clerk; the mother, a garrulous old woman; and a daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of about Ralph's age, who assisted her mother to wait upon them. She had a lover, away as a soldier in the army besieging Paris; and the thought that he might be wounded, or taken prisoner, made her very pitiful to the young officers.

Ralph Barclay had -- for some days -- been intending to sound her as to her willingness to aid them when she, herself, began it one day. She had cleared away their dinner, and was standing -- as she often did -- talking with them, when she lowered her voice, so as not to be overheard by her mother in the next room:

"I wonder you don't try to get away. Lots of French officers have done so."

"That is just what we are thinking of, Christine. We have only been waiting till my arm was out of a sling, and we want you to help us."

"How can I help you?" the girl asked.

"In the first place, you can buy us clothes. It would excite suspicion if we were to buy them, ourselves. Percy and I were thinking of going as girls -- not pretty girls, of course, like you, Christine -- but great, rough peasant girls."

Christine laughed, and colored

"You would be too tall," she said.

"We should be rather tall," Ralph said, ruefully. "We have grown so horribly, in the last few months. Still, some women are as tall as we are."

"Yes, some women are," Christine said, "but men look after them and say, 'What big, gawky women!' and you don't want to be looked after. If people did so, they would see that you didn't walk one bit like a woman, and that your shoulders were very wide, and your arms very strong, and -- 

"Oh no! It wouldn't do at all. I must think it over.

"I suppose you want that great blue-coated bear to go?" and she nodded at Tim Doyle who -- not being able to speak a word of her language -- was always indulging in the most absurd pantomime of love and devotion; causing screams of laughter to the merry German girl.

"Yes, Tim must go too, Christine."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the girl. "Fancy him as a woman."

"What is she saying about me, Mister Percy?"

"She says you would make a very pretty woman, Tim."

"Tare and ages, Mister Percy," Tim said, taking it quite seriously, "how could I do it, at all? I'd have to shave off all my beautiful beard and mustaches and, even then, I doubt if you would mistake me for a woman."

The boys screamed with laughter, and translated the Irishman's speech to Christine; who laughed so that her mother came into the room.

"Look here, children," she said, smiling, "I don't want to know what you are talking about. If anything of any sort happens, I may be asked questions; and I don't want to have to tell stories. I can't help hearing, if you leave the door open, and laugh so -- indeed, all the neighborhood might hear it; so please shut the door, in future."

So saying, she again went back to her work in the next room.

"Goodbye, I'm going, too," Christine said. "I will think it over, by tomorrow morning, and tell you what you are to do."

The next morning, the boys were very anxious to hear Christine's proposals; for although they had quite made up their minds to try their own plan, if hers was not feasible, still they felt that, with her knowledge of the country, she was likely, at any rate, to give them good advice.

Until she had cleared away breakfast, Christine said nothing. Then she took out her knitting, and sat against the window.

"Now," she began, "I will tell you what I have thought of. It would be easy enough, if it was not for him. He's so big, and so red, and he doesn't speak German.

"Oh dear, he's very tiresome!" and she shook her head at Tim; who smiled, laid his hand on his breast, and endeavored to look affecting.

Christine laughed.

"The only thing I can think of, for him, is that he shall go out as a Jew peddler; with one of their broad hats, and a tray of little trinkets. He might pass, if none of the soldiers took it into their heads to buy."

The proposition was translated to Tim Doyle.

"Is it me, your honor -- me, Tim Doyle, a good Catholic, and come of honest people -- that's to turn myself into a haythin Jew?" the Irishman burst out, with great indignation. "It was bad enough that I should be made into a woman, but a haythin Jew! I put it to your honors, it's nayther sinsible nor dacent."

The boys went off in screams of laughter. Christine laughed for a moment, too, when they translated Tim's speech to her; and then looked indignant that the proposition, which had cost her so much thought, should be so scornfully rejected.

Tim saw the look, and at once went on, persuasively:

"Sure now, darlint Miss Christine, don't be angry wid me, out of your bright blue eyes! But is it raisonable -- is it natural to ask a Christian man to make a haythin Jew of himself? Would you like it, yourself?"

When the boys could stop laughing, they translated Tim's appeal.

"Did you ever see such an absurd man?" she said, laughing. "As if it could make any difference to his religion. Tell him I am a good Catholic, too, but I should not mind dressing up as a Jewess."

"Sure, thin, darlint," Tim exclaimed, when her speech was translated, "I will go as a Jew, directly, if you'll go with me and be my Jewess."

Christine laughed, blushed, shook her head and said, "Nonsense!" upon hearing Tim's proposition.

"But seriously, Christine," Ralph said, "the objection which you mention to the Jew pedlar's disguise is important. Full as the streets are of soldiers looking about, he could hardly hope to go from here through the streets, and out at the gate, without someone asking him about the contents of his box."

Christine allowed -- a little pettishly, at the failure of her plan -- that it certainly was likely.

"The real difficulty is to get outside the gate," Ralph said, thoughtfully. "After that, I should have no fear."

"What are you thinking of doing, then?" Christine asked.

"I was thinking of dressing Percy, and myself, in the clothes of young peasants; and putting Tim into something of the same sort, with a great bandage round his face. Then I should say that we were two lads, from some place near the frontier, who had come here to meet our uncle; who had had his jaw shattered, in battle. That would explain Tim's not being able to talk at all; and as to looks, he is red enough for a German, anywhere."

"Yes," Christine said, "that would do, very well; but of course, you would be liable to be asked for papers."

"Of course," Ralph said, "but we must risk something."

"I have an idea," Christine said, suddenly, clapping her hands. "I have some cousins living at Wiesbaden. These are three boys, and I am sure they would do anything for me. I will go out to Wiesbaden, tomorrow, and ask them to lend me their papers, just for one day. Wiesbaden is not your way, at all; but for that very reason you would get out more easily there, and be less likely to be suspected, or followed. You could cross the Rhine somewhere near Saint Goar.

"I shall have to tell some sad stories to my cousins, and coax them a great deal. Still, I daresay I shall succeed; and then you can go boldly across the bridge, and into the railway station, and take a ticket for Wiesbaden. You can have an envelope, ready directed, and put the papers into the post there."

"The very thing, Christine. You are a darling!" Ralph exclaimed, catching her by the waist and kissing her, before she had time to think of resistance.

"I shan't do anything at all for you," Christine said, laughing and blushing, "if you misbehave in that way."

"I couldn't help it, Christine -- not even if your mother had been looking on.

"And now, about our clothes."

"I couldn't buy them," Christine said. "I never could go into a shop and buy men's clothes."

The thing was so evident that, for a moment, the boys' looks fell. Then Christine said, coloring very much:

"There is a box, in my room, of Karl's things. He is my cousin, you know; and he was working as a gardener, here, till he had to go out in the Landwehr -- so, of course, he left his things here, for us to take care of. He is about your size. I will take out one suit -- it won't hurt it -- and you can put it on, and go out into the town, and buy the things for all three of you."

"Capital!" the boys exclaimed. "It couldn't be better."

Ten minutes afterwards, Ralph went down the stairs and out into the street, dressed as a German laborer in his best suit. He was a little uneasy, at first; but no one noticed him, and he was soon in a shop, haggling over the price of a peasant's coat -- as if the matter of a thaler, one way or other, was a thing of vital importance to him. He bought the three suits at three different shops -- as he thought that it would look suspicious, if he were to get them all at the same -- and in an hour was back again. An hour afterwards, Christine started for Wiesbaden.

The Barclays had reason to congratulate themselves that they had not longer deferred their preparations for escape; for when presenting themselves, as usual, that afternoon at the roll call, they were told that they must hold themselves in readiness to leave for one of the eastern fortresses, upon the following evening; as another large batch of prisoners, from Metz, was expected to arrive upon the following day.

In the evening, Christine returned from Wiesbaden; which is distant only a quarter of an hour, by rail, from Mayence.

"I have got them," she said, "but if you only knew the trouble I have had! What a bother boys are, to be sure!"

"Especially cousins -- eh, Christine?"

"Especially cousins," Christine said, demurely.

After thanking her very warmly for her kindness, the Barclays started out, and bought a variety of things which they thought might be useful. They also bought a pretty gold watch and chain, to give to Christine as a parting present.

The next morning they answered, as usual, to their early roll call; and then, returning at once to their lodgings, changed their clothes for those which Ralph had purchased. It was agreed that they should not say goodbye to Christine's mother; in order that, whatever she might suspect, she might be able to say that she knew nothing of any idea, on the part of her lodgers, to make their escape. Then Christine herself came in, to say goodbye; and went half wild with delight, at the present. Then she said goodbye, kissed the boys -- without any affectation of objecting to it -- and then went to a window, to watch if they went safely down the street.

The boys had no uneasiness, whatever, upon their own account -- for they had before passed so easily, among the Prussian troops, that they felt quite confident in their disguise -- but they were uncomfortable as to Tim, whose inability to answer questions would have at once betrayed them, had anyone addressed him. They had not ventured to bandage up his face, as if wounded; as he would have naturally, in that case, had a military pass. As the best thing they could think of, they had shoved a large lump of cotton into one of his cheeks -- which gave him the appearance of having a swelled face -- and had instructed him to frequently put his hand up to it, as if in great pain. Tim had plenty of shrewdness, and acted his part admirably.

They passed across the bridge of boats, without question; and into the railway station, which is just opposite its end. Here soldiers and other officials swarmed; but the three walked along carelessly, the two boys chatting together in German, Tim walking with his hand up to his face, and giving an occasional stamp of pain. He sat down with Percy on a seat in the station, while Ralph went to the little window where tickets were being delivered. There were a good many people waiting and, when it came to Ralph's turn, and he put the papers in at the window, and asked for three third-class tickets to Wiesbaden, the clerk scarcely glanced at them; but handed the tickets over, without a question.

They then went into the third-class waiting room, and sat down. There were a good many peasants, and others there; and when the doors opened for them to go on to the platform, and enter the carriages, they saw it was hopeless to try and get a carriage to themselves. They did, therefore, the best they could; putting Tim next to the window, while Percy sat next to, and Ralph opposite to him. The rest of the compartment was filled with country people.

"He seems in great pain," a good-natured peasant woman said, to Ralph; as Tim rocked himself backwards and forwards, in his anguish.

"Yes, he is very bad," Ralph said.

"Toothache?" asked the woman.

"Worse than that," Ralph said, gravely, "an abscess in the jaw. He has just been to the hospital."

"Poor fellow!" the woman said. "Why does he not poultice it?

"I should advise you to poultice," she said, addressing Tim.

Tim gave a grunt -- which might have meant anything -- and Ralph said, in a whisper:

"Don't talk to him. Poor uncle, he is so bad tempered, now, it puts him in a rage if anyone speaks to him; because it hurts him so, to answer. At ordinary times, he is very good tempered; but now, oh!" and Ralph made a little pantomime, to express the extreme badness of Tim's temper.

"You are not of Wiesbaden, are you?" the woman asked. "I do not know you by sight."

"No," Ralph said; "we are from Holzhausen, a village some eight miles upon the other side of Wiesbaden."

"Ah!" the woman said, "I have a sister living there; surely you must know her. She is the wife of Klopstock, the carpenter."

"Surely," Ralph said, "she is my neighbor; everyone knows her. She is very like you."

"Well now, you are the first person who has ever said that," the woman said, surprised. "I am so short, and she is so tall."

"Yes, she is tall -- very tall," Ralph said, very gravely; "but there is something about the expression of your eyes which reminds me of Mrs. Klopstock.

"Yes, the more I look at you, the more I see it," and Ralph looked so earnestly, at the woman, that Percy had the greatest difficulty in preventing himself going off into a shout of laughter.

"I wonder I have never seen you, at Holzhausen," Ralph continued.

"Well," the woman said, "it is years since I have been there. You see, it is a long way, and my sister often comes into Wiesbaden, and I see her; but in truth, her husband and I don't get on very well together. You know his temper is -- " and she lifted up her hands.

"Yes, indeed," Ralph said. "His temper is, as you say, terrible. Between ourselves, it is so well known that we have a saying, 'As bad tempered as Klopstock the carpenter.' One can't say more than that -- 

"But we are at Wiesbaden. Good morning."

"Good morning. I hope your uncle's tooth will be better, ere long."

"I hope so, indeed, for all our sakes," Ralph said. "He is as bad as Klopstock, at present."

So saying, they got out of the train and walked into the town. When they had separated from the crowd, Percy could restrain himself no longer, and went off into a scream of laughter.

"What is it, Mister Percy?" Tim asked, opening his lips for the first time since they had left the house.

"Oh, Tim, if you had but heard!" Percy said, when he recovered his voice. "Do you know you are as bad tempered as Klopstock, the carpenter?"

"Sure, I never heard tell of him, Mister Percy; and if I have been bad tempered, I haven't said much about it; and if the carpenter had a wad of cotton as big as a cricket ball in one cheek, as I have, it's small blame to him if he was out of temper."

Both the boys laughed, this time; and then Ralph explained the whole matter to Tim, who laughed more heartily than either of them.

"Which way shall we go, Ralph?"

"I looked at the map, the last thing before starting, Percy; and I noticed that the road went out past the gambling place. I dare not take out the map again, to look at the plan of the town -- it would look too suspicious -- so let us wander about, till we find the place. It has large grounds, so we cannot miss it."

They were not long in finding the place they were looking for. There was no mistaking it; with its long arcades leading up to the handsome conversation rooms, its piece of water, and its beautifully laid-out grounds.

"I should like to go in, and have a look at it," Percy said. "I can hear the band playing, now."

"So should I," Ralph said, "but time is too precious. They will find out at the muster, this afternoon, that we are missing and, as we answered this morning, they will know that we cannot have got far. We had better put as many miles between us as we can.

"First of all, though, let us put those papers Christine got us into the envelope, and drop them into that post box. We should not do badly, either, to buy three dark-colored blankets before we start. It is terribly cold; and we shall want them, at night."

They therefore turned up into the town again; and then Ralph separated from the others, and went in and bought the blankets. Ten minutes later they were walking along, at a steady pace, from the town. Each carried a stick. The boys carried theirs upon their shoulder; with a bundle, containing a change of clothes and other articles, slung upon it. Tim carried his bundle in one hand, and walked using his stick in the other. When a short distance out of the town, they stopped in a retired place; and put some strips of plaster upon Tim's cheeks, and wrapped up his face with a white bandage. It was, as he said, "mighty uncomfortable," but as he was now able to dispense with the ball of cotton in his mouth, he did not so much mind it.

The day was bitterly cold, for it was now the beginning of the second week of November; but the party strode on, full of the consciousness of freedom. They met but few people, upon their way; and merely exchanged a brief good day with those they did meet. They had brought some bread and cold meat with them, from Mayence; and therefore had no need to go into any shops, at the villages they passed.

They did not dare to sleep in a house, as it was certain that some official would inquire for their papers; and therefore, when it became dark, they turned off from the road and made for a wood, at a short distance from it. Here they ate their supper, laid a blanket on the ground, put the bundles down for pillows, and lay down close together, putting the other two blankets over them.

"It's mighty cold," Tim said, "but we might be worse."

"It's better than a prison in Pomerania, by a long way," Ralph answered. "By the look of the sky, and the dropping of the wind, I think we shall have snow before morning."

At daybreak, next morning, they were up; but it was some little time before they could start, so stiffened were their limbs with the cold. Ralph's prognostication as to the weather had turned out right, and a white coating of snow lay over the country. They now set off and walked, for an hour, when they arrived at a large village. Here it was agreed they should go in, and buy something to eat. They entered the ale house, and called for bread, cheese, and beer.

The landlord brought it and, as they expected, entered into conversation with them. After the first remarks -- on the sharpness of the weather -- Ralph produced a tin of portable soup, and asked the landlord if he would have it heated, for their uncle.

"He cannot, as you see, eat solid food," Ralph said; "He had his jaw broken by a shell, at Woerth."

"Poor fellow!" the landlord said, hastening away with the soup.

"Are you going far?" he asked, on his return.

"To Saint Goar," Ralph said.

"But why does he walk?" the landlord asked. "He could have been sent home, by train."

"Of course he could," Ralph said. "We walked over to see him, and intended to have walked back again; but when the time came for us to start, he said he would come, too. The surgeon said he was not fit to go. Uncle had made up his mind to be off and, as the surgeon would not give him an order, he started to walk. He says it does not hurt him so much as the jolting of the train, and we shall be home to breakfast."

An hour later they arrived at Saint Goarshaus. They were now quite out of the track which prisoners escaping from Mayence would be likely to take, and had not the slightest difficulty in getting a boat to cross the Rhine.

"How beautiful the river is, here," Percy said.

"Yes it is, indeed," Ralph answered. "I believe that this is considered one of the most lovely spots on the whole river. I can't say that I think that that railway, opposite, improves it."

They landed at Saint Goar, and tramped gaily on to Castellan, and slept in a barn near that village.

The next morning they were off before daybreak and, eight miles farther, crossed the Moselle at Zell. They left the road before they arrived at Alf; for they were now approaching the great road between Coblentz and the south, and might come upon bodies of troops upon the march, or halting; and might be asked troublesome questions. They therefore struck upon a country lane and, keeping among the hills, crossed the main road between Bertrich and Wittlech; and slept in a copse, near Dudeldf. They had walked five-and-thirty miles, and were so dead beat that even the cold did not keep them awake.

Next morning they got a fresh supply of bread and cheese, at a tiny village between Dudeldf and Bittburg and, leaving the latter place to the left, made straight for the frontier, across the hills. The road to the frontier ran through Bittburg; but they were afraid of keeping to it, as there were sure to be troops at the frontier. Several times they lost their way; but the pocket compass and map, which they had brought with them, stood them in good stead and, late in the evening, they arrived at the stream which forms the frontier. It was, fortunately, very low; for the cold had frozen up its sources. They had, therefore, little difficulty in crossing and, tired as they were, gave a cheer upon finding themselves in Luxembourg.

They tramped along merrily, until they came to a cottage; where they boldly entered, and were received with the greatest kindness, and hospitality. The Luxembourg people at once feared and hated Prussia, and were delighted to do anything in their power for the escaped prisoners. The peasant made a blazing fire, and some hot coffee; and the tired travelers felt what a blessing it was to sit down without listening, every moment, for the step of an enemy.

The peasants told them, however, that they were not yet altogether safe for that, owing to the complaints of Prussia, both the Dutch and Belgian Governments were arresting, and detaining, escaped prisoners passing through their territories. After some discussion the boys agreed that, next morning, they should dress themselves in the change of clothes they had brought -- which were ordinary shooting suits -- and should leave their other clothes behind; and then walk as far as Spa, twenty miles to the north. They would excite no suspicion in the minds of anyone who saw them arrive; as they would merely be taken for three Englishmen, staying at one of the numerous hotels there, returning from a walk. Their feet however were so much swollen, the next morning, that they were glad to remain another day quiet in the cottage; and the following day they started, and walked gaily into Spa.

After strolling about the place, some time, they went to the railway station at the time the evening train started for Brussels; asked for tickets -- in very English French -- and, at eleven o'clock at night, entered Brussels. Here their troubles were over. A good night's rest, in a good hotel, completely set them up again and, the next morning, they left by train for Dunkirk.

There they reported themselves to the French officer in command; and received permission to go on board a Government steamer which was to leave, the next morning, for Cherbourg.



Chapter 14: A Perilous Expedition.


Upon the eleventh of November the boys arrived at Tours. They had started for that place, as the national headquarters, the moment they arrived at Cherbourg. At Tours men's hopes were high for, a week before, Aurelles de Paladine had driven back Von der Tann, and reoccupied Orleans. Every hour fresh troops were arriving, and passing forwards. The town was literally thronged with soldiers, of all sorts: batteries of artillery, regiments of cavalry, squadrons of Arab Spahis -- looking strangely out of place in their white robes, and unmoved countenance, in this scene of European warfare -- franc tireurs, in every possible variety of absurd and unsuitable uniform.

In all this din and confusion, the young Barclays felt quite bewildered. The first thing was, evidently, to get new uniforms; then to report themselves. There was no difficulty about the former matter, for every tailor in Tours had, for the time being, turned military outfitter and, by dint of offering to pay extra, their uniforms were promised for the next morning. That matter settled, they determined to go at once to the Prefecture, and report themselves.

As they turned out of the crowded Rue Royal, they received two hearty slaps on the shoulder, which almost knocked them down; while a hearty voice exclaimed:

"My dear boys, I am glad to see you!"

They looked round and -- to their astonishment and delight -- saw Colonel Tempe. For a minute or two, the hand shakings and greetings were so hearty that no questions could be asked.

"I thought a German prison would not hold you long, boys," the colonel said. "I saw your father, as I came through Dijon; and I said to him that I should be surprised if you did not turn up soon, especially when I heard from him that you were at Mayence, only two days' tramp from the frontier."

"But what are you doing here, colonel?"

"Just at present, I am working at headquarters. Between ourselves, the army of the east is coming round to join Aurelles. Our poor fellows were pretty nearly used up, and I found that I could do little real good with the other corps. So I gave up the command; and was sent here to confer with Gambetta, and he has kept me.

"Now, what are you going to do?"

"We were going to report ourselves, colonel."

"No use going today -- too late. Come and dine with me, at the Bordeaux. Have you got rooms?"

"Not yet, colonel."

"Then I can tell you you won't get them, at all. The place is crowded -- not a bed to be had, for love or money. I've got rooms, by the greatest good luck. One of you can have the sofa; the other an armchair, or the hearth rug, whichever suits you best."

"Thank you, very much; we shall do capitally," the boys said.

"And now, have you any news from Paris?"

"We have no late news from Paris but, worse still, the news gets very slowly and irregularly into Paris. The pigeons seem to get bewildered with the snow, or else the Prussians shoot them."

"But surely, with such an immense circle to guard, there could be no great difficulty in a messenger finding his way in?"

"There is a difficulty, and a very great one," Colonel Tempe said; "for of all who have tried, only one or two have succeeded. Now come along, or we shall be late for dinner."

It was a curious medley at the table d'hote, at the Hotel de Bordeaux. Generals, with their breasts covered with orders, and simple franc tireurs; officers, of every arm of the service; ministers and members of the late Corps Legislatif; an American gentleman, with his family; English newspaper correspondents; army contractors; and families, refugees from Paris. After dinner they went to a cafe -- literally crowded with officers -- and thence to Colonel Tempe's rooms, where they sat down quietly, to chat over what had taken place since the last visit.

"But where is your Irishman? Your father told me he was with you. I suppose you could not get him out."

"Oh yes, Tim's here," Ralph said, laughing, "but he ran across a couple of Irishmen belonging to the foreign legion and -- as he would have been in our way, and we did not know where we were going to sleep -- we gave him leave till to-morrow morning, when he is to meet us in front of the railway station."

"By the way, boys, I suppose you know you have each got a step?"

"No," the boys cried. "Really?"

"Yes, really," the colonel said. "That good fellow, Cambriels, sent in a strong report in your favor upon resigning his command; rehearsing what you did with us, and requesting that the step might be at once given to you. As a matter of course it was, in the next Gazette."

"Of course, we feel pleased, colonel; but it seems absurd, so young as we are. Why, if we go on like this, in another six months we may be majors."

"In ordinary times it would be absurd, lads; and it would not be possible for you to hold the grade you do now -- still less higher ones -- unless you understood thoroughly your duty. At the present moment, everything is exceptional. A man who, perhaps, only served a few months in the army, years ago, is made a general, and sent to organize a camp of new levies. Of course, he could not command these troops in the field, could not even drill them on the parade ground. But that is of no matter. He has a talent for organization, and therefore is selected to organize the camp and, to enable him to do so efficiently, he receives the nominal rank of general.

"In ordinary times a man could not get promoted -- three or even four times, in as many weeks -- over the heads of hundreds of others, without causing an immense amount of jealousy; without, in fact, upsetting the whole traditions of the army.

"Now, it is altogether different. The officers of the regular army are almost all prisoners. Everyone is new, everyone is unaccustomed to his work; and men who show themselves to be good men can be rewarded and promoted with exceptional rapidity, without exciting any feeling of jealousy, whatever. Besides which, the whole thing is provisional. When the war is over, everyone will either go back into private life or, if they continue to serve, will be gazetted into the regular army, according to some scale or other to be hereafter determined upon. Some inconveniences no doubt will arise, but they will hardly be serious.

"I was offered a general's rank, a month ago; but I declined it, as it would have entailed either my undertaking duties for which I am unfit; or setting to, to organize young levies, and giving up active service.

"No, if you go on as you have hitherto done, boys, you may be colonels in another six months; for when a name is recommended for promotion for good service, by a general, you may well suppose there is no question asked as to his age. Of course, no general would recommend you as captains to command companies in a regiment, because you are altogether ignorant of a captain's duty; but you are quite capable of filling the duties of captain, on the staff, as those duties require only clear headedness, pluck, attention, and common sense.

"What I should like to win, even more than a company -- were I in your place -- would be a commander's cross in the legion of honor. I had the cross, years ago; but I only had the commander's cross a fortnight ago, for the Bridge of Vesouze."

"Ah, yes," Ralph said, "that would be worth winning, but that is hopeless."

Colonel Tempe was silent. Ralph and Percy looked at him.

"You mean," Ralph said, after a pause, "that there is a chance of our winning it."

"Well, boys," Colonel Tempe said, "I don't know that I am right in leading you into danger, but I do think that you might win it. I was mentioning your names, only yesterday, to Gambetta. A dispatch had just come in from Paris, grumbling at receiving no news from the country; and Gambetta was lamenting over the impossibility of arranging for simultaneous movements, owing to the breakdown of the pigeons, and the failure of the messengers; when I said:

"'There were two young English fellows with us, in the Vosges -- they were on Cambriels' staff last, and are now prisoners -- who if they were here would, I believe, get in if anyone could. They went down, over and over again, among the Germans; and I could lay any money that they would succeed.'

"'How did they get taken prisoners?' Gambetta asked, as sharp as a knife.

"'By no fault of their own,' I answered. 'They went out on leave, to see me; and slept with a party of franc tireurs -- where they of course had no authority, as to sentries -- and the party was surprised, at night, and completely cut up. They were taken prisoners, but I do not expect that they will remain so for long.'

"Gambetta did not say anything, then; but when I left him, an hour afterwards, he remarked:

"'If you hear of those young fellows you were speaking of having returned, send them to me, Tempe.'"

Ralph looked at Percy, and checked the offer to go which he saw was on his brother's lips.

"I think it might be done, colonel," he said, quietly; "but it is a serious matter, and we will think it over, before we give an opinion."

Ralph then changed the subject, and they talked over the events which had happened in the Vosges, the strategy and maneuvers of General Michel, the arrival of Garibaldi, the doings of the franc tireurs, etc.

"By the way," the colonel said, "there was a telegram in, this evening -- just as I left the office -- that the Germans occupied Dijon, yesterday."

"You don't say so!" the boys said, jumping from their seats. "Was there any fighting?"

"Yes, some Mobiles and franc tireurs made a very plucky defense, outside the town. Owing to some gross mismanagement, the great bulk of the troops had been withdrawn, only the day before. After two or three hours' fighting, our men fell back; the Prussians, as usual, shelled the town; and the authorities surrendered."

"The fighting could not have been our side of the town," Ralph said, thoughtfully.

"No, just the other side," Colonel Tempe said. "As my wife is still at home, and our place is not many hundred yards from yours, that was the first thing I thought of."

"I wonder if papa was in the fight?" Percy said, anxiously.

"I should think it probable, boys, that my old friend would have gone out; but I do not think that you need be uneasy about it for, from what the telegram said, our loss was small. The troops fell back into the town, and retreated unmolested through it. So your father would, no doubt, have changed his things in the town, and have walked quietly back again.

"He had volunteered into the national guard, when I came last through Dijon; and was hard at work, drilling them. Of course, he had his old rank of captain."

At ten o'clock the boys said that they would go for a stroll, before lying down for the night. They were out upwards of an hour; and returned, at the end of that time, with serious but resolved faces. The colonel was out, when they returned; and found them stretched on the sofa and hearth rug, when he came in. They gave him a sleepy good night, and no other word was exchanged.

In the morning, they were up at eight o'clock. Colonel Tempe was already dressed, and they went out together to get their coffee and milk. As they were taking it, Ralph told him that they had made up their minds to make the attempt to enter Paris, with dispatches; but that they saw but one way to do so; and that, unless they could be furnished with the necessary papers, they should abandon all idea of the enterprise.

Ten minutes later, they entered the Prefecture. Colonel Tempe went in at once to see Gambetta, while the boys remained in the anteroom. In ten minutes their friend came out again, and beckoned to them to come into the next room.

"These are the Lieutenants Barclay," he said.

The boys bowed; and examined, with attentive curiosity, the man who was, at that time, the absolute ruler of France. A dark man; with a short black beard, keen eyes, and a look of self reliance and energy. A man who committed endless mistakes, but who was the life and soul of the French resistance. A man to whom -- had he lived in olden times -- the Romans would have erected a statue because, in her deepest misfortunes, he never despaired of the Republic.

He looked keenly at the young men.

"Colonel Tempe tells me that you have rendered very great service, by going among the enemy in disguise; and that you are willing to make an attempt to carry dispatches into Paris."

"We are ready to try," Ralph said, respectfully; "but after talking it over in every way, we can see but one disguise which would enable us to penetrate the enemy's lines, near enough to the ground between the two armies to render an attempt possible; and even that disguise will be useless, unless we can procure certain papers."

"What is your plan?" Monsieur Gambetta asked.

"We intend to go as German Jews," Ralph said. "The Prussians strip all the clocks, pictures, and furniture of any value from the villas they occupy, and send them back to Germany. There are a number of Jews who follow the army; and either buy these stolen goods from them, or undertake to convey them back to Germany at a certain price. Several of these Jews -- with their wagons full of clocks, and other articles -- have been captured by our franc tireurs or troops and, no doubt, papers of some kind have been found upon them. These papers would naturally be sent here. If we could be provided with them we could, I have little doubt, penetrate their lines."

"An excellent idea," the minister said. "I have no doubt that we have such papers."

And he struck a small hand bell on the table. An attendant entered.

"Tell Captain Verre I wish to speak to him."

"Captain Verre," he said, when that officer entered, "there were some papers came last week, from General Faidherbe, relative to those wagons -- laden with clocks, ladies' dresses, and so on -- that were captured near Mezieres. Just look through them, and see if there were any German permits for the bearers to pass freely, for the purpose of trading. If so, let me have them at once."

The officer at once left the room.

"Supposing -- as I have no doubt -- that we can give you the papers, what is your course?"

"Speed is, naturally, an essential," Ralph said. "We shall disguise ourselves at once and, upon receipt of the dispatches, start from here to Orleans by train; with two good horses -- which can, of course, be furnished us. We shall ride through the forest of Orleans, and so to Montargis; cross the Loing there, and make straight for Melun -- keeping always through by-lanes. As far as we know, there are no large bodies of the enemy along that line.

"When we get near the town, we shall leave our horses with some village Maire, or give them to a farmer, and walk into the place boldly. You will furnish us with a note to the Maire of Melun, as well as a circular to all French authorities, to give us any help; and we shall get him to assist us at once to buy a wagon, and two strong horses. With these we shall drive round, direct, to Versailles. Our pass will admit us into the town, without difficulty; and then we shall naturally be guided by circumstances. We must be furnished with a considerable sum of money, to make purchases of plunder."

"An admirable plan," said the minister, warmly, "and one that deserves -- even should it not obtain -- success.

"I need not speak to you of reward because, as gentlemen, I know that you make the attempt from the love of honor Colonel Tempe has before spoken to me of you, and you were highly commended by General Cambriels. Your names will, therefore, be in the next Gazette for the cross of the legion of honor; and if you succeed, you will come back captains and commanders of the Legion. I may mention -- although I know that it will not add to your motive to succeed -- that you will be entitled to the reward, of fifty thousand francs, which has been offered to anyone who will carry in dispatches to Paris."

At this moment the officer entered.

"Here are the papers the Jews with the captured wagons carried," he said. "They are signed by the general at Frankfort, and countersigned by at least a dozen military authorities. There are three of them."

The minister glanced at them.

"They will do well," he said. "Will you be ready to start tomorrow morning?"

"Quite ready," Ralph said.

"Very well. Then if you will be here at half-past five, the dispatches will be ready; written, of course, so as to fold up in the smallest possible compass.

"Captain Verre, will you see that two of the best horses in my stable are put into boxes, in the train that leaves at six tomorrow morning."

The boys now rose to leave.

"Good morning," the minister said. "All the letters of recommendation, the dispatches, and the money will be ready when you come, in the morning."

The boys, on going out, held a long consultation over their disguises. Examining the papers, they found that one was for two persons of the same name -- Isaac Kraph and Aaron Kraph -- father and son; the father, as described in the pass, forty-five years old, the son eighteen. This pass they determined to use.

The task of changing Percy into a Jew boy, of eighteen, was evidently an easy one. His clear complexion was the only difficulty, and this could be readily disguised. Ralph's disguise was a more difficult one; and there was a considerable debate as to whether he had better go as a red Jew, or a dark Jew. The latter was finally determined upon as, otherwise, the contrast between the supposed father and son would be too striking.

They then went to their tailor, and found their uniforms ready. They at once put them on, as the peculiarity of the purchases they intended to make was so great that, had they been in their civilian dress, it was certain that they would have been regarded with suspicion; and would have, perhaps, had difficulty in obtaining what they wanted.

Their first visit was to a hairdresser's shop. Rather to the astonishment of the proprietor, they told him that they wished to speak to him in a private room; and still more to his astonishment, when the door was closed, they told him that they wanted their hair dyed quite black. The hairdresser could hardly believe his ears. The boys had both brown, wavy hair -- Percy's being the lightest -- and that two young officers of the staff should, at such a time, desire to dye their hair struck the man almost dumb with astonishment.

Ralph smiled.

"No wonder you are surprised, but we have an important mission to carry out, and it is essential that we should be completely disguised. We are going as spies into Von der Tann's camp. This, of course, is in the strictest confidence."

The hairdresser was at once struck with the importance of the occasion.

"You want an instantaneous dye?" he asked.

"Certainly," Ralph said, "and one that will last, at any rate, for a week."

There was no difficulty whatever in complying with the request and, in ten minutes, the boys' heads were raven in their blackness.

"Now," Ralph said, "I want my brother's hair -- which is fortunately very long -- to be completely frizzled; and I want a pair of the tongs you do it with, so as to be able to do it for ourselves."

This also was easy enough.

"Now," Ralph went on, "for myself, I want my hair to be very long; to come down over my ears on to my collar, all the way round."

"But the only way to do that is to have a wig specially made for you."

"Not at all," Ralph said. "I could not put on a wig, even if you had one just as I want it, ready. The parting always shows, if it is narrowly looked at. I want some long flat bands of hair, like those you use for chignons. It must be black, to match my hair as it is now; but put a few streaks of gray into it. I must have a band of this hair, long enough to go round the head, from just above one ear to just above the other. If you part my hair, just at the place where the band is to go; brush the hair up; put the band of artificial hair on, with shoemaker's wax, or something else to hold tight; then brush the hair back again over the band, it would be absolutely impossible to see it was not all natural. Then cut the long hair so as to lie on my coat collar, frizzle it and the natural hair, and I will defy the keenest-eyed Prussian to see anything wrong about it."

As soon as the hairdresser understood exactly what Ralph wanted, he entered heartily into his plans; and several of the short flat bands of black hair, used for chignons, were sewn on to a band. This was fastened on to Ralph's head, in the way he had suggested; the long tresses were cut to the required length; the tongs were used on them, and on the natural hair; and plenty of oil put on and, in an hour, his headdress was perfect -- an immense bush of frizzly hair. The cloth was taken from round his neck and, as he looked at himself in the glass, he joined heartily in Percy's shout of laughter.

"But, Ralph, how are you to go out in your uniform, and that head of hair?"

"Dear me," Ralph said, "I had quite forgotten that. Go to the tailor's, Percy, and tell them to send the suit I changed there in here, directly."

Percy went off for the clothes, and Ralph then went on:

"Now I want a black or grayish beard, whiskers, and mustache."

"I have not got such a thing," the hairdresser said, "but I know a man who keeps them. I will get it for you, in a quarter of an hour."

In a few minutes Percy returned, with a boy with Ralph's clothes. In a short time they were ready to start.

"You do look a strange object, Ralph."

"Never mind, Percy, there are plenty of strange objects here. No one will notice me."

Then saying that they would call in again in half an hour, for the beard, they went to a chemist's; from whom -- after some talk -- they obtained a mixture to give a slightly brown tinge to their faces.

They now dived into the back streets of the town, found a second-hand clothes shop, and speedily got the articles they required. Ralph had a long greatcoat, with a fur collar; and a pair of high boots, coming up to his knees and to be worn over the trousers. A black fur cap completed his costume. Percy had a black cap, made of rough cloth, with a peak and with flaps to come down over the ears; an old greatcoat, with fur round the pockets and collar; a bright-colored handkerchief, to go two or three times round the neck; and high boots like those of Ralph.

They then returned to the hairdresser, and Ralph insisted that the beard and mustache should be fastened on not only in the ordinary manner -- with springs -- but with cobbler's wax.

"My life," he said, "might depend upon the things not slipping, at any moment."

They now went home. The moment that they entered their rooms, Ralph exclaimed:

"Why, we have forgotten all about Tim!"

"So we have," Percy said. "He was to have met us in front of the railway station at nine o'clock and, of course, he has no idea where to find us. I will go there. Very likely the poor fellow is waiting still."

Percy hurried off; and found Tim, as he had expected, sitting upon the steps going up to the railway station. He jumped up, with a cry of joy, upon seeing Percy.

"The Vargin be praised, Mister Percy! I began to think that you must have been sent off somewhere, without time to warn me; and I couldn't, for the life of me, make out what to do."

"We have not gone, Tim," Percy said, not wishing to hurt the attached fellow's feelings, by telling him that he had been forgotten; "but we are starting tomorrow. I will tell you all about it, when we get in. We have been to see Monsieur Gambetta, this morning and, do you know, we met Colonel Tempe last night, and are stopping in his rooms."

So saying, he walked along at a quick pace towards their lodgings; Tim occasionally glancing a puzzled look at him. By the time they reached the room, Ralph had stained his face and hands, and was busy dressing in his disguise. His back was to the door, when they entered; but he had heard the Irishman's voice on the stair.

"Well, Tim, how are you?" he said, turning round.

"Holy Vargin!" ejaculated Tim, dropping into a chair, and crossing himself with great fervor "Sure, I'm bewitched. Here's an ould gentleman, wid a wonderful head of hair, has been staleing Mister Ralph's voice."

The two boys went off in a shout of laughter at Tim's genuine terror.

"Sure, I'm bewitched, entirely," he went on. "He laughs for all the world like Mister Ralph. Did ye iver see the like?

"What is it all, Mister Percy dear?"

Percy had by this time taken off his cap; and Tim, as he looked him fairly in the face, gave another start.

"By the mother of Moses!" he exclaimed, in terror, "we're all bewitched. Mister Ralph's turned into an ould man, with a furze bush of hair; and Mister Percy's beautiful hair has all turned black, and shriveled itself up. Am I turning, myself, I wonder?" and he looked into the glass, to see if any change had taken place in his own abundant crop of red hair.

The boys were laughing so that they could not speak for some time, and Tim sat gazing at them in speechless bewilderment. At last Percy, by a great effort, recovered himself; and explained to him the whole circumstances of the case. The Irishman's astonishment ceased now, but his dismay was as great as ever.

"Then is it alone you're going?" he said, at last. "Are you going into danger again, without taking me with you? You'd never do that, surely, Mister Ralph?"

"I am very sorry, Tim, to be separated from you," Ralph said; "but it is quite impossible for you to go with us. If you understood French and German as well as we do, the case would be different; but as it is, the thing is absolutely impossible. You know how great a trouble it was to disguise you, before; and it would treble our anxieties and difficulties. Not only that; but even if, in the face of every possible danger, we got you into Paris with us, there would be great difficulty in getting you out. Gambetta will give orders for us to be allowed to come out, in the first balloon; but it is by no means easy to get places in balloons, and it is unlikely in the extreme that we should be able to bring you out with us. So there you would be, shut up in Paris and separated from us, for months.

"No, no, Tim, the matter is altogether impossible. You stay quietly here and, in ten days or a fortnight -- if all goes well -- we shall be back again with you."

"And is it in a balloon you're thinking of coming out, Mister Ralph; flying like a bird through the air? Och, wirra, wirra! I'll never see yees again."

"Nonsense, Tim, there's no danger in a balloon. If getting in were no more dangerous than getting out, there would not be much peril in the matter."

"Ah, Mister Ralph dear, how can you be risking your life, and the life of your brother in that way? Shooting at a Prussian, or getting shot at, is all well enough; or going among them with your hair all puffed out, and your face painted brown, and the hair growing all over your face before its time, I say nothing against; but flying through the air, in a balloon, is just tempting the good Providence. I know what it will be. You'll be just touching against a cloud, and tumbling out, and breaking yourselves into smithereens; and nothing to take home to your dear father and mother, not to mention Miss Milly," and Tim fairly blubbered with grief, at the thought.

The boys had great difficulty in pacifying the attached fellow; at last, with a face expressive of mournful resignation, he agreed to remain with Colonel Tempe until they returned; or until their prolonged absence rendered it likely that they would not return at all -- Tim evidently making up his mind that the latter contingency would happen. In that case, as Tim -- now his corps had ceased to exist -- need no longer serve, he expressed his determination to return to Dijon; and to stay with Captain Barclay until the end of the war -- as he should not, he said, have the heart to fight any more, when his masters were both killed.

While the conversation had been going on, the boys had continued their toilettes. The preparation which they had obtained gave them an olive complexion; and their transformation was now so complete that the boys would have passed each other unknown, even had they looked steadily at each other. Ralph, especially, was utterly unlike himself.

They now told Tim to go out and get his breakfast, and to return in two hours' time; and then started themselves, rounding their shoulders, and so narrowing their chests as much as possible. Ralph stopped at an optician's, bought a pair of slightly-colored spectacles, and put them on.

It was now twelve o'clock -- the preparations having taken them three hours -- and they went to the cafe where they were to meet Colonel Tempe, to breakfast. He was already there, and they walked up to the table where he was sitting.

"These seats are engaged," Colonel Tempe said, shortly.

The Barclays sat down at the next table; and called, in a foreign accent, for two glasses of beer. Then they spoke together, for some little time, about a journey from Saint Malo which they had just made; and Ralph then turned to Colonel Tempe, still speaking French with a strong foreign accent.

"Pardon me, colonel," he said, "we have just arrived from England. We have a very large quantity of army shoes, and I should feel under a great obligation if you could inform me who is the proper person to whom to apply."

Colonel Tempe at once informed them, adding:

"If your shoes are good ones, and the price fair, and you can deliver them soon, you will not have to wait long; for they are greatly wanted."

"We have also some harness, for artillery horses," Ralph added.

"I do not know about that," the colonel said; "but you will obtain all information from the officer I have mentioned."

"Thank you very much," Ralph said, and returned to his seat.

Colonel Tempe looked at his watch, a little impatiently. Ralph, after a minute or two, again approached him.

"Don't you think we may as well have breakfast, colonel?" he said, in his natural voice.

The colonel looked at him, in speechless surprise.

"So the disguises are pretty good?" Ralph said, smiling.

"Impossible!" the colonel exclaimed. "Do my eyes or my ears deceive me? Can it really be -- ?"

"It's us, sure enough, colonel; and now, I suppose we may as well sit down."

So saying, the boys took their seats at the table; but Colonel Tempe still looked from one to the other, in astonishment.

"Wonderful!" he at last said, "wonderful! Even now I know who it is, I do not see the faintest possible resemblance.

"Percy is, of course, less altered than you are, Ralph, because he is still young looking; but even now I should not recognize him. As for you, with that wonderful head of hair, and that beard, you look fifty; and as unlike yourself as possible. Upon my word, if it were anywhere else but here in Tours -- where there are all sorts of oddities -- I should be ashamed, as a colonel in the army, to sit down to table with you."

"You are a little ashamed, as it is," Ralph laughed. "We had not intended to come out in our new character, so soon; but when my hair was once done, you see, it was impossible to go about in uniform."

"But what in the world have you done with your hair?" the colonel said, examining him closely; for Ralph had taken off his fur cap and laid it beside him. "You have not got a wig on; and yet, all that frizzly bunch cannot be your own."

Ralph explained how it was managed, and added:

"And now, colonel, that you have recovered from your surprise, let us have breakfast."

Breakfast was ordered, to which the boys did full justice; but Colonel Tempe was still getting on but slowly, for he could not take his eyes off Ralph's face.

"Will all that frizzle keep in?" he asked, presently.

"Yes; the man said that the false hair -- which is the greater portion of it -- will keep as well for a week; and we have got a small curling iron, so we can beautify ourselves up when we like."

"Well, boys, I have no doubt, now, that you will be able to get as far as Versailles; as to getting through, that's another matter -- but if anyone can, you will, I am convinced."

"I have not much doubt about it, colonel," Ralph said. "I seem to see my way quite clearly into Paris. Much more clearly, indeed, than I do to getting out again."

"Oh, it does not matter about getting out again, boys. You can stop quietly in there, until the end of the siege."

"That is just what we don't want to do," Percy said. "Would you kindly ask them to put into the dispatches a request that we may be sent out again, by the first balloon that comes? We have no fancy, either of us, for eating rats and cats; which I suppose is what it will come to, before it is over."

"I will see to it, boys," the colonel said, smiling; "but really, I should advise your staying there. You have done all -- and more than -- your share of work."

The boys shook their heads; and it was arranged that, if they got in, they should come out again in a balloon.

The next morning, the boys were up at half-past four and, at half-past five, were at the Prefecture. Colonel Tempe sent in his name to the minister, and they were at once admitted. Gambetta was at his writing table.

"Good morning, Colonel Tempe," he said, cordially; and then added, in some surprise, "who are these men you have with you, and where are your young Englishmen? I hope they will not be late."

"These are they," the colonel said, smiling.

"They are who?" Gambetta said, puzzled. "I do not understand you, colonel."

"These are the Lieutenants Barclay," Colonel Tempe said.

The minister looked from the colonel to the two boys, and back again.

"Do you mean to say -- ?" he began, incredulously.

"Yes, sir, it is us," Ralph said; "and I do not think there is much fear of our being recognized."

"So little that I do not recognize you, now.

"There is no mistake, colonel?" he said, gravely; "no mystification? You give me your pledge, and assurance, that these are the officers who have volunteered for this duty? Remember, any mistake might be fatal."

"These are certainly the Barclays, sir. I give you my word."

"It is a marvelous disguise," Gambetta said, his doubts now laid at rest; "and does them immense credit.

"There are the dispatches, gentlemen. They are done up in these two quills, and sealed. They are of the utmost importance; and must not, at any hazard, fall into the hands of the enemy. The dispatches are in duplicate so that, in case one only gets in, the purpose is served.

"This is a circular letter, to all maires and other French authorities, ordering them to give you every possible assistance.

"This is a special note, to the Maire of Melun.

"Here is a letter to General Aurelles, at Orleans. If he is not in when you arrive, the chief of his staff will do. He is ordered to send a staff officer with you, through the lines, as far as you require him. The horses are in the train.

"Now, goodbye. I wish you a very good future, for you are gallant young fellows."

So saying, he shook them warmly by the hand; and they hurried off to the train.



Chapter 15: The Expedition.


A special telegram had been sent forward from Tours to station master at Orleans, to request him to order the two horses, sent forward in the train, to be got out of their boxes without any loss of time; and to do anything else which the owners of the horses required. Accordingly, as the train was waiting outside the station, the guard came round and asked at each carriage for the owners of the horses. He appeared a little surprised, when two Jews answered the inquiry; as he had expected that they were officers of high rank, and importance.

"The compliments of the stationmaster," he said, "and is there anything he can do with the horses?"

"Yes," Ralph said. "Give my compliments to the station master; and say that I shall be much obliged if he will get them out of the horse boxes, without loss of time, and send them on at once to the headquarters of General Aurelles. We will go on at once, in a vehicle."

Five minutes afterwards the train drew up at the platform, and the guard ran up.

"This way, gentlemen. A carriage is engaged."

Upon arriving at headquarters they found that -- owing to the forethought of Colonel Tempe -- they were expected for, upon sending in their names, they were at once admitted; although several officers, of all grades, were waiting in the anteroom.

The colonel of the staff gave a movement of surprise.

"There is some mistake here," he said, to the orderly who had shown them in; "I ordered the Lieutenants Barclay to be admitted."

"These are the gentlemen who gave me the card, colonel," the orderly answered.

"It is so," Ralph said. "If you will favor us with a moment alone, we will explain the matter to you."

The colonel led the way into a small cabinet, adjoining.

"We are bearers of dispatches, for General Trochu," Ralph said; "and have disguised ourselves, to endeavor to pass through the German lines."

"Oh, is that it?" the colonel said. "I must really apologize; but no one," he said, smiling, "could recognize you, in that disguise, to be French officers. Before we speak further, I must ask you for some proof that you are what you state yourselves to be; for at present I have only your cards."

"Here is our letter from Monsieur Gambetta to General Aurelles," Ralph said. "It is directed to be opened by you, should he be absent."

"That is all right," the colonel said, when he had read it. "My surprise at your appearance was natural, for the telegram we received this morning only said:

"'The two Lieutenants Barclay will arrive, by six o'clock train. Their business is most important. Have a well-mounted officer of staff ready to accompany them through lines.'

"I thought, of course, that you had orders to report on position of troops; and felt, I admit, rather angry that Gambetta should wish to send subaltern officers to inspect matters concerning which he has full reports.

"You wish, of course, to go on at once?"

"Our horses will be here in five minutes," Ralph said, "and we wish to get as far as possible, tonight. We mean to cross the Loing at Montargis, and get as far as we can, tonight; so as to arrive either at Meaux, or Melun, tomorrow evening. We should, of course, prefer Melun, as being much the shortest route towards Versailles. We shall, of necessity, be guided by the position of the Germans."

"You have not breakfasted, of course?" the colonel said. "I was just going to sit down, when you came in; for I go out to the front at ten, and it is half-past nine, now. You will have no chance of getting anything, before you arrive at Montargis.

"I can introduce you to the officer who will accompany you."

The boys readily accepted the invitation, and at once followed the colonel into another room; where breakfast was laid, and several officers of the staff were waiting for the arrival of the colonel, to begin. There was a general look of surprise, when he entered with two strange-looking Jews; which was not a little increased when he said:

"Gentlemen, the Lieutenants Barclay. You look surprised; but your astonishment will cease when I tell you that they are upon an important mission, and do not look like themselves. And now to table, for they have to start in ten minutes.

"Captain Duprat, let me make you specially acquainted with these gentlemen. They are bound for Montargis, and you will see them through our outposts."

In another quarter of an hour, the boys were issuing from the streets of Orleans; and were soon going along, at a hand gallop, by the road along the banks of the Loire; while to the north stretched the flat and densely-wooded country known as the Forest of Orleans. As far as Chateauneuf they kept near the river. Here they halted half an hour, to give breathing time to their horses; then started again, and rode fast to Bellegarde. Here was the last post of regular troops, but Cathlineau's franc tireurs were scattered throughout the country, as far as Montargis; and it would have been more difficult for the Barclays to have passed through them than through the regular troops, as they had less respect for passes.

After another halt, they again started; and Captain Duprat accompanied them as far as Montargis, where there was a small body of franc tireurs. Captain Duprat's orders were to sleep at Montargis, and then return to Chateauneuf the next day.

The boys felt rather stiff and tired, as they rode into Montargis; for they had not been on horseback since the day when they were taken prisoners, in the Vosges, and they had ridden forty miles since breakfast. They would, however, have willingly pushed on another twenty miles; but their horses had even a longer day's work before them, on the morrow.

Being accompanied by a staff officer, no questions whatever were asked them and, after a good dinner at the hotel, they went to the Maire, to inquire whether he could tell them as to the advanced posts of the Germans. This functionary -- like such functionaries in general -- could give them but slight information but, as far as he knew, there were no German troops on the right bank of the Loing, south of its junction with the Yonne. Beyond the Yonne they were scattered pretty thickly, everywhere.

At daybreak the next morning, they started. Captain Duprat turned his horse's head westward again, while the Barclays rode north. Their pace was rapid; as they never drew rein, except at villages, to ask whether the Prussians had been heard of. They heard of parties at Lorrez, and Cheroy; but as they kept through by-lanes, and as the country was thickly wooded, the risk was -- at present -- small. They had with them an excellent map, which enabled them to follow the smallest footpaths.

At eleven o'clock, they stopped at the little hamlet of Montarlet. There they breakfasted, and gave the horses an hour's rest while they consulted with the Maire. He was a miller, and turned out a shrewd fellow; entering into the matter with great warmth. He advised them to ford the Yonne between Montereau and its junction with the Loing; to keep to the woods for ten miles, and then to turn to the left, and to cross the Seine -- at one of the numerous fords there -- into the Forest of Fontainebleau; and they would then find themselves between that town and Melun, and could ride boldly into Melun, as if they had come from Fontainebleau.

"I know every foot of the country," he said, "and will guide you, till you are safely across the Seine. If we should, by any chance, fall upon a patrol of the enemy, it will be simple enough to say that I am a miller of Montarlet; and that you have shown me your permission to travel about, through the German line; and have asked me to guide you, by the shortest way, to Melun."

They had every reason to be thankful to their guide, for they found that there were a great many scattered parties of Uhlans about. By dint of making detours through woods, however, they succeeded in striking the Seine, at Fontaine le Port, without once meeting them.

This village was, however, occupied by some half-dozen cavalry; and it was impossible to pass the river, unseen by them. The Barclays thanked, very warmly, their friend the Maire, and promised to mention his conduct, upon their return to Tours; and then, saying goodbye to him, rode into the village alone. The sergeant of Uhlans came to the door of the principal cabaret, and looked out.

"Good day," Ralph said, in German, reining up his horse. "Is it here that I cross the river, for Fontainebleau? They told me, at Le Chatelet, that it was shorter than going round by the main road."

"Yes, you are right here," the sergeant said. "Have you passes?"

"Oh yes," Ralph said, laughing. "It would have been no easy matter to get from Frankfort here, without them."

So saying, he pulled out the Prussian permit.

"That is right," the sergeant said. "Your horses look very done."

"We have ridden from Coulommiers through Rozoy, and Normant."

"It would have been an easier road to have gone from Normant through Melun," the sergeant said. And he took out a map, and examined it. "No, I see le Chatelet is a more direct line."

"We have time to wait an hour," Ralph said, turning to Percy; "and it will be better for our beasts. See that they are rubbed down, and fed."

The sergeant gave a peremptory shout, and the master of the wine shop ran out. The sergeant pointed to the horses.

"Do you speak French?" he asked Ralph.

"No," Ralph said, "but my son does.

"Aaron, tell him to rub them down, and feed them well; and see to it, yourself. These dogs are capable of cheating even a horse."

Ralph then entered the cabaret, and called for some bread and cheese and a bottle of the best wine, with three glasses. The Prussian sergeant sat down with them, and talked of Germany for an hour. Then they started again, crossed the river and, an hour and a half later, entered Melun. Here, as they came in by the road from Fontainebleau -- which was held in force by the Germans -- no question was asked.

They rode their tired horses through the streets, until they saw a quiet hotel. Riding into the yard, they told the hostler to put up their horses, and to clean and feed them well; enforcing their request with a five-franc piece. They then entered the hotel, and found that they could have beds; as the number of German officers quartered upon this house was smaller than usual, owing to the greater portion of the troops having been pushed on, to reinforce Von der Tann.

It was now half-past five, and was already dusk. They therefore went at once to the Maire; to whom they presented Gambetta's letter, and requested his assistance in purchasing a van, with a pair of good strong horses, at once.

"It will be next to impossible to get horses," the Maire said, "but I will do my best. I have two carriage horses, of good breed; but I fear, if I were to let you have them, the Prussians might remark it."

"We have two first-rate animals," Ralph said, "from Gambetta's own stables. They have carried us a hundred miles, since breakfast time yesterday. They are likely to be at least as good as yours are, only they want a few days' rest. Will you exchange?"

"Certainly," the Maire said, at once. "If any inquiries were to be made about it, I need make no secret of that transaction.

"As for the covered cart, I will send round at once to those of my neighbors who have one; and as you are ready to pay for it, and as the Prussians are requisitioning them without payment, you can rely upon having one tomorrow morning, ready for your start. I will send a note round to you, tonight, to tell you where it is, at present."

"We had better go now to the German commandant's office, and get our passes countersigned. When that is done, we shall be all right for Versailles."

"Yes, I should advise you to do that," the Maire said. "You will not have much difficulty. They are civil enough about passes, and matters of that kind. Will you mention you have seen me?"

"Not unless any question is asked about horses; in which case we should of course mention that -- hearing you had a pair of horses, and ours requiring rest -- we had changed with you."

They now went boldly to the orderly room. An officer was on duty.

"Will you please to visa this for Versailles?" Ralph said, in German.

The officer took it, glanced at it, and at them.

"The last visa I see was at Meaux, a fortnight since."

"We have been traveling on horseback, since," Ralph said; "and have had no occasion to have it visaed, as it has always passed us without trouble. As we are now going to Versailles, with a wagon, we thought it better to have the pass visaed here."

"Where have you come from, now?"

"From Fontainebleau," Ralph said. "We have been down to Pithiviers, and I sent off four wagon loads of things from there, for the frontier."

"Your best way is through Corbeil, and Longjumeau," the officer said, handing back the paper.

"Thank you, sir," Ralph replied, "that is the way we are intending to go."

In the evening, the Maire himself came in to look at the horses; and told them that he had obtained a good light-covered wagon, with springs, which had been used for the removal of furniture. The price was a thousand francs.

"If you like," he said, "to come round with me now; my servant shall take the horses round there, put them in, and bring the wagon here; and he can then take your horses back with him to my stables.

"Please to write me a paper -- signed by the name on your German pass -- saying that you have bought my horses of me, and have sold me yours. Put down any figures you like as having passed between us. You are upon a very perilous expedition and, in case of anything happening to you, it would be well for me that nothing, beyond a mere business transaction, could be traced between us."

At seven o'clock the next morning they started. The distance was only thirty miles, but the roads were terribly slippery from the deep snow, now trampled flat by the immense traffic of the army. It was five in the afternoon when they reached the first sentries, at the entrance to Versailles. The pass was sufficient, and they went on uninterrupted. Percy drove, and Ralph sat beside him.

The town swarmed with officers and soldiers, of all ranks. No one paid them any attention, and they drove through the Place d'Armes and on to the marketplace; where they knew there were many inns, frequented by the market people. Here -- as they expected -- they found it impossible to get a bed; but they had no difficulty in obtaining permission for the wagon to stand in a yard, and were lucky enough to get stable room for the horses. They went into the town and bought four blankets; and as, at starting, they had filled the wagon two feet deep with straw, they had -- in spite of the cold weather -- every hope of passing a comfortable night.

Dinner was the next thing and, that over, they strolled about until nine o'clock. It was a singular sight, this army of invaders comfortably quartered in the ancient capital of France. The palace, the statues in front of it, everything told of the glories of France; every park around, every little palace was infinitely associated with its sovereigns; and here, in the midst of these memorials, the German invaders stalked carelessly, drank in the cafes, or feasted in the hotels, as if the place had belonged to them from time immemorial. Afar off, in the quiet of the evening, could be heard the distant boom of the guns round the beleaguered city.

There were several things which the Barclays wanted to get; but they had no difficulty with them, as the shops were all open, as usual. The population had a depressed look. All classes were suffering much, with the exception of the shopkeepers, whose business was as brisk as ever -- save only those tradesmen who dealt in articles of female attire, for which there was no demand, whatever. The ladies of Versailles went as little as possible into the streets; and when they did so, all dressed themselves in black, or other somber colors.

By nine o'clock the shops were all closed; and the Barclays returned to their wagon, with their purchases in their hands.

"It's awfully cold, Ralph!" Percy said, as they rolled themselves in their blankets, and covered themselves over with straw.

"It is, Percy; but it will be a deal colder, in the river."

Percy gave a shudder at the thought.

"Don't you think, Ralph, that there is any possibility of entering on either of the other sides?"

"Not the slightest, Percy. It must be across the river, or not at all. The sentries will not be anything like so thick, upon that side."

Had anyone looked into the wagon, at eight o'clock next morning, he would have been surprised at the occupation upon which the boys were engaged. Each was sewing a piece of thin waterproof cloth upon a pair of white woolen gloves; so that the fingers, when outspread, had the appearance of the webbed foot of a frog.

"That ought to help us," Ralph said, when they finished. "For a really long swim, I daresay they would be very fatiguing; but it is cold, not fatigue, we have to fear, and speed is therefore everything."

At nine o'clock, Ralph went to the office of the general in command. There were a number of other persons waiting for permits, and Ralph waited his turn to go in to the officer engaged in signing them.

"I am from Frankfort, as my papers show," he said, handing the officer his pass. "I wish for a pass to go, with my horse and cart, to Bellevue. There are, I hear, many officers desirous of selling, or sending home, articles they have saved."

Saved, it may be mentioned, was the word employed in the German army for stolen -- which has an ugly sound.

The officer signed the paper.

"You must not go by the Sevres route," he said. "You must turn off at Viroflay, and go by Chaville."

Half an hour later they started in the wagon At the gates of Versailles -- a mile from the town -- they were stopped by sentries; but allowed to pass on production of the order, with the necessary stamp.

"Everything is going on well, thus far," Ralph said, as they turned off from the main road, at Viroflay. "It looks like snow, too, which would exactly suit us."

Viroflay was crowded with Prussian troops. An officer stopped them, as they passed.

"Where are you going to?"

"We are going to Bellevue," Ralph said. "We are purchasers of any curiosities or souvenirs of the war -- such as pictures, or clocks -- and we also undertake to deliver, in Germany, any article which may be entrusted to our charge. We have our passes and papers, in regular order."

"Wait a minute," the officer said. "Draw up at that villa there."

The wagon drew up to the villa, the officer walking in front. He motioned to Ralph to dismount, and to follow him into the house; leaving Percy in charge of the wagon Five or six officers were sitting in what had been the drawing room of the villa.

"Who have you got here?" one of them asked, as Ralph's conductor entered.

"A worthy Hebrew," the other laughed, "who will either purchase, or carry home, articles saved."

There was a general movement of interest. The furniture of the room was a wreck, the papers were hanging in strips, a broken chair was blazing upon the fire; several family portraits on the wall were pierced with holes, having evidently served the purpose of targets, for pistol shooting.

Ralph's conductor left the room for a moment, and returned with a very handsome drawing room clock; worth, Ralph knew, at least fifteen hundred francs.

"How much will you give for that?"

Ralph examined it critically.

"Four hundred francs," he said.

"Nonsense! It cost five times that."

"About four times," Ralph said, "when it was new. It is not new, now, and it has to be taken to Germany. If you prefer it, I will carry it to Frankfort; and send it on thence by rail, at ten percent upon its value."

"Yes, I will agree to that," the officer said. "How much will that be?"

"I am content to take it at your own valuation," Ralph said. "The value you set upon the clock was two thousand francs."

There was a laugh among the other officers.

"He has you there, major."

"Not at all," the officer said. "He shall take it at the valuation he placed upon it -- four hundred francs."

"Pardon me," Ralph said, "I did not value it at that sum, I only offered to give that sum for it; besides which, that was an estimate of the value I set upon it at Viroflay, not the value I should set upon it at Frankfort.

"I will say one thousand francs; that is, I will undertake it at a hundred, if you will get it put into a case of some sort."

The other officers now offered various objects, either for sale or transport -- pictures, vases, clocks, and even pianos. Ralph haggled over the price of each article, in a way which would have done honor to his appearance. At last -- having arranged all their matters -- he said that he was going on to Bellevue; but would call and complete the purchases, and receive the goods entrusted to him, either that night or the next morning.

"If any of you gentleman would kindly give me your card, to give to the officer of the regiment at Bellevue, saying that you have found me fair in my dealing, I should feel very grateful," Ralph said, humbly.

The officer laughed, but one of them took out his card, and wrote upon it:

"Dear Von Koch, this man is -- for a Hebrew -- tolerably fair in his ideas."

"That is for the major of the regiment, at Bellevue," he said; and Ralph bowed, as if he had received a recommendation of the warmest kind.

"I was beginning to be alarmed, Ralph," Percy said, when his brother again took his place in the wagon.

"I have been haggling over prices," Ralph said. "Fortunately, we are not pressed for time."

They had another stop, of some duration, at Chaville; and it was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon before they came down to the back of Bellevue. Here they were stopped and, upon Ralph producing his pass, an officer came up.

"You cannot go any farther," he said. "You are close to Bellevue, now; but if you were to take this wagon into the main road, you would draw Valerien's fire upon us, at once.

"You will find most of the officers there," pointing to a large house, near.

"I have this card, for Major Von Koch," Ralph said. "I am here to buy, or carry home on commission, goods of all kinds."

The officer went with Ralph; and the scene at Viroflay was repeated, but upon a much larger scale. Viroflay is a small village, containing only a few large villas; Bellevue is composed almost entirely of handsome residences, owned by Parisians. The quantity of articles "saved" was proportionately large.

After examining and bargaining for a large number of valuable articles of furniture, pictures and clocks; Ralph left, with some of the officers, to view other articles in the villas upon the side of Bellevue, looking down upon the river. Percy had taken the horses out of the wagon, and accompanied his brother, ostensibly to carry back any articles purchased.

At one of the villas Ralph expressed a great desire to go out into the garden, to look over Paris; and the officer with him -- being in an excellent humor, at the disposal of some articles at much higher prices than he had expected to receive; and at having the proceeds, in German bank notes, in his pockets -- went out himself, and pointed out all the various objects of interest.

The fog of a winter's evening was already shutting in the view, but the boys could see the principal buildings of Paris. The towers of Notre Dame, the domes of the Pantheon and Invalides, the heights of Montmartre and Vilette, and the forts of Issy and Vanves were distinctly visible. The boys' eyes turned, however, more to the river at their feet, and the intervening ground, than upon the objects -- however interesting -- of distant Paris.

"Do not show yourself," the officer said. "If we were caught sight of, from Issy or Point du Jour -- or from that gunboat, below -- we should have a rain of shells about us, in no time. You can look out from among the trees; but do not get beyond their shelter, or you will be seen, instantly."

The house in whose garden they were standing stood upon the brow of the hill. Behind was a little wood, and gardens sloping pretty-steeply down. Then along by the water was a street, with houses upon either side. The river was, here, divided by an island; the lower end of which, however, scarcely extended low enough to be opposite to the spot upon which the boys were standing.

"Bless me," Ralph said, "it must be very dangerous, living down there. Why, that gunboat could blow the place into the air."

"That she could," the officer said, "and consequently, none of our men live there. We have sentries along the river bank, and a few others scattered about; but none of the troops are quartered there, nor even in this line of villas where we now are. If we were to show a light at night, in any window here, we should have a shell in in a couple of minutes. We have no fear, whatever, of a sortie in this direction; and have plenty of force behind."

Ralph and Percy lingered, upon one excuse or another; asking questions as long as they could, and making the best use of their time, to gain a fair idea of the ground that they would have to cross. They had with them, in the wagon, a map of Bellevue and Meudon upon a large scale, with every house marked upon it.

"It is going to be a dark night," the officer said, as they hurried away, "and we shall have snow before midnight."

Another hour or two was spent in purchasing various articles, taken from the French villas. Darkness had come on, and Ralph told the officers that he should not return until the next morning to Versailles; and that if the articles to be entrusted to his care for delivery were put in rough cases -- of which there were plenty, which had come full of stores -- and brought by ten o'clock in the morning, carefully directed, it would be in sufficient time.

"Will you give us leave to sleep in one of the villas, upon the farther side of the road?" Ralph asked the officer in command. "My boy has never seen a shot fired, in earnest; and I should like him to be able to say he had watched the fire of the forts, round Paris."

"If you sleep there," the colonel said, "you must not light a fire, or show a light, or you would bring the fire of a hundred guns upon us."

"I will be very careful, sir," Ralph answered. "Will you kindly let an orderly go with us, to pass us through the sentries? For, as it's dark now, they would not let us pass."

The colonel gave the order, and an orderly went with them. They stopped at the wagon, and each took out a large bundle.

"We shall want our blankets, tonight," Ralph said. "It is bitterly cold.

"Would you like a glass of brandy, to help keep it out, my man?"

The soldier smiled an assent, drank off a glass of brandy, and then accompanied them to the villa. Short as was the distance, they were challenged twice, and the sign and counter-sign had to be exchanged. They reached the deserted villa, threw down the bundles in a corner; and then the orderly said good night, and left them to themselves.



Chapter 16: A Desperate Attempt.


"So far, so good, Percy!" Ralph said, when they heard the street door slam, as the orderly left. "Hitherto we have had the most extraordinary good fortune and, as it's going to snow -- for I felt a few flakes, as we came along -- I look upon it as good as done."

"It will take away from us risk of being hit, but I don't see that it will make much difference in our risk of being drowned," Percy said. "I own, Ralph, I am a great deal more afraid of that, than of the other."

"But it does, Percy. It makes all the difference in the world. We had agreed that we would put on life belts; but that we would blow the smallest quantity of air possible into them, so that they might give us some slight assistance, and yet not be too buoyant to prevent us from diving. Now we can blow them up with wind, so as to prevent the possibility of our being drowned. Once in the water, and we are safe from everything except a stray bullet. In a snowstorm, on such a dark night as this, they could not see our heads five yards off."

"But what is worse, Ralph, we shall not be able to see five yards, either; and should have no idea where we were swimming."

"I had not thought of that, Percy. Yes, that would be very serious," and Ralph thought, for some time. "It seems a risk, this, Percy; but I can see no plan, except to draw their fire."

"How do you mean?" Percy asked, puzzled.

"You see, Percy, our idea before was to get down to the shore, to put our dummy into the water, and to let it float down a hundred yards -- the length of its string -- and then to start ourselves, holding the other end of the string, in hopes that -- if the sentries are really sharply on the lookout -- they would see the dummy, instead of us, as it will be a much more conspicuous object; especially as we intended to do as much diving as we could, and our movements forward would jerk the dummy's string, and make him bob, like a man swimming. If they once caught sight of it, they would be too busy firing at it to look about for anyone else.

"Well now, I think that instead of giving up the dummy altogether -- as we might have done, now that the snow has come on -- we must let it float gently down, for seventy or eighty yards; and then throw a stone into the water by it, so as to draw the attention of the sentry. Or -- if the sentries are pretty far apart -- one of us might make a great splash in the water, when the dummy is floating; and then run back before the sentry gets up, and get into the water quietly, higher up. Their fire will act as a guide to us."

"We had better start soon, Ralph. It may take us an hour, or even two, to get down to the water; for we must go along like ghosts, so as not to alarm the sentries; and we shall have walls to get over, and all sorts of difficulties."

"All right, Percy. I do not see the use of waiting. We shall not get any warmer, by stopping here. It's like having a tooth out. One's got to do it, and the sooner it's done, the better.

"Now for our bundles."

They went downstairs into a cellar -- where the light could not be seen from outside -- struck a light, and lit a candle. The first thing taken out of the bundle was the dummy -- a net, rather larger than a man's head, tightly filled with corks; with a cord, a hundred yards in length, attached. Next were two complete suits, made of white calico; with caps, with long flaps of the same material. Next were two large rolls of India rubber webbing, about six inches wide, which they had brought from Tours with them.

"I can't think that that will be any good, Ralph."

"It will, indeed, Percy. The water will, of course, soak through; but what gets in will remain in, and the heat of the body will warm it, a good deal. I can assure you, it will be a great deal warmer than having the icy water flowing past you."

Both boys now took off their coats and waistcoats, put on a warm flannel jersey over their flannel shirts, and then wound the bandages of India rubber round each other's bodies. They began under the arms; drawing the webbing tight, as they wound it round, so that its natural elasticity caused each turn to press tightly upon the turn above, which it overlapped. This bandage was continued down to the lower part of the body. Then they put on the life belts. Over them they put their suits of white calico, white shoes with India rubber soles, the white caps, and swimming gloves.

They then put the "dummy" in a pillow case, which they had bought for it at Versailles. Before putting on their caps, they fastened the quills with the dispatches in their hair. In a belt, underneath their jackets, each carried a heavy revolver.

"This India rubber stuff regularly squeezes me, Ralph."

"All the better, Percy. You will feel the benefit of it, when you are in the water, believe me."

The boys now knelt down together, and asked for protection through the peril which they were about to encounter. A few minutes later they rose, grasped each other's hand; and then -- blowing out the light -- groped their way upstairs, opened a window which led into the garden, and stepped out.

The wind was blowing strongly. Snowflakes were being whisked hither and thither, like spray from a wave. Had it not been for the gleam from the snow-covered ground, it would have been impossible to see ten paces, here. As it was, it was intensely dark.

"It's lucky that it's downhill, Percy, or we should never find our way to the water's edge. If we keep descending, we must be there, at last."

Before starting, the boys went a few paces from each other; and were pleased to find that their white costumes suited admirably as, between the driving snow and the white sheet upon the ground, they could not make each other out at more than eight or ten yards, even when they knew exactly where they stood. They now began to descend the hill, very carefully, step by step. The snow upon the ground made walking much more easy than it otherwise would have been. Their footsteps -- muffled alike by the India-rubber soles, and the snow upon which they walked -- were inaudible, even to themselves. They had several walls to climb, and the noiseless India-rubber soles were of good service, here. Several times they could hear the sentries, beating their feet upon the ground to warm them; but in no case were they near enough to see them.

At last, after an hour and a half -- spent in passing the three hundred yards which separated them from the river -- they reached, in safety, the wall of the road which runs along by the river. Here the sentries were pacing along at distances of thirty or forty yards apart. The white houses, upon the opposite side of the road, could be faintly seen; and the boys moved along until opposite an opening between them, by which they could get through to the river. Looking over the wall, they could watch the sentries and -- choosing their time when one had just passed, so that his back would be turned towards them -- he no sooner disappeared in the darkness than they dropped noiselessly into the road, ran across the street, climbed a low railing, and stood in a garden which reached down to the river.

They stood watching, for some time, to assure themselves that no sentry was placed in the garden; but at last they stole forwards and stood at the end of the garden, with the river at their feet. The snow -- which was at their backs -- was falling faster than ever. The river deepened rapidly from the wall; but the water was low enough for anyone to get along on the sloping side -- faced with rough stone -- between the foot of the wall and the water.

The boys got over the wall, took the dummy from the bag and, holding one end of the cord, put it quietly into the water; and allowed it to float down, about sixty yards.

"Now, Percy," Ralph said, "you get ready to slip into the water, as quietly as possible, the moment you hear a splash. I will leave this bag here, so as to know exactly where you have gone in and -- as the rope is plenty long enough -- you keep hold of it here, at sixty yards from the dummy; and I will fasten the slack end to the stone so that, when I go in, I have only to hold the rope in my hand, to be able to join you. I will take this heavy coping stone in my hand; will crawl along on this shelving bank, till I arrive at the dummy; and will then throw the stone in, and run back at full speed, and be in the water a few seconds after you are."

"All right, Ralph, I understand. Keep your pistol cocked in your hand, as you go."

Ralph crept quietly along, under the wall, until he saw the dummy floating at the edge of the water, a few feet below him. He rose on his feet, to throw in the stone; when he heard a deep exclamation behind him and, looking round, he saw a dark figure within two feet of him. Another moment, and the sentry would have brought his rifle to his shoulder -- for he sprang back, giving a loud shout -- but Ralph wheeled round instantaneously, threw up his revolver, and fired at the sentinel's body.

He saw him fall; turned round, hurled the heavy stone with a loud splash into the water, and then -- crawling low under the wall -- ran at full speed back again. As he did so, two sentries in the garden over his head fired, in the direction of the splash in the water; and shouts were heard all along the bank.

In another instant Ralph grasped the line, and slid down the snowy slopes into the water; entering so quietly that no sound, whatever, betrayed his entry. It was icy cold, and almost took away his breath. Twenty strokes, and he joined Percy.

"All right, old man, they can't see us now."

"You are not hit, are you, Ralph?" Percy gasped.

"No, it was my revolver. I had to shoot a sentry, to save my life. It's lucky we have got these life belts on, for I am sure we should never get across."

"There! There!" was shouted, in German. "I see his head bobbing up and down," and eight or ten rifle shots were fired, from the garden where the sentry had fallen, in the direction of the dummy.

The boys swam on desperately, then Ralph said:

"You can slip the string now, Percy. The dummy has done its work. It must be quite out of sight from the bank.

"Do not you feel the benefit of the India rubber?"

"Yes," Percy said, "I am warm enough, in the body; but my legs are in agony, from the cold. These gloves are helping us on, though, at a great rate."

"Well, there is one blessing," Ralph said, "we can't miss the way, now."

As he spoke, a heavy fire of musketry opened from the French, upon the other side. Alarmed at the sudden fire on the part of the Germans, they fired at the flashes of their guns and, fresh reinforcements coming up on either side, a heavy exchange of musketry shots took place across the river; partially over the boys' heads, but principally a hundred yards lower down the stream, in the direction where the dummy was seen by the Germans.

The boys swam with long, steady, noiseless strokes.

"We must be halfway across," Ralph said.

"I am getting deadly cold, all over, Ralph. I can't sink, of course; but I shall freeze to death, before I reach the opposite bank."

"No, no, Percy," Ralph said, as cheerily as he could; though he felt, himself, that the intense cold was rapidly overcoming his strength. "Keep up your heart. Strike as hard as you can. The more you exert yourself, the better."

In another minute or two, Ralph found he was leaving Percy behind, and slackened his speed.

"Goodbye, Ralph. My legs are all cramped up, and my arms are numbed. I can't swim another stroke. It is all up with me," he said, faintly. "God bless you. Don't stop with me; you can do no good, and your only chance is to go on."

Ralph, however, put one hand upon Percy's life belt, and struck out for shore; but he felt that it was hopeless. Frightful pains were shooting through his limbs, and he breathed what he believed to be a last prayer; when a boom like thunder, a few yards off, galvanized him into life again -- for he saw the gunboat, which they had seen in the morning, only a few yards distant. She had just fired a gun, loaded with grape, in the direction of the Germans who were firing. She was still at anchor, and the stream was drifting them down fast upon her.

"Help!" Ralph shouted. "Help! We are drowning, and have dispatches Throw a rope, quick!"

"Where are you?" answered a voice.

"Here, close to you, just abreast," Ralph shouted.

In another instant a rope struck his face. He grasped it, twisted it tightly round Percy's body and his own, tied a rough knot with his last strength, and then lost consciousness.

When he recovered his senses, his first sensation was that of intense pain -- so intense that it extracted a groan from him.

"That's right, rub away; and pour some more brandy down his throat," a voice said.

Then he became conscious that he was being rubbed with hot flannels. He opened his eyes, and saw a gleaming of moving machinery, and the red glare of furnaces.

"Where am I?" he asked, at last.

"In the engine room of the gunboat Farcey," a voice said.

"I am suffering agony," Ralph murmured, between his teeth.

"I daresay," the officer who was standing by him answered. "You were pretty near frozen to death. Luckily your life belts kept you from taking in any water, but it was a near squeak. Another three minutes in the water, and the doctor says it would have been all up with you."

"Where is my brother?" Ralph asked suddenly; sitting up, with a full consciousness of all that had passed.

"He is coming round," the officer said. "He was farther gone than you were; and his heart's action was altogether suspended, from the cold. His limbs are twitching now, and the doctor says he will do.

"You call him your brother, but I suppose you mean your son?"

"Please lend me some clothes," Ralph said. "I can stand, now."

Some clothes had already been got in readiness, and warmed; and in a couple of minutes Ralph was kneeling by his brother's side. Percy was now coming to, and was suffering agonies similar to those which Ralph himself had experienced, from the recommencement of circulation in his limbs. He looked round, utterly bewildered; for he had become insensible before the Farcey's gun had given notice of her proximity. He smiled, however, when his eyes fell on Ralph's face.

"It is all right, Percy, thank God," Ralph said. "We are on board the gunboat Farcey and, in ten minutes, we shall be landed in the heart of Paris."

In another five minutes, Percy was sufficiently recovered to begin to dress. The commander of the Farcey now turned to Ralph.

"Your son has had a very narrow shave of it, sir."

"Son!" Ralph said, "He is my brother."

The officer looked surprised.

"How old do you take me to be?" Ralph asked.

"Forty-five or fifty," the officer said.

"I shall not be seventeen for some months," Ralph answered.

The officer looked at him with an air of intense astonishment, and there was a burst of laughter from the men standing round. The commandant frowned angrily at them.

"Quite so, my dear sir," he said, soothingly. "I was only joking with you. It is evident that you are not yet seventeen."

"You think I have lost my senses, with the shock," Ralph said, smiling. "I can assure you that that is my age. My beard and whiskers are so firmly fixed on, with cobbler's wax, that I shall have an awful trouble to get them off; and my hair the same. If you feel along here, from one ear to the other, you will feel a ridge. That is the cobbler's wax, that sticks all this mass of frizzled hair on.

"Did you not notice that both my brother's and my face and hands were much darker than the rest of our skin?"

"Yes, the doctor did notice that," the captain said -- now beginning to think that Ralph was not insane, after all.

Passing his finger where Ralph directed him, he felt the ridge of the false hair.

"Who are you then, may I ask?" he said.

"My brother and myself are named Barclay," Ralph said. "We are lieutenants in the army, and are both decorated for service in the field. We left Tours four days ago, and are bearers of dispatches from Gambetta to General Trochu."

A cheer broke from all who were standing within hearing; and the boys' hands -- for Percy came up at the moment -- were warmly shaken by the officers of the boat, one after another. Congratulations of all sorts were heaped upon them, and those around were unable to make enough of them.

"No pigeon has come in, for ten days," the commander said. "You will indeed be welcome."

At this moment, a sailor came down to say that they were passing the Louvre and, in another two minutes, the gunboat lay alongside the wharf.

"You do not know, I suppose, where Trochu is to be found?" the commander of the Farcey asked.

"No, indeed," Ralph said.

"I will go with you, myself," the officer said. "If the general has gone to bed, we must knock him up. He won't mind, when he hears the reason."

It was but a short distance to walk, but the boys had great difficulty in getting there; for their limbs were stiff and aching, and they felt a burning sensation all over them, as if they had been dipped in boiling water. General Trochu had not yet gone to bed and -- upon the message being delivered by the orderly, "The commander of the Farcey, with officers bearing dispatches, from Tours," -- he ordered them to be instantly admitted.

"These are the Lieutenants Barclay, general," the commander of the Farcey said. "A heavy firing broke out, suddenly, from the water side at Lower Meudon. It was answered from our side and -- thinking that it might be someone trying to swim across -- I fired a round of grape into the Germans, and ordered a sharp lookout to be kept. I had scarcely spoken the words before we were hailed for a rope; and in another minute these officers -- both insensible from cold -- were pulled on board. Thinking they might have dispatches, I at once started up the river; and when they were brought round, by the surgeon, they stated that they were the Lieutenants Barclay, bearers of dispatches from Tours."

"Gallantly done, gentlemen! Bravely done!" the general said warmly, shaking both boys by the hand.

The burning heat of Percy's hand struck him, at once.

"Where are your dispatches, gentlemen? You have preserved them, I hope?"

Ralph produced the two quills.

"They are duplicate, general," he said. "We each carried one, in case any accident might befall one of us."

"Thank you," the general said. "I need now detain you no longer. I have work here for all night, and you had better go instantly to bed. Your brother is in a high state of fever."

He touched a bell, and an officer in waiting came in.

"Captain Bar, will you kindly take these gentlemen to a hotel, at once. The horses are, as usual, in the carriage I suppose; and," -- he dropped his voice -- "send a message from me to request Doctor Marcey to see them, at once. The younger one is in a state of high fever."

In another quarter of an hour the boys were in comfortable beds, in rooms adjoining each other. Ralph -- who was heavy and stupid, with the effects of the cold -- was asleep almost the instant his head touched the pillow. He was roused a short time afterwards by being shaken and, opening his eyes, he saw someone leaning over him.

"Drink this," the gentleman said, holding a glass to his lips.

Ralph mechanically did as he was told; and fell off again into a heavy sleep, from which he did not awake until late the next afternoon.

His first impulse was to look at his watch. It had stopped at eleven o'clock, the night before -- the hour at which he had entered the Seine. Then he rang the bell.

"What o'clock is it?" he asked, when the servant entered.

"Just struck five, sir."

"What, five in the afternoon?" Ralph exclaimed.

"Yes, sir."

"I have slept," Ralph said, with a laugh. "However, I feel all right again, now.

"Is my brother up?"

"No, sir," the man said.

"Percy!" Ralph shouted, "It is five o'clock in the afternoon. Get up."

"The other gentleman is not in the next room, sir," the servant said.

"Is he not?" Ralph said, puzzled. "I was desperately sleepy last night, certainly; but not too sleepy, I should have thought, to have made a mistake about that. I feel sure he was in the next room."

"He was, sir," the servant said, "but Doctor Marcey, when he came to see you -- just after you got into bed -- ordered him to be carried at once into another room, in order that he might not disturb you. He said it was essential that you should have your sleep out, undisturbed."

"But why should my brother disturb me?" Ralph asked, anxiously. "Is he not well?"

"No, sir, he has got fever. He has been calling out, a great deal. He has got two sisters with him, and the doctor has been every hour."

By this time Ralph was out of bed.

"Here are some clothes, sir," the man said, handing them to him. "The landlord thought you would want some at once, when you woke; and ordered three or four suits for you to try."

Ralph seized the first that came to hand, and threw them on.

"All Paris was talking about your getting through the enemy, last night, sir. There have been hundreds of people here to call."

Ralph did not even hear what was said.

"Now," he said, "take me to him, at once."

The servant led Ralph along a passage and stopped at a door, at which he knocked. A Sister of Mercy opened the door.

"This is the other gentleman."

The sister opened the door for Ralph to enter.

"He is quiet now," she said, in a soft, compassionate tone.

Ralph went into the room. Percy lay in the bed, with his head surrounded with ice. His face was flushed, and his eyes wild. He was moving uneasily about, talking to himself.

"It is that schoolmaster who is at the bottom of it," he muttered. "He was a traitor, and I thought we hung him, but I suppose we didn't. Perhaps he got down, after we had gone off. If not, how could he have betrayed us again?

"I have heard of liquid fire, but that was liquid ice. It got into my veins, somehow, instead of blood. I tell you, Ralph, it's no good. I can't stand it any longer; but I will pay off that schoolmaster, first. Let me get at him," and he made an effort to rise.

The sister tried to restrain him, but so violent were his efforts to rise that Ralph -- who was looking on, with tears streaming down his cheeks -- was obliged to assist to hold him down. When he became quiet, the sister forced some medicine between his lips -- Ralph holding up his head.

"Shall I speak to him?" Ralph asked. "He may know my voice."

"Better not, sir," the nurse said, "it would probably only set him off again."

"What does the doctor say about him?" Ralph asked.

"He says it is brain fever," the nurse said. "He only said it might be some days, before the crisis came; and that he could not give any decided opinion, at present. But he seemed to have hope."

"Thank God, at least, for that!" Ralph said, earnestly.

Percy, turning his head round again, caught sight of Ralph.

"Ah, there is that schoolmaster again! If no one else will hang him, I will do it, myself. Let me get at him!"

And he again made desperate efforts to get out of bed.

"You had better go, sir," one of the sisters said, urgently. "The sight of you makes him worse, and you can do him no good."

Seeing that it was so, Ralph reluctantly left the room; his only comfort being that Percy was as carefully tended, and looked after, as it was possible for him to be. He had scarcely returned to his room, when an officer was shown in.

"I daresay you hardly remember me," he said. "I came here with you, last night."

"I am very glad to see you again, and to thank you for the trouble you took," Ralph said. "I was too sleepy to do so, last night."

"Not at all," the officer answered. "However, I am here with a message from the general, now. He would have asked you to dine with him but, hearing of the state of your brother, he could not ask you to leave him for so long a time; but he would be glad if you would come to see him, for an hour, this evening. He wishes to know how you managed to pass through the German lines; and he also desires to be informed, as far as you can give such information, of the number and position of the enemy.

"What surprises us all, more than anything, is that the dispatches are dated the morning of the thirteenth instant; and you were picked up, by the Farcey, upon the evening of the sixteenth. It seems incredible that you should have done the distance, and managed to get through the German lines, in the time. Only one other messenger has got through; and his dispatches were more than ten days old, when they reached us, and had been forestalled by some pigeons. Your news is six days later than any we have received."

"We slept, on the night of the thirteenth, at Montargis," Ralph said; "on the fourteenth at Melun, on the fifteenth at Versailles; and last night -- as you know -- here."

"I must not get the information before the general," the officer said, with a laugh. "It is half-past six, now. The general dines at seven. At what time will you be with him? Shall we say nine?"

"I will be there at nine," Ralph said, "but the general will, I hope, excuse my coming either in uniform, or full dress of any kind. I have, of course, nothing with me."

"General Trochu will of course understand that," the officer said. "Goodbye."

Ralph now went back to Percy's room. The doctor had just come. He was accompanied by another medical man. Ralph stood by, in silent attention, while the doctor felt Percy's pulse, and asked a few questions of the nurse. They then gave some orders, and said that fresh medicine should be sent in, in a quarter of an hour; and that they would come in again, at ten o'clock, to see how he was going on.

"What do you think of him, sir?" Ralph asked, as the doctor came out.

"He has a sharp attack of brain fever," the doctor said, "but he is young, with an excellent constitution. I trust we shall pull him through. I cannot say anything for certain, at present -- till the fever takes a turn, one way or the other -- but I have strong hopes."

Ralph ordered some dinner to be sent up to his room, for he began to be keenly awake to the fact that he had eaten nothing, for more than twenty-four hours. After he had taken the meal, he sat in Percy's room, until it was time to go to General Trochu's; keeping himself, however, in a position so as to be hidden by the curtain -- for the sight of him evidently excited the patient. Percy was, as far as his brother could see, in just the same state as before: sometimes talking to himself, in disconnected sentences; sometimes raving wildly, and imagining himself repeating the scenes through which he had passed, since he left home.

At nine o'clock, exactly, Ralph sent in his name to the governor; and was at once shown in. The general had already left the table, and was smoking in a small study. With him were Generals Ducrot and Vinoy. General Trochu rose, and shook him cordially by the hand; presented him to the other generals, and asked him to take a cigar, and sit down.

"Generals Ducrot and Vinoy are surprised, I see, at your appearance, Captain Barclay," General Trochu began.

"By the way," he interrupted himself, "you are in the Gazette, this morning, as captain."

Ralph bowed, and expressed his thanks.

"No thanks are due at all, Captain Barclay," the old veteran said. "You have well earned your promotion; and Gambetta -- who speaks of you, I may say, in the highest terms -- tells me that he promised you the step, if you got in. I need not say that, whether he had done so or not, I should have given it to you.

"But I was saying, I see Generals Vinoy and Ducrot are surprised -- as I am, myself -- at your appearance. Gambetta, in his letter, twice uses the expression young officers. Once he said, 'these young officers have greatly distinguished themselves, and have gained the cross of the legion of honor;' and again he says, 'these young officers have volunteered to carry dispatches.'

"Naturally, my friends were looking for a younger man; and having only seen you for an instant last night, and not having observed your features, specially, I confess that I was expecting a younger man.

"You see," he said, with a smile, "we can quite understand Gambetta's calling your brother a young officer, for he is a mere lad; but one would hardly have applied the same term to yourself."

Ralph had flushed crimson, at the commencement of this speech.

"I must apologize very greatly, general," he said, when the Governor of Paris stopped; "for the mistake is certainly due to my own forgetfulness."

His hearers looked surprised.

"I slept until five o'clock this afternoon," Ralph continued; "owing, I believe, to a powerful opiate that the doctor you kindly sent us gave me. Since I woke, my thoughts have been entirely given to my brother; and the thought of my singular appearance never entered my mind. I have become so accustomed -- in the few days since I left Tours -- to this beard, mustache, and hair, that I never thought of them, for a moment. Had I thought of it, I could not have presented myself before you, this evening; for I should not have presumed to do so, in my present state; and it will take me some hours of hard work, and not a little pain, before I get rid of them -- for they are fastened on with shoemaker's wax and, I fear, will not come off, without taking a considerable portion of skin with them."

The three generals laughed heartily at Ralph's apology, and their own mistake; and General Trochu then asked him to give them a full account of what had happened to him, what he had seen, and what information he had gained since he left Tours. Ralph told the story unaffectedly, from beginning to end, and received warm commendation from his listeners.

"Your story began at Tours," General Trochu said; "where had you last been, before that?"

"We had only arrived, ten days before, from a German prison," Ralph answered.

The generals all laughed.

"You are adventurous fellows, you and your brother," General Vinoy said. "How did you get taken, and how did you get out?"

Ralph again told his story.

"You are cool hands, you Barclays," General Ducrot said. "How did you get commissions first? Were you at the Polytechnic, or Saint Cyr?"

"No, general," Ralph said, modestly, "we had no such advantages. We won our commissions -- and the cross of the Legion -- in the Vosges, as franc tireurs."

"In which corps?" General Trochu asked, a little sharply. "They have not done any very great things, the franc tireurs."

"We were in the franc tireurs of Dijon," Ralph said, a little proudly. "We several times beat superior forces. We blew up the bridge of the Vesouze; and should have blown up the tunnel of Saverne, had it not been for treachery."

"Yes, yes," General Trochu said; "I remember Gambetta has once or twice mentioned your corps, especially. You see, we don't hear much from outside.

"Let us hear of the affairs you have mentioned. Your account will give us a better idea of the state of things, in the Vosges, than fifty dispatches would do."

Thus asked, Ralph gave an account of the doings of the corps; from the day they arrived in the Vosges, to the day he had left them -- reduced to a fourth of their original strength. The three generals sat and smoked their cigars while he spoke, asking questions occasionally.

"Very good," General Trochu said, when he finished; and the other generals cordially assented.

"But how come you to speak German so well?" General Trochu asked; "and how was it you understood the English in which the officer spoke, at Saverne?"

"We are English," Ralph said; and his hearers gave a simultaneous start of surprise. "That is to say, our nationality is English, though we are half French. Our father -- an officer in the English army -- was wounded, left the service, married a French lady, and settled in France for a time. We have been educated partly in England, Germany, and France; so that we speak the three languages nearly equally well."

"Well, Captain Barclay," General Trochu said, "I am almost sorry that you are not French; for you would be a credit to any country.

"And now, I think it is time to be going to bed," and he drew out his watch. "Bless me, it is one o'clock! I had no idea it was so late. Good night.

"I will not ask you to call again, for a day or two; as your brother will naturally occupy your attention, and care. I trust that I shall soon hear good news of him."

"Good night, Captain Barclay," the other generals said, cordially, each giving him their hands; and Ralph made his way across the dark streets -- for there was no gas -- back to his hotel.

He went at once up to Percy's room; and found that, if not decidedly better, he was at least no worse; and the Sisters of Charity, who were nursing him, said that the doctors had spoken hopefully at their last visit. Ralph had intended to sit up all night, but the nurses assured him that he could be of no use, whatever; and indeed, that he would be worse than useless, as his presence excited Percy. They themselves were keeping watch, by turns.

Accordingly Ralph -- who still felt the effects of the cold immersion -- went off to bed and -- in spite of the late hour at which he had risen -- was in a few minutes sound asleep.



Chapter 17: A Balloon Voyage.


For eight-and-forty hours, Percy's fever and delirium continued unabated. At the end of that time, he fell into a long sleep; and the doctor, as he felt his hand and heard his breathing, told his brother that he thought the crisis was over, and that he would awaken, conscious. His prognostication turned out well founded and, to Ralph's intense delight, Percy knew him when he opened his eyes. He was weak -- weaker than Ralph could have supposed anyone could possibly have become, after only two days' illness. But he was fairly convalescent.

Ralph had scarcely left him, during these two days; and had only been out once from the hotel. He had sent for a newspaper; to read for himself, in the Gazette, the promotion which General Trochu had notified to him and, after doing so, he turned to another portion; and there, among the lists of decorations given, were the names of Percy and himself, as promoted to be commanders of the Legion for having, with extreme gallantry, conveyed dispatches from Tours to Paris, through the German lines.

It was after reading this newspaper that Ralph went out. His walk was not a long one. He went first to a tailor, and ordered two captain's uniforms; for Percy was so nearly his own size that -- except that his shoulders were an inch less in width -- Ralph's clothes fitted him exactly. He then went to the Palais Royal, where there are several shops which sell nothing but medals, and decorations; and bought two ribbons of the commander's rank, in the legion of honor.

One terrible morning Ralph spent in a hairdresser's hands and, at the cost of no little pain, got rid of all that mass of hair which had so transformed him. The stain was now nearly worn off the skin; and Ralph was quite surprised, when he again looked at himself in the glass.

"I was about beginning to forget," he said, with a laugh, "that I was a boy, after all."

The first day of Percy's convalescence, he dozed a good deal; but the next day he woke, much brighter and better.

"Look here, Percy," Ralph said, laying the ribbon before him; "that's better than medicine for you. There is the ribbon of a commander of the legion of honor. You can safely boast that you are the youngest who ever wore it; and earned it well, too, old man. Won't they be pleased, at home? And we are both gazetted as captains."

Percy smiled with pleasure. His attack had been a very sharp one; but so short an illness, however severe, is speedily got over. The doctor had, that morning, said that all he wanted now was building up; and that, in a very few days, he would be about. Indeed, Percy wanted to get up that day; insisting that he was quite strong. When he once stood up, however, he found he was much weaker than he had imagined; but sat up in an armchair, all the evening. The next day he remained up all day and, three days after, he felt strong enough to go to the governor with Ralph, to ask for their promised places in the next balloon.

It was now the twenty-third of November. A carriage was sent for and, after some difficulty, procured; for carriages were already becoming scarce, in Paris. They drove up to the entrance, and went in; but were told by an orderly -- who could scarcely conceal his surprise at these lads, in the uniform of captains of the staff, and with decorations scarcely ever seen, except upon the breasts of superior officers -- that the general was out. They turned and went out but, as they reached the steps, a number of officers rode up.

"There is General Trochu himself, with Vinoy and Ducrot," Ralph said.

The generals dismounted, and came up the steps. As they did so their eyes fell upon the boys, who both saluted. They paused, in surprise.

"What masquerade is this, young gentlemen?" General Trochu asked, sternly. "Allow me to ask how you venture to dress up as captains, on the staff; and still more how you dare to put on the ribbons of commanders of the legion of honor?

"It is no laughing matter," he said, angrily, as Ralph could not resist a smile. "It is a punishable offence; and your impudence in showing yourselves off, at my door, makes the matter the more unpardonable."

"I see, general, that you do not remember us."

"I do not, sir," General Trochu said, looking at him sternly. "To the best of my belief, I never set eyes upon you before."

The numerous staff of officers -- who had accompanied the generals, and who were scattered thickly around them -- gave an angry murmur; for scarce one among them wore the coveted decoration.

"I am Ralph Barclay, and this is my brother Percy," Ralph said, respectfully.

"Impossible!" the three generals exclaimed, simultaneously; while there was a general exclamation of surprise, from the officers round -- for the courageous deed of the Barclays, in making their way through the enemy's lines, had been a general topic of conversation, and all Paris was familiar with their names.

"It is so, general," Ralph said, respectfully. "I explained to you, at the interview that I had the honor of having with you, in the presence of Generals Ducrot and Vinoy, that it was the false hair which made all the difference; and that I was but little older than my brother."

The generals no longer doubted. They all shook both boys by the hand.

"I am astounded," General Trochu said; "astounded that two such mere boys, as I now see you are, should have accomplished what you have done. However, courage is of no age; and I do not think that there are any here," -- and he turned to the officers round him -- "who will not agree with me that these ribbons are worthily placed."

"No, indeed," was the general reply; and the officers all pressed round, to shake hands with the boys, as they accompanied the governor back into the house.

General Trochu went at once into his private study, and told the boys to sit down.

"Now, what can I do for you, boys?"

"Monsieur Gambetta promised us that he would write, to ask for us to have places in the first balloon which came out, after we arrived," Ralph said. "Owing to my brother's illness, I have not been able to ask, before; but I am now anxious to leave as soon as possible, especially as the doctor says that change is desirable for my brother, and that he ought to have at least a month's nursing, at home, before he gets on horseback again."

"A balloon will start tomorrow morning," General Trochu said, "but if you choose to stay here, I will promise you both places upon my own staff; or upon those of Generals Ducrot or Vinoy -- either of whom would, I am sure, be very glad to receive you."

"You are very kind, indeed, sir -- very kind; and we feel greatly honored by your offer," Ralph said, gratefully. "Had we any intention, whatever, of remaining in the army, we should accept it, with many thanks; but it is not so. We are English; and at the end of the war we leave France, and go back to live at home. We entered the ranks with no thought of winning promotion, or favor; but simply from a sense of duty to the country to which our mother belonged, and in which we were born.

"There will, I suppose, be a great battle fought near Orleans, shortly; and I should like to be present, if possible -- and Percy wants rest. Therefore, general, while thanking you most warmly for your kindness, we would rather go out."

"Very well," the general said, "it shall be as you wish. There is certainly more chance of your seeing stirring service, in the field, than in here. I do not blame you for your choice. I will send a note at once to Monsieur Teclier -- who has charge of the balloon -- to say that you will accompany him.

"Goodbye, lads, goodbye; you are fine young fellows, and your father has every right to be proud of you. Tell him so, from me."

The boys rose, and bowed; but the general held out his hand, and shook theirs warmly.

Upon leaving the room, they found several of the officers of the staff waiting outside; who begged them to stay, and have a chat with them. Ralph at once accepted the invitation; upon the condition that Percy should have a sofa upon which to lie down, for his brother was looking pale, and faint. They were most warmly received, in a large drawing room, in which were over a dozen officers of different ranks. Some bottles of champagne were opened, cigars were lit and, while Percy lay quietly upon the sofa, Ralph chatted with the officers; relating, at their earnest request, several of their adventures in the Vosges, as well as the story of their entering into Paris.

His new friends warmly pressed them to stop and dine with them; but Ralph pleaded that the balloon was to start at five in the morning, and that he wished Percy to lie down, and get a good night's sleep before starting. The carriage had been discharged, hours since; but one of the officers ordered a carriage of General Trochu's to the door and, after a hearty leave taking, the boys returned to their hotel.

"What a curious scene it is, Percy," Ralph said. "Who would think that we were in a besieged city? Everything looks very much as usual: the shops are open; people walk about and chat, and smoke, and drink their coffee or absinthe, just as usual. The only difference is, that everyone is in some sort of uniform or other. One does not see a single able-bodied man altogether in civilian dress; and at night the streets are very dismal, owing to there being no gas."

"How much longer do they seem to expect to hold out, Ralph?"

"Another two months, anyhow; perhaps three, or even more. There seems to be a large stock of everything, and everyone is put on to a regular allowance -- just enough to live upon, and no more."

"I seem to have everything I want, Ralph; lots of beef tea, and soup, and jelly, and so on."

"Yes, Percy; but you obtain your food from the hospital. The hotel could not furnish anything of the kind, I can tell you.

"Here we are. Now you lie down at once, and get to sleep. I will wake you in plenty of time."

At ten minutes before the appointed time, the boys arrived at the Northern Railway Station; which presented a very different appearance to that which it ordinarily wore. No whistle of locomotives, or rumble of heavy trains, disturbed the silence of the station. A smell of varnish pervaded the whole place; and several empty balloons hung from the roof, undergoing the process of drying. The official -- who had received them at the entrance -- conducted them outside the station; and there, in the light of some torches, a great black mass could be seen, swaying heavily to and fro. The aeronaut was standing beside it.

"Here are the gentlemen who accompany you," the officer said to him.

"How are you, gentlemen?" he said, cheerily. "We have a fine night, or rather morning; the wind is northerly. I suppose this is your first ascent?"

"Yes, indeed," Ralph said, "and I own I hope it will be the last. Have the dispatches arrived?"

"No; I have the mail bags, but not the dispatches Hush! There are a horse's hoofs."

A few minutes afterwards a railway official brought a note, which he delivered to Monsieur Teclier.

"Bah!" he said, in an annoyed tone, "why cannot they be punctual?"

"What is it, sir?" Ralph asked.

"A note from the general, to say that the dispatches will not be ready for an hour. That means an hour and a half; and by that time it will be light enough to be seen, and we shall have to run the gauntlet. However, I suppose it cannot be helped.

"The best thing will be to pass the time as cheerfully as we can; and that certainly will not be in waiting out here, in this bitter cold. I have, fortunately, a few bottles of excellent wine in the car; so I propose, gentlemen, that we go in to a fire, have a glass of wine, and smoke a cigar, tranquilly."

Monsieur Teclier gave a few directions concerning the balloon; and they then adjourned to a work shed near, where a good fire was blazing, for the use of the men employed in filling the balloon. Here the hour and a half of waiting passed pleasantly.

At a quarter to seven, the dispatches arrived. They were hastily placed in the car, in which everything else had already been packed. The Barclays took their place, the word was given, "Let go all!" and, in another instant, the earth seemed to sink away from under them, and they were rising over the tops of the houses.

The dawn had already broken, gray and uncertain. Light clouds were floating overhead. For two or three minutes, not a word was spoken. The scene was so wonderful -- the effect so extraordinary, to the boys -- that they were unable to utter a word. Every instant, the earth seemed to sink away from them; every instant, their view extended farther and farther; and the distant fields, villages, and hills seemed actually to spring into sight.

"It is wonderful!" Ralph said, at last.

"Magnificent!" Percy responded.

"I wonder whether they see us?" Ralph said.

"We shall soon know," Monsieur Teclier said. "We have crossed the river, and over the walls already. In another five minutes, we shall be over their lines."

There were good telescopes in the car, and the boys directed them upon the immense panorama below them.

"What fort is that, immediately beneath us?" Ralph asked.

"That is Vanves. The village you see there is Chatillon. Look out now, we may expect visitors, in a minute."

He had hardly spoken before they heard a faint sound, followed by others similar.

"That is musketry," Monsieur Teclier said. "Listen."

They did listen, and heard a peculiar whistling sound; which seemed below, around, and about them.

"That is a whistle of bullets; there is no mistaking them," Ralph said.

"We are too low," Monsieur Teclier said. "Throw out that bundle of newspapers; we will go up a little."

Ralph did so.

"What would be the consequence, if a bullet hit the balloon?"

"No consequence at all, except that a slight escape of gas would take place.

"There, we are going into the clouds now, and they will not trouble any more about us."

"I thought that we were going to have wind," Ralph said. "The barometer at the hotel had fallen a good deal; and the clouds, before we started, looked like it but, now we are once up here, we do not seem to move."

In another two minutes, they passed through the layer of clouds, and the sun shone brightly upon them. They looked down on a sea of white mist, without a break.

"There," Ralph continued, "we are entirely becalmed. These clouds below do not move, nor do we."

"You cannot tell that," Monsieur Teclier said. "We go in the same direction, and at the same speed, as the clouds. It is just as if you were in a boat, at night, upon a rapid stream. If you could see no banks, or other stationary objects, you might believe yourself to be standing still; while you were being drifted forward, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. We may be traveling, now, forty or fifty miles an hour; and as I agree with you, as to the look of the clouds before starting, I believe that we are doing so -- or, at any rate, that we are traveling fast -- but in what direction, or at what rate, I have no means, whatever, of knowing.

"Even if we found that we moved, relatively to the clouds below us, that would only show that this upper current was somewhat different from that below."

"But how are we to find out about it?" Percy asked.

"We must keep a sharp lookout for rifts in the clouds. If we could get a peep of the earth, only for a minute, it would be sufficient to tell us the direction and, to some extent, the speed at which we are going."

The boys, in vain, hung over the side. The sea of clouds beneath them changed, and swelled, and rolled its masses of vapor over each other; as if a contest of some gigantic reptiles were going on with them.

"There must be a great deal of wind, to account for these rapid changes of form," Percy said, after a long silence. "Suppose you see nothing of the earth? At what time will you begin to descend?"

"In five hours from the time of starting, at twenty-five miles an hour -- supposing that the wind holds north -- we should fall south of the Loire, somewhere between Orleans and Bourges. At eleven o'clock, then, I will let out gas; and go down below the clouds, to see whereabouts we are. If we cannot recognize the country, or see any river which may guide us, we shall at least see our direction and rate of movement; and can either throw out more newspapers, and keep on for awhile, or descend at once."

It was just ten o'clock, when Ralph gave a sudden cry.

"The sea!" he said; "the sea!"

"Impossible," Monsieur Teclier said, hanging over the side; "I can see nothing."

"Nor can I, now," Ralph said; "but I caught a glimpse, just now, and I will almost swear to its being the sea -- though how we could get there, I don't know."

"If it is," the aeronaut said, "the wind must be blowing half a gale, up here; and must have changed entirely, either to the west or south. It is too serious to hesitate; we must find out if your eyes have not deceived you."

So saying, he pulled the valve.

"Keep a sharp lookout, and look at the compass."

"There, there!" the boys cried, as the clouds opened again, for an instant. "It is the sea, and we are going west."

"Then we are over the Atlantic," Monsieur Teclier said.

The gas was roaring from the valve above, and the balloon sank rapidly into the stratum of clouds. For a minute, all was silent; and then a cry broke from them all. They were a considerable distance from the coast, and were driving along with great rapidity. Immediately under the balloon was an island, of no great size and, beyond that, no land whatever was visible.

"We must descend on that island, or we are lost. It is our only chance."

The valve was still open; and its influence was easily seen, for the balloon sank rapidly down through the opening of the clouds.

"We shan't be down in time," the boys exclaimed, simultaneously.

It was but too evident. The balloon, when the first general view of the situation had been obtained, was fully a mile high; and was traveling seaward at the rate of thirty miles an hour. The island, at the point at which they were crossing, was about three miles wide; but they had passed fully half a mile over it, before they obtained a fair view. In five minutes, therefore, they would be beyond the land again; and they had to fall a mile, in that time.

"Cut the balloon to pieces," Monsieur Teclier said. "Tear it up. We must risk everything."

The boys seized the silk, tore, and hacked at it; as did the aeronaut. In two minutes, a vast quantity of gas had escaped from the rents, and the silk was doubled up near the top of the net.

Illustration: The Sea! The Sea!

"That will do," Monsieur Teclier said. "We shall be down in time, now."

The boys looked over the car and, accustomed as they had been to face danger, were appalled.

"It is all up with us, this time," Ralph said; "we shall he smashed, altogether."

"No," the aeronaut exclaimed, "the silk is acting as a parachute, now, and checking the descent. Now, help me to throw out all the bundles."

They did so, working silently and with difficulty; for the car was oscillating so greatly that they were obliged to hold on, by its side, not to be thrown out. The descent was less rapid than it had been, but was still sufficiently alarming.

"Is there a chance?" Ralph said.

"We shall get off with a shaking," Monsieur Teclier said. "The car is made of wicker work, and is as elastic as a ball. Drop the grapnel, now; in another minute, we shall be within holding distance."

As the balloon neared the ground, the oscillation became less violent, and the pace diminished.

"The grapnel is on the ground," Percy said, looking over.

"Hold tight, hold tight," Monsieur Teclier said, warningly. "We shall catch fast on to those trees."

There was a tearing and rending, a series of tremendous jerks, and then a bump against the ground; which threw them all into the bottom of the car, from which the next jerk threw them out on to the ground. Fortunately the ground was even, and the soil had lately been plowed; but the shock was so violent that it was some minutes before either of the boys recovered consciousness. When they did so, they found that two or three gentlemen were leaning over them; while several peasants were endeavoring, under the direction of Monsieur Teclier, to hold the balloon -- which was thrashing the ground with great violence.

"Thank God, you are all alive," one of the gentlemen said.

A peasant now came running up, with some water. The gentleman who had spoken dashed a little in their faces.

"I do not think any of your limbs are broken," he said. "Do you feel any pain?"

"I feel sore and bruised, all over," Ralph said, getting up with some assistance; "but I don't think that anything serious is the matter.

"How are you, Percy?"

"I don't think I am hurt seriously, Ralph; but I would rather lie still, for the present."

Ralph explained to the gentleman -- who again leaned over Percy, and felt his pulse -- that his brother had been recently ill, and was still weak.

"Ah, that accounts for it," the gentleman said. "I do not think that he is seriously hurt. I am a doctor; and was luckily out riding with these gentlemen, when we happened to look up and saw your balloon falling, like a stone, from the clouds. We thought at first that you must be dashed to pieces; but when we saw that the speed was being a little checked, we had some hope, and galloped in the direction in which it was falling. We were within five hundred yards when you fell, but we hardly expected to see anyone alive.

"Do not try to move," he said to Percy. "We sent a man for a vehicle, and a few necessaries, before we set off ourselves."

"Where have we fallen?" Ralph asked. "We were astonished to find ourselves over the sea, for the wind was north when we started."

"You have fallen upon Belle Isle," the gentleman said, "so the wind must have changed materially, since you started."

Monsieur Teclier now came up.

"I must really congratulate you both," he said to Ralph, "upon your coolness and presence of mind, in a very frightful position. The oldest aeronaut could not have shown more nerve."

"You see," Ralph said, "we have been pretty often in danger, now; and although the sort of danger was new, the degree of danger was not."

The gentlemen smiled a little, as Ralph spoke. The Barclays had come out in plain clothes, bringing their uniform in the balloon for, in the event of the balloon having fallen among the Germans, it was of course essential that they should be able to get off, unobserved. They therefore looked mere lads; and their talk, of having passed through as great a danger as that which had just made the spectators of it feel faint and sick only to witness, appeared to be a mere bit of exaggerated braggadocio.

A light cart now arrived, in which some mattresses had been laid; some bandages, and other surgical necessaries had also been added, together with a bottle of brandy.

"Fortunately we do not want any of these, except the brandy," the surgeon said. "A little of that will do you all good.

"Now a few strips of plaster," -- this was to Monsieur Teclier, whose face was cut a good deal -- "and then you will do, till you get to the town."

The three voyagers were now helped into the cart; for they were all very stiff and greatly shaken, and were glad to stretch themselves out on the mattresses, covered over with blankets, until they reached the little town. Here they were met by the whole population, cheering lustily. Another wagon had been sent off for the balloon; and a number of people now set out to search for the bags of dispatches, etc. which had been thrown out during the last part of the descent. The Sous Prefect at the island placed his house at once at their disposal. But they said that they would rather go to a hotel, first, and take a hot bath -- which the doctor recommended them -- but should be very happy to breakfast with him, after that. Before going to the hotel, however, Monsieur Teclier sent off a dispatch to Tours; saying that he had arrived at Belle Isle with news from Paris, at a quarter to seven; and that, at that time, everything was going on well.

He next inquired as to means of reaching the mainland. The wind was dead off shore, and a sailing vessel would have taken a long time to make the passage. However, there was a small steamer in harbor; and the Sous Prefect took upon himself to engage that the fires should be lighted, at once, and that they should cross in two or three hours.

After reaching the hotel they were examined carefully by the surgeon; who pronounced that no harm, whatever, had been done to them, and that they had escaped with a few contusions, and a good shaking.

The breakfast was quite an ovation. All the principal people of the place were assembled; and when Monsieur Teclier entered, followed by the young Barclays, the gentlemen clapped their hands and cheered, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs. After breakfast, the Sous Prefect proposed an adjournment into the drawing room; and now the voyagers each became the center of a knot of questioners as to the voyage.

Monsieur Teclier -- as was natural -- conversed with the Sous Prefect and other leading men of the town, while their wives and daughters gathered round the lads. Ralph had given his name as Barclay, and had stated that Percy was his brother; but he had said nothing as to their being in the army, as he wished to avoid the oft-repeated tale which the declaration of his rank was sure to necessitate. He had even said a word to Monsieur Teclier, begging him to say the Messieurs Barclay, instead of Captains Barclay -- unless, of course, he were actually questioned upon the matter. Percy was allowed to sit in an easy chair, unmolested -- for he was quite done up -- and Ralph talked for both, relating many details of their journey from Paris; and the ladies examined him most minutely as to his sensation, and especially whether he was not horribly frightened.

Among those standing in a group round the young Barclays was a lieutenant of Mobiles; who evidently by no means approved of the attention, and interest which they excited among the ladies; and who had made several sarcastic remarks, during the course of the narrative. Presently a servant came in and, walking up to Monsieur Teclier, said that two swords had been picked up; had they fallen from the balloon?

"Yes," Monsieur Teclier said, "they belong to those gentlemen."

The servant came up to Ralph, and told him that the swords had been picked up. Ralph at once drew out a five-franc piece, and asked the servant to give it to the man who had found them.

"Ah," said the officer of Mobiles, with a scarcely concealed sneer, "so you have come out from Paris to serve? I should have imagined that there were plenty of opportunities to distinguish yourselves, there. However, you must have had good interest, to get places in a balloon."

"We have fair interest," Ralph said calmly, "as apparently you have, yourself. Each of us have, you see, used our interest in the way most pleasing to us. We have used ours to enable us to go with the army in the field, instead of being forced to remain inactive in Paris. You, upon your part, have used yours to get away from the army in the field, and to remain inactive, here."

These words were spoken with such an air of boyish frankness, and an apparent innocence of any desire to say anything unpleasant, that everyone within hearing was ready to burst with laughter at Ralph's hit -- which happened to be thoroughly well deserved.

The officer turned white; and would have burst out into a violent answer, had not a couple of friends at his elbow begged him to restrain himself. The boy evidently meant nothing; besides, he was only a boy, and what could be done with him? Besides which, again, one of them put in, though he was only a boy, he looked an awkward customer. This latter argument weighed more with the lieutenant than any other.

Ralph was not yet seventeen, and looked much younger than a French lad of the same age would do; but in point of size he was considerably taller than the officer of Mobiles, and his broad shoulders gave promise of unusual strength. There was, too, a look of fearlessness and decision about his face which marked him emphatically as an "awkward customer." Seeing this, the lieutenant burst into a constrained fit of laughter; and said that it was "very good -- really very good, for a boy."

Everyone else was so occupied in the endeavor to stifle their laughter that the lieutenant again took up the part of questioner.

"I suppose, young gentleman, that you come from Saint Cyr or the Polytechnic; although I should hardly imagine that you have completed your studies, in either of them?"

"I have not the advantage of having been at either of the military academies," Ralph said quietly. "Have you?"

Again there was a laugh and, by this time, most of those in the room had gathered round.

"May I ask to which arm of the service you belong?" the officer asked, with difficulty keeping his temper.

"You may ask, certainly; and I have no objection to answer," Ralph said. "My brother and myself both belong to the general staff."

The officer looked surprised.

"Have you served already, sir, or has your service yet to commence?"

"I have seen some little service already," Ralph said.

"May I ask what general has had the benefit of your assistance?" the lieutenant said, with an affectation of politeness.

At this moment the Sous Prefect pushed forward.

"Silence, sir!" he said to the officer. "There has been too much of this. These gentlemen have performed a great service to France, and are my guests; and I look upon it as a personal attack upon myself."

"Excuse me, sir," Ralph said, rising from his seat for the first time. "I am grateful to you, for your interference in my behalf; but I can make no claim, upon the present occasion, to have rendered any service to France. I had nothing to do with the dispatches, nothing to do with the balloon. I came out as a passenger, upon my private desire and pleasure, at the risk of course of being killed. Undoubtedly I nearly was killed; and I look upon the entertainment that you have given us as a kind congratulation upon our not having broken our necks.

"Kindly, then, permit me to answer this officer for myself. I think I can hold my own."

The Sous Prefect shrugged his shoulders; to signify that, in that case, he washed his hands of the whole business.

"Now, sir," Ralph said, "I will answer the question. The general upon whose staff my brother and myself served was General Cambriels."

The officer shrugged his shoulders.

"Since that time," Ralph said, more sternly than he had yet spoken, "my brother and myself have had the offer of posts upon the staffs of General Trochu, General Ducrot, and General Vinoy."

"Oh, come now," the lieutenant said, with a laugh of derision, "that is a little too strong. Imagine a scramble upon the part of Trochu, Ducrot, and Vinoy for the services of these very young officers."

This time the speaker had the laugh with him, for no one could believe that Ralph could be speaking the truth. Ralph grew a little pale.

"Monsieur Teclier," he said, "do me the favor to introduce my brother and myself to this lieutenant of Mobiles, in due form."

The matter had now become so serious that there was a dead hush in the room, while Monsieur Teclier advanced. He had once or twice already made a motion of coming forward, to take Ralph's part; but a motion from the latter had arrested him. He was aware of the furore which the gallant and successful expedition of the Barclays had created, in Paris; and he had been greatly struck and pleased by the calmness of the boys in a great -- and to them altogether new -- peril. He now advanced slowly.

"May I ask your name, sir, and regiment?" he said to the officer.

"Lieutenant Desmaret, of the Mobiles of Vienne," the officer said, frowning.

"Lieutenant Desmaret of the Mobiles of Vienne, I beg to introduce you to -- "

"No, sir," the officer said, passionately, "you introduce them to me, not me to them. The inferior rank is introduced to the superior."

"I know perfectly well what I am doing, sir, and require no lesson from you," Monsieur Teclier said, quietly. "I repeat, I introduce you -- Lieutenant Desmaret, of the Mobiles of Vienne -- to Captain Ralph Barclay, and Captain Percy Barclay, staff officers, and commanders of the legion of honor."

There was a dead silence of surprise throughout the room.

"Is it possible?" the Sous Prefect said, coming forward again, "that these gentlemen are the Captains Barclay, of whom the Paris papers -- which we received three days since -- were full, as having passed through the German lines, and having swam the Seine at night, under fire? They had previously been decorated for great acts of bravery, in the Vosges; and were now made commanders of the Legion.

"Is it possible that you are those officers, gentlemen?"

"It is so, monsieur," Ralph said. "We had the good fortune to distinguish ourselves but, as we did not wish to make ourselves conspicuous by new uniforms, and new ribbons, we have put aside our uniforms until required for service; and asked Monsieur Teclier to be silent upon the subject. Of course, we could not guess that, upon our way, we should meet so rude and unmannerly a person as Monsieur the Lieutenant of the Mobiles of Vienne."

The lieutenant stamped his feet furiously.

"You shall answer to me, sir," he said, "for this insult."

"Stop, sir," Ralph said, in a steady voice -- which silenced those who were about to interfere. "You have asked me questions, with rare freedom. I have answered them. I am now going to give you my opinion of you, and my advice to you, equally freely.

"If you mean, by what you have said, that you are going to challenge me to a duel, I tell you at once that I shall not accept it. I have, sir," and he raised his head proudly, "proved my courage; and France has recognized it, in the rank and honor she has given me. We English -- for I am English -- do not fight duels.

"But I will make an exception. When you, Monsieur Desmaret, come to me decorated as I am; or having, in any signal way, proved your courage and devotion to France, I will meet you. At present I see that you -- an officer in the French army, well in health -- are staying here in idleness, instead of being in the field. Go and fight the enemies of France, first, Monsieur Desmaret; and after that talk, if you like, about fighting her friends."

There was a loud exclamation of applause and satisfaction, at these words, from those who had been looking on at this unpleasant scene; and the Sous Prefect warmly shook Ralph by the hand.

"Well said, Captain Barclay; well said, indeed. I believe I may say that everyone here agrees with you, entirely. There are too many officers continually absent from the army upon 'private affairs;' and those of Monsieur Desmaret have taken longer to arrange than usual, for he has been staying here for five weeks now.

"However," he said, significantly, "he will hardly prolong his stay in the island.

"Enough upon that subject," he said, as Monsieur Desmaret left the room, pale and furious. "I am glad -- I am proud, sir -- to make the acquaintance of yourself and your brother; and I can really, at heart, feel grateful to that fellow, for having forced you to declare who you are. Had he not done so, you would have left without our knowing that we had you among us."

There was now quite an ovation to the boys. The ladies, especially, would hardly conceive that it was possible that these quiet-looking young fellows had performed feats of such daring. They now begged to hear the details of the adventures but, at this moment, word was brought that steam was up, and the vessel ready to start; and as Monsieur Teclier was most anxious to get on, and as Percy was quite done up, Ralph was glad to seize the excuse, and to make his apologies for leaving at once. The Sous Prefect, all the breakfast party, and a large proportion of the population of the little place accompanied them thence to the landing place; and then, amidst hearty cheering, the little steamer -- carrying the voyagers, the dispatches, and the remains of the balloon -- started for the mainland.



Chapter 18: A Day Of Victory.


After traveling all night, the Barclays arrived at Tours at ten o'clock, on the morning of the day after that upon which they had left Belle Isle. At the station they said adieu to Monsieur Teclier; who went at once to Gambetta, with the dispatches; while the Barclays turned away to Colonel Tempe's lodgings and, to their great surprise as well as delight, found him in.

The colonel gave quite a shout of joy, when he saw them.

"Ah, my brave boys, my brave boys, I am glad to see you," and he took them in his arms, and kissed them as heartily and as earnestly as if he had been their father.

"I am glad to see you," he repeated, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. "I was sure you would do it. I never really doubted -- I told Gambetta it was as good as done -- but I could not help being nervous, horribly nervous; and when the news came, five days ago, by the balloon which left three days after you got in, I almost lost my head. I laughed, I cheered, I shook everyone by the hand -- ma foi, I don't know what I did, I was so pleased.

"Your Irishman was the funniest thing. He was not surprised, or pleased, or even interested. I explained to him over and over again, thinking he did not understand; but he only shook his head and said, in his strange English:

"'Sure, colonel, I never doubted them for a moment. Aren't they clever enough to decaive the ould gintleman, himself? It was as sartin as peas is peas that they would slip in, somehow; and if they did get into a scrape, that they were the boys for getting themselves out of it. It's the coming out I am afraid of.'

"I looked surprised, naturally enough, and he went on:

"'And doesn't your honor know that they are talking of coming out in a balloon? Only to think of it, colonel, flying through the clouds, shut up in a big ball of silk! It's just flying in the face of Providence. What's the use of scheming, or of courage? You can't decaive a cloud, though it's as aisy as dancing to take in a German. When you tell me, colonel, that they're safe out of the balloon; then I'll shout, as loud as you like.'

"Yesterday, when the telegram from Teclier came -- saying that he had fallen in Belle Isle, had had a narrow escape of being driven into the sea, but had avoided that by running the risk of breaking his neck -- and mentioned that you were with him; and had, like himself, escaped with a few bruises, Tim went nearly out of his mind with joy. He has been cleaning his sword and accouterments, this morning.

"I am off tomorrow, and you are only just come in time to see the fighting.

"But you are looking ill, Percy; far too ill for service, just at present."

"Yes, he has been very ill," Ralph said. "He had a touch of brain fever, the night we got into Paris; and was delirious for two days. He has picked up quickly, but that balloon descent was not the thing for an invalid. The doctor in Paris ordered a month, at least, of absolute rest; and has given him a sick certificate."

"He needs rest, certainly," Colonel Tempe said, "but he cannot go home, at present. The Prussians hold Dijon in considerable strength. There are far too many people in the town who have heard of your connection with the franc tireurs. Some spy or other would be certain to peach."

"Yes," Ralph assented, "we have been talking it over, and quite agree that Percy could not go back as -- although he would willingly run the risk, himself -- it would bring such serious consequences upon them at home, if he were found there, that he has determined to go down to Nice for a while, and rejoin as soon as he gains strength again."

"Yes," Colonel Tempe said, "but above all things, do not let him be in a hurry.

"You have gone through an immense deal, Percy; and have done a great deal more than your share for France, and have gained great honor and credit. Be content with that. You might ruin your constitution for life, by further exertions."

"But about yourself colonel, where are you going?"

"I am starting, tomorrow, to join General Chanzy's staff."

"I have not heard his name before," Ralph said.

"He commands the Sixteenth Corps. He has not had much opportunity yet, but he is a good soldier. If you like, Ralph, I will go with you at once, to Freysinet, and get you attached with me."

"Thank you very much, colonel. I should like it of all things."

"Come along, then; Freysinet is in his office."

Percy accompanied them, to obtain a signature to his leave of absence, and left next day for the south. An hour later, Colonel Tempe and Ralph were in the train, upon their way to Orleans -- Tim, again in his hussar uniform, and half wild with delight -- being, with Colonel Tempe's orderly, in charge of the horses.

Colonel Tempe, as Ralph was not mounted, had offered to lend him one of his own; but Ralph had refused it, unless the colonel would sell it, as he said he should be always afraid of getting the animal shot, unless it was his own. Seeing that Ralph was determined upon this score, the colonel had reluctantly agreed to take the sum he had paid for the horse. Ralph's only other purchase in Tours was a fur greatcoat.

"And now, colonel," Ralph said, when the train had started, "we have time to talk -- tell me, what chances have we of success?"

"Between ourselves, Barclay," Colonel Tempe said, "I do not think that our prospects are brilliant. In my opinion, Aurelles de Paladine -- or rather Gambetta, for it was he who ordered the advance -- made an immense mistake in attacking Von der Tann when he did. Of course, he drove him back, and took Orleans; but what was the use of that? Absolutely nothing. He was not strong enough to push his advantage; but the movement served to draw the attention of the Germans to his force, and Prince Frederick Charles -- who was marching south from Metz -- has been hurried towards Orleans, and has now united his forces with those of Von der Tann and the Duke of Mecklenburg; so that, although we have received large reinforcements -- for the whole of the army of the east is up, now -- the Germans have been equally reinforced, and are quite as strong as we are.

"We ought never to have attacked, until we were ready to follow up our advantage at once. It was nothing short of madness; yet what can you expect, with a civilian acting as commander-in-chief? I believe that we shall make a tough fight of it, but I can hardly hope that our new levies can prove a match for the veterans of Frederick Charles."

"When do we begin, do you think?"

"In two or three days at latest. You have not seen a great battle yet, Barclay."

"No," Ralph said, "nor shall I see much of it, now; for the country is so perfectly flat that it will be impossible to get anything like a general view of it. Do you know, colonel, I feel a good deal more comfortable than I did during my last journey between Tours and Orleans; for although I thought that we should manage, somehow, to get through into Paris; still, I could not conceal from myself that it was a very serious undertaking.

"How bitterly cold it is."

"It is, indeed," Colonel Tempe assented. "Being upon the staff we shall, no doubt, manage to get a roof of some sort over our heads; but for the sentries it must be terrible. The tents d'abri -- if the men can scrape away the snow, and get an armful of straw to lie on -- are snug enough; the men lie close together, and share their blankets."

Half an hour after arriving at Orleans, Colonel Tempe and Ralph were riding out upon the north road; followed by Tim Doyle, and the colonel's orderly. The frost was keen, but the afternoon was bright and clear; and as they cantered along the road -- beaten flat and hard, with the enormous traffic -- their spirits rose, and Ralph regretted that Percy was not there to share in his enjoyments.

Colonel Tempe shook his head when the wish was mentioned.

"No, no, Barclay, it is far better as it is. You are young enough, in all conscience, for this iron work of war; your brother has done far more than a man's share already, and will find it difficult enough to go back as a schoolboy. He has escaped thus far, almost by a miracle; but he was looking shaken, and worn. I am glad that he is not here."

Three hours' riding took them to the little village near which General Chanzy was quartered. The Sixteenth Corps lay to the left of the French army, facing the Germans; who held the line of villages of Guillonville, Terminiers, and Conier. It was already dark when they arrived. The general's quarters were in a chateau, a quarter of a mile distant from the village. When they reached it, they were at once shown in; and found General Chanzy leaning over a map, which he was trying to examine by the light of a solitary candle.

"How are you, colonel?" he asked, shaking hands with him heartily -- for they were old friends. "I am very glad you have come. There is plenty to do, and few to do it; at least, very few indeed who know anything about their work.

"Who have you here?"

"Allow me to introduce Captain Barclay, general. Freysinet has attached him to your staff. He served with me in the Vosges, distinguished himself greatly, and won his lieutenancy and the Cross. Since then he has been into Paris. No doubt you saw the account of his swimming the Seine, with his brother."

"Of course, of course," General Chanzy said, warmly. "I am very glad to have you with me, Captain Barclay. You will not be long before you are at work, for the affair is just beginning. I have just got news that there has been some sharp fighting, today, at Beaurre la Rolande."

"With what results, sir?" Colonel Tempe asked.

"We gained a great deal of ground, in the morning," General Chanzy said; "but they brought up reinforcements, and no material advantage is claimed.

"And now," the general went on, "as to quarters, you must shift for yourselves. Beds are out of the question; but you will find some empty rooms upstairs and, fortunately, there is a little straw in the stable. The outhouses are extensive, and you will be able to get your horses under shelter. I should advise you to see about them, at once. In an hour we shall have something to eat. I cannot call it dining.

"Captain Barclay, will you kindly see to these matters? I shall be glad to go through this map, at once, with Colonel Tempe."

Ralph at once obeyed the order, much pleased with his new commander. General Chanzy was a man to inspire confidence in all those who served under his orders. He was a young man, for a general; but was very bald, and had a quiet and thoughtful air which made him look older than he was. He was a man of few words; and had a sharp, steady look which seemed to master, at once, the important points of anything that was said to him. When he smiled, the whole of his face seemed to light up.

"Just the man to serve under," Ralph thought to himself. "Cool, self possessed, and with an eye that will see a weak point in a moment.

"Is my orderly still at the door?" he asked a soldier in the passage.

"Yes, sir; two orderlies, with the four horses."

"Can you get me a light of any sort?" Ralph asked. "I want to go round to the stables, and get the horses somewhere in shelter."

"I will get you a lantern, sir," the man said. "But I fear that you will find the place all crowded; but of course, you can turn some of them out."

The orderly accompanied Ralph, with a lantern, across the yard; Tim and Colonel Tempe's orderly following. Round the yard were many cavalry horses, tied to pegs; driven in close by the wall of the stables, so as to give them some little shelter from the intense cold. The poor animals stood, side touching side, for warmth.

The orderly opened the door of one of the stables; and Ralph entered, and looked round by the light of the lantern. The horses were ranged together in the stalls, as closely as they could stand; while the rest of the area was completely covered with cavalry soldiers, some sitting up smoking and talking, others already wrapped in their cloaks and stretched at full length.

A sergeant, seeing the marks of Ralph's rank, at once rose to his feet and saluted.

"I have two horses here, sergeant; my own, and one of Colonel Tempe's. General Chanzy told me I should find room here, but it does not look like it."

"I will turn two of these horses out, sir," the sergeant said.

"Is there no other place?" Ralph asked.

"They are all as full as this, sir."

"There is a little shed, down at the end of the garden," one of the men said. "I noticed it this afternoon. The door was locked. I looked in, and it seemed a cow shed. I don't know whether anyone is there. I will go down with you, sir, and show you the way, if you like."

The shed was soon found, and the soldier forced the door open with his sword bayonet. The place had, as he supposed, been a cow shed; but the walls and roof were in good order, and the ground hard.

"This will do first rate, your honor," Tim said. "There is room for all four horses, if they squeeze a bit; and for Jacques here, and myself. I suppose, your honor, there will be no harm in knocking up some of this woodwork, to make a bit of a fire? It's too dark to look for sticks, tonight; and they would be so damp, from the snow, that the smoke would choke the bastes entirely -- to say nothing of us."

"Well, under the circumstances, Tim, I agree with you; but don't do more damage than you can help, and only make enough fire to make the water hot for coffee, and so on. You will be warm enough, here, with the four horses. You must go and see if you can get them some forage."

"But how about your honor's and the colonel's dinner?" Tim asked. "I haven't drawn rations; but I have got plenty of bread and meat, in the haversack. I got them at Tours, for I thought there wouldn't be much to be had here."

"Thank you for thinking of it, Tim, but we dine with the general. When you have got the horses comfortable, and lit your fire, one of you bring up our cloaks to the house. Keep the horses' saddles on, with loosened girths. We may want them suddenly, at any moment of the night."

The next morning, General Chanzy said to Ralph:

"I should recommend you, Captain Barclay, to spend an hour studying this map; and getting up, from these lists, the exact position of our forces. When you think you have mastered them, ride through the whole of the positions occupied by the corps and, without exposing yourself, gain as good an idea as you can of the country beyond. Tomorrow you may have to ride straight to certain points, with orders; and it may save important time if you are thoroughly acquainted with the ground, and position."

After a couple of hours' study of the staff map, so as to know every little by-lane and hamlet, for ten miles on either side, Ralph mounted his horse and went for a long ride. When he returned, Colonel Tempe told him that General Chanzy was gone over to General D'Aurelle's quarters, to arrange the details; and that the attack was to take place the next day.

At five o'clock the general returned; and Colonel Tempe and the chief of his staff were occupied with him, for two hours, in drawing up the specific orders for each corps. Colonel Tempe had not been out, all day; and he therefore offered his horse to Ralph, in order that Ralph's own might be fresh for the next day.

Four staff officers set off in various directions with the dispatches; and Ralph congratulated himself upon having been upon the ground he was now traversing once before that day as, even with that previous acquaintance, it was hard work to find the way through the darkness, from the snow altering the general appearance and apparent distance of each object. Thanks, however, to his ride of the morning, he reached the various corps to which he was dispatched without any serious mistakes in his way; and got back to headquarters by eleven o'clock.

Tim was waiting up for him.

"Sure, your honor, and it's a mighty cold night. I've got a pot of coffee on the boil in the stables."

"Thank you, Tim. I will just go in and make my report to the general, and then go off to bed. Bring the coffee into my room. We shall be up early, for we fight tomorrow."

"Do we, now?" Tim said, admiringly. "And it's about time; for we should be all frozen into skeletons, if we were to wait here doing nothing much longer. Bad luck to the weather, says I."

At ten o'clock the next morning the French troops were in motion, the objects of their attack being the villages of Guillonville, Terminiers, and Conier. The country was extremely flat and, for an hour, they saw no bodies of the enemy. A few videttes, only, were seen. These galloped off hastily, the moment they caught sight of the heavy masses of the French debouching from the wood. Ralph was riding, with the rest of the staff, behind the general.

"That is Terminiers," Colonel Tempe said, pointing to a house or two at a distance, on the plain.

As he spoke, a puff of smoke came from the houses.

"There is the first shell," was the general exclamation.

In another instant the missile burst near some infantry, at two hundred yards to the right.

"Take orders to that battery, there, to take position on that little eminence to the left there, Captain Barclay. Tell them to keep the guns a little back among the trees, and to open sharply upon Terminiers."

It was just twelve o'clock now and, in five minutes, there was a roar of cannon along the whole length of both lines. For half an hour the combat continued a mere artillery duel. The shells fell in all directions; cutting the dry branches from the trees, tearing up the ground, and leaving deep black gashes in the white snow; crashing through a wall or, occasionally, exploding among the troops.

"Their fire is slackening a little," General Chanzy said. "It is time to be pushing forward.

"Lieutenant Porcet, take my orders to the colonel of that regiment of Mobiles to advance at once, covered by skirmishers.

"Captain Barclay, order that Line regiment to support.

"Captain Maillot, order the artillery to concentrate their fire upon the village, and to advance by batteries."

The orders were carried out, and the Mobiles advanced to within five hundred yards of the village. The musketry fire was now tremendous, and the Mobiles wavered. The Germans were entrenched in the gardens and walled enclosures of the village. Every wall, every house was loopholed; and rough barricades had been erected, to fill up the breaks in the walls.

General Chanzy was sitting on horseback, a short distance in the rear of the fighting. Mounted officers rode up and left again, every moment, with news of the battle going on near the other villages.

"Ride up and order the Mobiles to lie down, Captain Barclay; then tell the colonel of the Line to bring his troops up in line with them. Let them lie down, also.

"Tempe, have the two reserve batteries of artillery brought up, at full speed, to silence that battery in the wood to the left of the village. Its fire crosses the ground we have to pass over."

Ten minutes more of continuous cannonading, and then it was apparent that the Prussian fire was weakening.

"Now, Barclay, tell them to charge, at the double."

Ralph set spurs to his horse but, just as he reached the troops, a shell exploded just under his horse. Ralph heard a crash; felt a shock, and a whirling through the air; and then fell heavily upon the ground. Believing he was dangerously wounded, he made no effort to get to his feet; but sat up and shouted to the colonel of the Mobiles, who were not thirty yards from him:

"The Mobiles and Line are to charge, at the double, and to carry the village with the bayonet."

The Mobiles had flinched a little before, as they had advanced with the deadly fire of shot and shell; but they did not flinch now, and leaping upon their feet, with a cry of "Vive la France!" the Mobiles and Line soldiers literally made a race of it for the village.

Ralph, after having given his message, lay back again, with a sort of bewildered sensation. A minute afterwards he heard a rapid galloping; and Colonel Tempe rode up, followed by Tim Doyle.

"Are you badly hurt, my dear boy?" the former exclaimed, as he leaped from his horse. "The general himself asked me to come, and see after you."

"I don't quite know, colonel," Ralph answered. "I feel, at present, as if my head was knocked in, and my legs shot off."

"You had a tremendous shake," said Colonel Tempe -- who was, with Tim, by this time kneeling beside him -- "and your horse is blown almost to pieces; but I don't think, as far as I can see, at present, that you are hit anywhere. Here, take a sip of brandy. It will bring you round; you are stunned a little, you know.

"There, you are better now," he said; as Ralph, having drunk a little brandy, sat up and looked round.

"I am all right, I think, colonel; don't stay any longer. Tim will wait here. I don't think I was stunned, else I could not have given the order. No, I imagine I had a near escape of breaking my neck.

"Please, don't wait. I shall be all right again, in five minutes. I will take Tim's horse, and join you again. Tim will pick up a musket -- there are plenty about -- and do a little fighting on his own account."

Colonel Tempe jumped on his horse, and rode off. In a minute or two, Ralph was able to mount Tim's horse, and ride slowly up to the village, where a heavy musketry fire was still going on; but as no shell or shot were now coming in the direction in which Ralph was, it was evident that the French had taken the position, and had opened fire upon the retreating Germans. The fight still raged, both to the right and left; but in another quarter of an hour it slackened also, here, and the three villages were all in the hands of the French.

In a quarter of an hour, Ralph felt quite himself again and, seeing one of his fellow staff officers gallop up, he asked him where he could find the general.

"He is at Guillonville. But he will be here, in a few minutes. The advance is to continue. We are to carry the villages of Monneville, Villepani, and Faverolles."

In half an hour, the troops were again moved forward; but this time the resistance was more obstinate than before, the Prussians having received reinforcements. Hour after hour the fight continued. The short winter day faded, and the gathering darkness was favorable to the assailants and, at half-past five, they carried the villages by assault.

The scene was a wild one. It was perfectly dark, save from the incessant flashes of rifle and cannon. In the streets of the village men fought, hand to hand. Some of the Germans, taking refuge in the houses, refused to surrender. Others threw down their arms, and cried for quarter. Shouts, screams, curses, cheers, the explosion of firearms and the clash of steel mingled, in one wild and confusing din. When it ceased, the village remained in the hands of the French; and the Prussians retreated, sullenly, into the darkness.

There was no rest for the staff, for hours -- they were galloping about, carrying orders -- but at last Ralph returned to Villepani, at which village General Chanzy had his headquarters. At the door of the cottage which was pointed out, as that in which the general was, Tim was waiting.

"Faith, your honor, if this is war, I've had enough of it."

"What is it, Tim?"

"What is it, your honor! Here have we been fighting all day, and not a blessed thing to eat or to drink. No one knows what became of the wagons; and here we are, without as much as a biscuit to ate -- and in such weather as this, too; and another battle in the morning."

"Ay, Tim, it's bad enough, but think of the thousands of poor fellows lying wounded, and freezing to death, on the snow."

"I do think of them, Mister Ralph; and I've been at work, ever since we got in here, carrying the poor creatures in from the gardens and fields. There is not a house here that's not full, from the top to the bottom.

"Have you lost the wallet off my saddle, your honor?"

"No, Tim; why should I do that?"

"I don't know why you should, sir, but I have been making up my mind that you would, all along; either that you would have had it shot off, or that you'd throw it away to aise the horse. Now, we shall do."

"Why, what's in the wallet, Tim?"

"Just a big chunk of bread, your honor It was left on the table when you had breakfast, this morning; and I said to myself, it may be useful before night, and so just slipped it into the wallet."

In another minute the bread was taken out, and cut into two portions.

"I would not eat it all tonight, Tim, if I were you," Ralph said. "It is not by any means too large for supper, but a mouthful in the morning will be a great comfort. I suppose there is no chance of getting anything for the horse?"

"Trust me, your honor One of the first things I did, when the firing was over, was to pop into a stable and to get a big armful of hay; and take it out and hide it away, under a hedge. It was lucky I did; for the minute afterwards we could not have got a handful, if we had offered a Napoleon for it."

"Where are you going to sleep, Tim?"

"Under that same hedge, Mister Ralph. The horse always lies down; and he's so tired he won't break the rule, tonight; so I'll give him half the hay for his supper and, when he's laid down, I'll put the rest between him and the hedge, and roll myself up in my cloak and -- what with the cloak, and the horse, and the hedge, and the hay, not to mention the supper -- I shall be as warm as a lord; and it's a comfort to think that there will be something to eat, both for the baste and myself, in the morning."

"Well, good night then, Tim."

"Good night, your honor."

If Tim Doyle slept, there were not many of his comrades that did, on that night. The cold was fierce, in the extreme; and those who could obtain wood of any kind made fires, and crouched over them. Others lay on the ground, and huddled together for warmth. Others dragged their feet wearily backwards and forwards. Many and deep were the curses poured out upon the intendance -- or commissariat -- whose utter incompetence, throughout the war, was one of the great reasons of the continuous bad fortune of the French.

When Ralph entered the room, he was saluted by a variety of voices. The only light was a dim lantern. The room was half full of officers; some dozing in corners, others sitting round the table, smoking.

"Where is the general?"

"He has got a room, about half the size of this, for the use of himself, Tempe, and the chief of the staff. They are writing; and will go on writing all night, I expect. These are the only two rooms not full of wounded in the whole village.

"You had a narrow escape, today. We have had our share of casualties. Poor Maillet and Porcet are both killed, and we have three wounded. Were you hurt at all?"

"No," Ralph said; "but I was tremendously shaken, and feel stiff all over. I will lie down by the wall, here, and get a few hours' sleep."

And so ended the 1st of December.



Chapter 19: Down At Last.


At half-past eight o'clock the next morning horsemen came dashing in, with the news that the Germans were advancing in force. Stiff -- many half frozen, and half starved -- it was an absolute relief, to the men, to have some break to the monotony of cold and hunger. They were already assembled under arms and, in a few minutes, the artillery upon both sides was at work.

"I fear you will see that we shall be beaten, today," Colonel Tempe said to Ralph as they mounted. "The men are worn out with hunger; disgusted at the wretched mismanagement, which sends them into a battle without having had food for twenty-four hours, and with no prospect whatever of it for another twenty-four. Besides, we ought to have been reinforced.

"Our line is too long, Ralph. There is neither direction nor management."

For a time the French held their position well, against the tremendous artillery fire which was maintained upon them. Gradually, however, the Germans pushed their heavy masses of troops forwards; and the French reserves had already been brought up.

Several of the mobile regiments showed signs of wavering. General Chanzy rode backwards and forwards along the front of the position; exposing himself recklessly, in order to give courage and confidence to his men. Cigar after cigar he smoked, as tranquilly as if sitting in an armchair, a hundred miles away from the din of battle. At last, after exchanging a few words with the generals of brigade, he called Ralph -- who happened to be the only aide-de-camp unemployed -- up to him.

"Captain Barclay," he said, "ride at once to General Sonis. Tell him that my division -- not having received the promised reinforcements -- must fall back. He has already sent, to say he is hard pressed. Ask him to hold his ground, if possible, for another half hour; by which time I shall have fallen back towards the position I left yesterday morning -- but will draw rather to my right, so as to keep our connections nearer, and to afford him help, if necessary."

Without a word Ralph turned his horse, and galloped off at full speed. A quarter of an hour's riding, and he rode up to General Sonis; who was just calling upon several regiments, among whom were the Papal Zouaves, to make a charge.

This fine body of men -- the Papal Zouaves -- acquired, and justly acquired, more glory than any other French corps throughout the war. They behaved, upon every occasion, magnificently. In the first fight at Orleans, upon this 2nd of December, and afterwards at the battle of Le Mans, the Zouaves of Charette fought with the courage of lions. A great many of them were men of good family. All were inspired by the ardor and spirit of their chief. Their uniform was similar in cut to that of the French Zouaves; but was of a quiet gray color, trimmed with a little red braid.

Ralph rode up, and delivered his message.

"I am going to carry that position, sir," the general said; "and in that case I shall not have to fall back at all, and General Chanzy can close up on me -- throwing back his left, so as not to be outflanked. If you wait a few minutes, you will see the result of this charge.

"Now, gentlemen."

So saying he rode, with his staff, in front of the line.

"Forward, men!" he shouted, drawing his sword.

Ralph had naturally fallen in with the staff, and was now able to see and admire the daring of the proposed movement which, if successful, would have changed the fortunes of the day. Upon an eminence, some three-quarters of a mile distant, were several batteries of artillery; supported by a large body of infantry, who extended to within about half the distance between the French line and their own reserves. The fire was terrific -- so terrific that several of the French regiments refused to advance. Others started; but withered away so fast, under the deadly fire, that only two corps -- besides the Zouaves -- persevered to the end.

The Zouaves advanced at a double, but with as much coolness as if on parade. They did not fire a shot, but made straight at the Prussian infantry. As they approached the enemy's line, General Sonis and his staff fell in between the Zouaves, and a regiment of Mobiles next to them, in order not to interfere with the fire.

"For God and France!" Charette shouted, as he led the charge; and the whole regiment responded, as one man, "For God and France!"

So fierce was this onslaught that the Prussian infantry refused to face it, and fell back upon their supports. Still the Zouaves rushed on, and again the Prussians fell back; but the assault was growing more and more hopeless. The Zouaves were unsupported, save by a few hundred men. The other regiments were far in the rear. The shot and shell were mowing lanes through them. An army was in front.

At last, they halted. Colonel Charette marched on in front, waving his sword. General Sonis, with his staff, again rode forward. It was heroic, but it was heroic madness.

Again the Zouaves advanced. Again a storm of shell poured upon them, and then a regiment of German cavalry swept down. There was a crash. Charette and his officers disappeared, beneath the hoofs of the cavalry. General Sonis and his staff went down like straw before them; but the Zouaves stood firm, fired a volley into them; and then -- having lost eight hundred men, in that desperate attempt to retrieve the fortunes of the day -- the remainder retreated, sullenly, with their faces to the foe.

Ralph Barclay, when the cavalry swept upon them, had shot the first two of his foes with his revolver; and had then been cut down by a tall German dragoon, just at the moment that his horse fell dead, shot through the head. Ralph had a momentary vision of gleaming hoofs above him; and then he remembered nothing more, until he came to himself, hours afterwards.

His first sensation was that of intense cold. He endeavored to rise, but was powerless to move hand or foot. He lay quiet for a few minutes; and then made another effort, but with a similar want of success. This time, however, he felt that his limbs would have moved, had they not been fastened down by some weight.

He now concentrated all his strength upon one arm. It yielded suddenly and, when it was free, he was able to turn partly round, so as to feel what it was that had confined it. He found that his own blood, and that of the horse, had frozen his arm fast to the ground. It required a considerable effort before he could get altogether free, for he was stiff with the cold. Putting his sword up to his head, he found that he had been saved by the very means which were now giving him so much pain. The intense cold had frozen the blood, as it flowed; and stanched it more effectively than any surgeon could have done.

Ralph -- after rubbing his hands and arms, to restore circulation -- now endeavored, by the remains of twilight, to see where he was, and how he had been saved. His horse lay next to him, and almost covering him. The poor animal had fallen on to its back; or had rolled over, afterwards and, in the latter case, it was fortunate indeed, for Ralph, that it had not taken another half turn. Had it done so, it would have crushed him to death. As it was, it had reached to within an inch or two of him; partly concealing him from sight, protecting him from the cold, and also greatly diminishing his chance of being trampled upon by cavalry passing over.

A short distance off, Ralph could see parties with lanterns; and one of them seemed approaching. Far in his rear, he could hear an occasional shot; and it rushed across his mind, at once, that the French had been defeated, and were falling back upon Orleans. These lights, therefore, must be in the hands of Germans.

The thought that a German prison awaited him roused Ralph from his inactivity. It flashed across his mind that, as he had escaped before, they would take care and give him but little chance of escaping again and -- although stiff, and bruised from head to foot; half frozen, and faint from loss of blood -- the hope of liberty roused him to new exertion. With some effort, he got at the holster of his pistol; in which was a flask of strong brandy and water which, though icy cold, had yet a sensibly warming influence. The lights were still at some distance off; and Ralph, after considerable trouble, and after cutting the straps which fastened it to the saddle, succeeded in getting at his fur overcoat. This he put on, picked up the cap of one of the German troopers who had fallen near, and then walked slowly away, over the deserted battle ground.

Ten minutes later, he heard a horse's hoofs upon the hard ground. He cocked the pistol -- which had remained fastened to his belt, when he fell -- pulled forward the German soldier's cap, and walked quietly on.

"Who goes there?" shouted a voice, and two German officers rode up.

It was far too dark, now, to distinguish faces.

"Karl Zimmerman, of the Seventh Dragoons," Ralph said, in German, saluting.

"What are you doing here?"

"I am servant to Lieutenant Falchen, who fell today; and I had been to look for his body. It was somewhere about here, when we charged the gray Zouaves."

"But your regiment is miles off," one of the officers said. "I saw them an hour ago."

"I don't know where they are, sir," Ralph said, "for I had my head laid open, with a sword bayonet, just as I was cutting down the man I had seen shoot my master. I was carried to the rear, but the surgeon had gone on; and my wound stopped of itself and, when I reached the hospital, the doctors were so busy that I asked leave to go, and see if I could find my master."

"Where are the ambulances now?" one of the officers asked, as they turned to ride off.

"Over in that direction. Look, sir, there are some of the searchers, with lanterns. They will direct you, at once."

"Thanks," the officer said, riding off; "good luck in your search."

Ralph had noticed a cottage, standing by itself at the edge of a wood, at some little distance from the bivouac of the night of the 30th of November; and had stopped for a moment, and asked a few questions of the woman who lived there. She had appeared a kind-hearted woman, full of hatred for the invader; and had two sons in the Mobiles, who had marched north when Paris was first threatened, and who were now besieged there. For this cottage Ralph determined to make, in order -- if the owners would receive him -- to take shelter in the house; otherwise, to find a refuge in the wood, itself, where he doubted not that they would assist him to lie hid for a few days. He had no great fear of a very active search being made for fugitives, at present, as the Prussians had only driven back two divisions of the French army; and had, Ralph believed, plenty of work on their hands, for some time.

It was fortunate for Ralph that he had studied the ground so carefully; for he soon came upon the road, and the stars -- which were shining brightly -- gave him his direction and bearings. The battle had extended over the whole of this ground. Many times Ralph could hear groans; and saw, in places, dark forms thickly scattered over the ground -- showing where a stand had been made, or where a regiment had lain exposed, for hours, to an artillery fire.

The distance was considerable to the place Ralph had marked out for himself. Eight miles, at least, he thought; for it was away behind what had, two days before, been Chanzy's left. It was, in Ralph's state of feebleness, a very long journey. Over and over again, he had to sit down and rest. He did not feel the cold, now; the fur coat, and the exertion of walking, kept his body in a glow. He took great pains, however, not to exert himself, so as to make himself too hot; as he feared that his wound might break out, if he did so. He was fully twelve hours upon the road; and daylight was just breaking in the east when -- exhausted by hunger, fatigue, and loss of blood -- he crawled up to the door, and knocked.

There was a movement inside, but it was not until he had knocked twice that a voice within asked:

"Who is there?"

"A wounded officer," Ralph said.

There was a whispered talk, inside.

"Let me in, my friends," he said, "for the remembrance of your boys in Paris. There is no danger to you in doing so as, if the Germans come, you have only to say you have a wounded officer. I can pay you well."

"We don't care for pay," the woman of the house said; opening the door, with a candle in her hand -- and then falling back, with a cry of horror, at the object before her: a man, tottering with fatigue, and with his face a perfect mask of stiffened blood.

"You do not remember me," Ralph said. "I am the captain of the staff who chatted to you, two days ago, about your boys in Paris."

"Poor boy!" the woman said, compassionately. "Come in.

"Monsieur will pardon me," she went on, apologetically, "for speaking so, but I called you the boy captain, when I was telling my good man what a bright -- 

"But there, what you want now is rest, and food. The question is where to put you. We may be searched, at any time; though it's not likely that we shall be, for a few days. The battle has gone away in the direction of Orleans, and we have not seen half a dozen men since I saw you, two days ago.

"The first thing is to give you something warm. You are half frozen. Sit down for a few minutes. I will soon make a blaze."

Ralph sank down -- utterly exhausted and worn out -- in the settle by the fireplace; and fell into a half doze, while the woman lit a bright fire on the hearth. In a few minutes she had drawn some liquor from the pot-au-feu -- the soup pot -- which stands by the fireside of every French peasant, however poor; and into which all the odds and ends of the household are thrown. This liquor she put into a smaller pot; broke some bread into it, added an onion -- which she chopped up while it was warming -- together with a little pepper and salt and, in ten minutes from the time of Ralph's entry, she placed a bowl of this mixture, smoking hot, before him.

At first, he seemed too exhausted to eat; but gradually his appetite returned, and he finished off the hot broth.

"What shall I do to your wound, sir?" the woman said. "It is a terrible sight, at present."

"It is the cold which saved my life, I fancy," Ralph said, "by stopping the bleeding; but now it wants bathing in warm water, for some time, and then bandaging.

"But where are you going to put me?"

"In the boys' room, upstairs, sir. It is just as they left it."

"I have no doubt it is very comfortable," Ralph said, "but all this country is certain to be scoured, by the enemy's cavalry. I do not want to be taken prisoner; and rather than that I would go and live out in the woods, and only crawl here, once a day, for some food."

The husband had now come downstairs and, as he aided his wife to first bathe and then bandage the wound, they talked over the matter; and agreed that Ralph could be hid in a loft over a shed, a hundred yards from the house, and very much concealed in the woods, without much fear of discovery. The farmer at once started to make the place as comfortable as he could; and the wife followed with a couple of blankets, a quarter of an hour later.

Ralph, by this time, could scarcely crawl along. The fever consequent upon the wound, the fatigue, and the cold made his head throb so terribly that he could scarcely hold it up and, had it not been for the assistance of the farmer's wife, he could not have crawled across the short distance to the shed. The loft was low and small and, when the wooden shutter of the window -- or rather opening, for it was unglazed -- was closed, it was lighted only by the light which came in at the crevices. The shed was altogether of wood; so that the shutter -- which happened to be at its back -- would scarcely have been noticed while, from the shed being high and the loft very low, anyone inside would scarcely have suspected the existence of any loft, at all. It was reached by a ladder and trap door.

The farmer assisted Ralph up the ladder. The shutter was open, and Ralph saw that the farmer had made a bed of straw, upon which his wife was spreading one of the blankets. Ralph now took off his uniform, and lay down; and was covered first by the other blanket, and then with his own fur-lined coat. The farmer's wife had thoughtfully brought a pillow with her; and Ralph in a few minutes was lying in what -- had it not been for the pain of his wound -- would have been intense comfort, after the cold and fatigue. His hostess went away, and returned with a large jug of water and a glass, which she put down within reach of his arm.

"There is nothing else you want?" she asked.

"Nothing, thank you, except to sleep," Ralph said.

"I shall shut this shutter," the farmer said. "Enough light will come through the cracks to see well, when your eyes get accustomed to the darkness. I shall shut the trap close down after me, as I go, and lift down the ladder. It is very light, and my wife can easily put it into its place again. We will come and see you again, in the afternoon. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Ralph answered, faintly; and before the sound of their footsteps had died away, he fell into a sort of feverish doze.

For a time he turned uneasily, muttered incoherent words, and moved his hands restlessly. Soon, however, the effects of the cloth soaked in icy-cold water, which the farmer's wife had placed on the bandages over the wound, began to subdue the feverish heat; and in half an hour he was sleeping soundly, and quietly. He woke at last, with a flash of light in his face and, opening his eyes, saw the good woman again bending over him.

"I am glad," were her first words. "I thought, for a moment, you were dead."

"No, no," Ralph said, with a faint smile; "a long way from that, yet. My sleep has done me a world of good. What o'clock is it?"

"Nine o'clock," his hostess said. "I could not come before, for I have had several parties going past, and the house was searched once. I kept on wondering whether you wanted me, until I nearly worked myself into a fever."

"Thank you," Ralph said. "I have been all the better for being allowed to sleep on. I have had nearly thirteen hours of it. I feel queer, about the head; but otherwise I feel all right.

"I am terribly thirsty."

"I have got nothing but water to offer you," the woman said. "The Germans drank the last drop of our wine up, months ago. But I had a few apples; and I have roasted them, and put them in this jug of water. It will give it a taste, and is good for fever.

"In this jug is some herb tea, which you must drink when you feel feverish.

"And now, do you feel as if you could eat some broth?"

"That I do," Ralph said.

His hostess put her arm under him, and raised him up into a sitting posture; in which she retained him by kneeling down beside him, and holding him up as if he had been a child. Then she gave him a basin of bread broth, and a drink of water; shook up his pillow, arranged the things over him; and put a fresh cloth, dipped in water, on his head.

"Here is a box of matches," she said, "and here is the water and herb tea, in reach of your arm. You're not cold, are you?"

"No, thank you," Ralph said, "and in spite of the sleep I have had, I feel as if I could go off again till morning, comfortably."

"Be patient, if I am late," the woman said. "I will come as soon as I can. If I am late, you will know that there are Germans about."

Ralph's idea of his capacity for sleep turned out correct. It was still dark when he woke but, striking a match, he found that it was nearly seven o'clock. He at once blew out the match, felt for the apple water, took a drink, and then nestled down deep into the fur coat.

"It will be getting light in another hour," he said to himself. "It's awfully cold, too; but I am better off, here, than I should be in the field. I hope she will be here soon; I want to know if she has any news. Well, there is only an hour to lay awake," and, almost as he murmured the words, Ralph dropped off again, and slept until ten o'clock.

This time, he woke with the slight creaking which the trap door made.

"How are you today, Monsieur le Capitaine?" his hostess said.

"I am getting on capitally, thanks to your care," Ralph said. "And what have you there?"

"Your breakfast and some plaster. My husband started, yesterday evening, to walk to the doctor, who lives twelve miles off. He told him all about you; but the doctor would not come, himself. However, he sent word that the wound was to be washed well, twice a day, with warm water; and that a little lint is to be laid in it each time, after the bathing and, when the inflammation ceases to look angry, I am to draw the edges together as closely as I can, and strap them together with these strips of plaster."

"It is very kind of your husband," Ralph said, "very kind. Did the doctor say how long I should be, before I could be about again?"

"No," the woman said. "Jacques asked him, but he said that he could not say without seeing the wound, and examining you. Jacques described its position: coming down from the back of the head, taking off just a little bit of the top of the ear, and then ending on the cheekbone. He said that Monsieur le Capitaine must have a head as thick as a wall, or it would have killed him."

Ralph smiled, and his hostess set to work to carry out her instructions.

"Shall I take away your uniform and hide it away so that, in case the enemy search and find you, they will have no proof against you?"

"No, no," Ralph said; "the uniform shows I am not a franc tireur; and so will prevent my being hung, and you having your house burnt over your head. Besides which, I should be entitled to be treated as an officer. My uniform is the best protection for us all.

"Have you any news of what is going on?"

"We heard firing yesterday," the woman said, "and today we can hear a constant booming, from the direction of Orleans."

Ralph listened, but the bandage prevented his hearing anything.

"You are very kind," he said, "but you can hardly think how I want to be off. However, I fear that I am here for a week, at the very least. Just think what I am missing."

"It seems to me," the woman said, "you are missing a great many chances of being killed; which I should consider to be a very fortunate miss, indeed. I should not like Jacques to have that gash on the head; but I would a great deal rather that he was lying here wounded, just as you are, than to know that he was in the middle of all that fighting at Orleans.

"Be patient, my friend. We will do our best for you. If you have no fever, tomorrow, Jacques will try and buy some meat and some wine for you, at one of the villages; and then you will soon get quite strong."

When Ralph had eaten his breakfast, he again laid down; and his kind hostess left him, as her husband was obliged to be out and at work, and it was necessary that she should be at home, to answer any straggling troops of the enemy who might pass.

"I wish I had Tim with me," Ralph said, to himself. "Tim would amuse me, and make me laugh. It would be desperately cold for him. I am all right, under my blanket and this warm coat. Well, I suppose I must try to sleep as many hours away as I can."



Chapter 20: Crossing The Lines.


Ralph was destined to a longer stay upon his hay bed in the loft than he had anticipated. The next day, instead of being better he was a good deal worse. Inflammation had again set in, and he was feverish and incoherent in his talk. He was conscious of this, himself, by seeing the dismay in the face of the nurse, when he had been rambling on to her for some time, in English.

At last, with an effort, he commanded his attention, and said to her:

"How far is it from here to Orleans?"

"Seventeen miles," she said.

"Look here," he said, "you are very kind, and I know that you do not want to be paid for your kindness; but I am well off, and I know you have lost your horse and cow, and so you must let me pay you for what you do for me.

"I am afraid I am going to have fever. I want your husband to go into Orleans. The Prussians went in yesterday, you say; and so your husband will not have to cross any outposts to get there. There is an English ambulance there. I will write a line in pencil; and I am sure they will give him some fever medicine, and anything else I may require. Please feel in the breast pocket of my coat; you will find a pocket book, with a pencil in it."

The woman did as he told her; and Ralph, with a great effort, wrote:

"I am an Englishman, though a captain in the French service. I am wounded with a saber, in the head; and am sheltered in a loft. Inflammation has set in and, I fear, fever. I am obliged, indeed, to make a great effort to master it sufficiently to write this. Please send some fever medicine, by the bearer, and some arrowroot. A lemon or two would be a great blessing.

"Ralph Barclay."

He then tore out the leaf, folded, and directed it to the head of the English ambulance, Orleans.

"How is he to know the English ambulance?"

"It has a red cross on a white ground, as all the others have; and an English flag -- that is, a flag with red and white stripes going from corner to corner, and crossing each other in the middle. But anyone will tell him."

"I am sure he will set out at once," the woman said, and left the loft.

In ten minutes she returned.

"He has started," she said, "but not to Orleans. My husband, directly I gave him the message, said that he had heard that there was an English ambulance at Terminiers, attending to the wounded picked up on the battlefield. It is only five miles from here."

"Thank God for that," Ralph said.

Three hours later the farmer returned, with a bottle of medicine, some arrowroot, lemons, a bottle of wine, some Liebig's essence of meat -- for making broth -- and a message that the English surgeon would ride over, as soon as he could get away. The farmer had given him detailed instructions for finding the house; but was afraid of stopping to act as his guide as, had he been seen walking by the side of the surgeon's horse, the suspicions of any German they might encounter would be at once excited.

The surgeon arrived an hour later, and was at once taken to Ralph's bedside. Ralph, however, could not speak to, or even recognize the presence of his countryman; for he was in a high state of fever. The surgeon examined his wound carefully.

"I think he will get over it," he said, to the farmer's wife. "It is a nasty cut; but there is nothing dangerous in the wound, itself. It is the general shock to the system, together with the hardships and suffering he had gone through. He is a mere boy -- not above seventeen or eighteen. He says in his note he is a captain, but it can hardly be so."

"He is a captain, sir. There is his uniform hanging up."

"Yes," the surgeon said, "that is the uniform of a captain in the staff, and he has got the commander's button of the legion of honor. I wonder who he can be.

"Ralph Barclay," he said thoughtfully, looking at the pencil note Ralph had sent him. "Ah, now I remember the name. I thought it was familiar to me. This is the young Englishman who made his way through the lines into Paris, with dispatches He is a fine young fellow. We must do what we can for him."

"Could you take him into your hospital, sir?" the woman asked.

"He will be better where he is, if you will continue to nurse him."

"Yes, I will do that; but I thought he would be so much better looked after, in the hospital."

"No," the surgeon said, "that is just what he would not be. Every room is literally crowded with wounded; and wounds do infinitely better in fresh, pure air, like this, than in a room with a close atmosphere, and other bad wounds.

"The fever medicine I sent over will last him for some days. I have brought over a tin of little biscuits. Give him the fever medicine, every two hours, until there is a change; and whenever you can get him to take it, give him a little broth made of a spoonful of the essence of meat in a liter of boiling water or, for a change, some arrowroot. I will show you how to make it, when we get back to the house.

"Can you manage to stay with him? He will want a good deal of looking after, for the next two days."

"Yes, sir, I was talking to Jacques about it, today. He will go over to the next village -- it is only a mile away -- and will fetch my sister, who lives there, to keep house for a bit."

"That is capital," the surgeon said. "And now, watch attentively how I put this bandage on; and do it the same way, once a day. When you have put the bandage on, you must put wet cloths to his head, as long as he remains delirious. I am awfully busy; but I will ride over again, in three or four days, to see how he is getting on.

"By the way, it may be an advantage to you if I give you a paper, signed by me, to say that you are taking care of a wounded French officer at my request as -- although you wished to send him to the ambulance -- I refused because, in the first place, he could not bear moving; and in the second, the ambulance was as full as it could possibly hold. That will clear you, in case any German parties come along and find him."

It was a week before Ralph opened his eyes with any consciousness of what he saw. He looked round, with a vague wonderment as to where he was. In a minute or two, a look of recognition came into his face. Looking round, he saw that there were changes. A small piece had been sawn out of the shutter, so as to let in air and light while it remained closed. A table and a chair were beside his bed. In a corner of the loft was a small flat stove, with a few embers glowing upon it, and a saucepan standing upon them. Upon the opposite side of the loft to that where he was lying was a heap of hay, similar to his own; with a figure, rolled up in a blanket, lying on it.

For some time, Ralph thought all this over in the vague, wondering way peculiar to people recovering from a long illness. Most, he puzzled over the occupant of the other bed; and at last concluded that it was some fugitive, like himself. For some time he lay and watched the figure until, presently, it moved, threw off the blanket and rose and, to his surprise, he saw that it was his nurse.

"Thanks to all the saints!" she exclaimed, when she saw him looking at her. "You are better, at last. I think that I was asleep, too. But you were sleeping so quiet, that I thought I would take a nap; for I was so sleepy."

"How long have I been here?" Ralph asked.

"Just a week, from the time the fever took you. The English doctor came over and saw you, and sent lots of things for you, and said you were not to be left; so I had the bed made up here, and my sister came over to take care of Jacques. And now, you must not talk any more. Drink this broth, and then go off to sleep again."

Ralph complied. He was too tired and weak to ask any more questions, and it was not until next day that he heard of the obstinate battles which General Chanzy had fought -- on the 7th, 8th, and 10th -- near Beauguency.

"Thank goodness," Ralph said, "we can't have been very badly beaten, if we were able to fight three drawn battles within about twenty miles of a first defeat."

For the next two days, Ralph improved in health. Then he had a relapse, and was very ill, for some days. Then he began, steadily but slowly, to gain strength. It was three weeks after his arrival at the cottage before he could walk, another week before he had recovered his strength sufficiently to think of moving.

One of his first anxieties -- after recovering consciousness after his first, and longest, attack of fever -- had been upon the subject of the terrible anxiety which they must be feeling, at home, respecting him. They would have heard, from Colonel Tempe, that he was missing and, as he would have been seen to fall, it was probable that he was reported as dead. Ralph's only consolation was that, as the Germans were at Dijon, the communication would be very slow, and uncertain; and although it was now ten days since the engagement, it was possible -- if he could but get a letter sent, at once -- that they would get it nearly, if not quite as quickly as the one from Colonel Tempe; especially if as was very probable the colonel would be a great deal too engaged, during the week's tremendous fighting which succeeded the day upon which Ralph was wounded, for him to be able to write letters.

The first time that he saw the English surgeon, he mentioned this anxiety, and the doctor at once offered to take charge of a letter; and to forward it with his own, in the military post bag, to the headquarters of the ambulance at Versailles, together with a note to the head of the ambulance there, begging him to get it sent on in the first bag for Dijon. In this way, it would arrive at its destination within four or five days, at most, of its leaving Orleans.

It was on the 2nd of January -- exactly a month from the date of the fight in which he was wounded -- that, after very many thanks to his kind host and hostess, and after forcing a handsome present upon them, Ralph started -- in a peasant's dress which had been bought for him -- for Orleans. He had still plenty of money with him; for he had drawn the reward, of fifty thousand francs, in Paris. The greater portion of this money he had paid into the hands of a banker, at Tours, but Percy and he had kept out a hundred pounds each; knowing by experience how useful it is, in case of being taken prisoner, to have plenty of money. Ralph's wound was still bound up with plaster, and to conceal it a rabbit-skin cap with flaps had been bought so that, by letting down the flaps and tying them under the chin, the greater part of the cheeks were covered.

The farmer had made inquiries among his neighbors and, finding one who was going into Orleans, with a horse and cart, he had asked him to give Ralph a lift to that place. The start had been effected early, and it was three o'clock when they drove into Orleans. Here Ralph shook hands with his driver -- who wished him a safe journey home -- and strolled leisurely down the streets.

Orleans presented a miserable aspect. The inhabitants kept themselves shut up in their houses, as much as possible. The bishop was kept a prisoner, by the Prussians, in his own palace; troops were quartered in every house; the inhabitants were, for the most part, in a state of poverty; and the shops would have been all shut, had not the Prussians ordered them to be kept open. The streets were thronged with German troops, and long trains of carts were on their way through, with provisions for the army. These carts were requisitioned from the peasantry, and were frequently taken immense distances from home; the owner -- or driver, if the owner was rich enough to pay one -- being obliged to accompany them.

Many were the sad scenes witnessed in these convoys. The grief of a father dragged away, not knowing what would become of his wife and children, during his absence. The anguish of a laborer at seeing his horse fall dead with fatigue, knowing well that he had no means of taking his cart home again; and that he had nothing to do but to return to his home, and tell his wife that the horse and cart -- which constituted his sole wealth -- were gone.

Ralph waited until, late in the afternoon, he saw a long train halt by one of the bridges. It was evidently intending to cross, the next morning, and go down south. In a short time the horses were taken out, and fastened by halters to the carts; two or three soldiers took up their posts as sentries, and the drivers were suffered to leave -- the Germans knowing that there was no chance of their deserting, and leaving their horses and carts.

The poor fellows dispersed through the town. Those who had any money bought food. Those who had not, begged; for the Germans allowed them no rations, and left them to shift for themselves -- or starve -- as they liked. Ralph joined in conversation with a group of these, who were relating their hardships to two or three sympathetic listeners. An old man, especially, was almost heartbroken. His wife was dying, and he had been forced from her bedside.

"What could I do?" he asked, pitifully. "I was a carrier. My horse and cart were all I had in the world. If I had not gone with them they were lost for ever. What was I to do?"

No one could answer him but, when the party had broken up, Ralph went up to him.

"How much are your horse and cart worth?" he asked.

"The horse is worth five hundred francs," he said. "The cart is an old one -- two hundred and fifty would pay for it. It is not much, you see, but it is all I have."

"Look here, old man," Ralph said, "I am not what I look. I am a French officer, and I want to get down near the Prussian outposts, but without passes I could not get on. Besides I have been wounded, and am too weak to walk far. I will give you the seven hundred and fifty francs which are the value of your horse and cart, and will take your place as driver; so that you can start back, at once, to your wife. Do you agree?"

The old man was so affected with joy that he burst into tears.

"God bless you, sir," he said. "You have saved my life, and my poor wife's life, too."

"Very well, it is a bargain, then," Ralph said. "Here is half the money. You shall have the rest tomorrow.

"Now you must go with me tomorrow morning, at the hour for starting; and tell the officer in charge that I am a nephew of yours -- living here, but out of work, at present -- and that you have arranged with me to drive the cart, as long as it's wanted, and then to take it home again."

After a few more words, the peasant took him back and showed him his cart; in order that he might know where to find him, in the morning.

"We start at daybreak," he said, "so you had better be here by half-past six."

"Where do you sleep?" Ralph asked.

"I? Oh, I don't sleep much. I lie down for a bit, underneath the carts; and then walk about to warm myself."

"Take this warm fur coat of mine," Ralph said. "It will keep you warm tonight, anyhow. I shan't want it; I shall get a bed somewhere."

The coat was the one Ralph had worn on his night walk, after being wounded. He had had all the braid, and the fur of the collar and cuffs taken off; and had had it purposely dirtied, so that it was no longer a garment which could attract attention, on the back of a man with a cart.

After some difficulty, Ralph got a bed; and was at the agreed place at the appointed time. The old man went up to the Prussian sergeant in command, and told the tale Ralph had dictated to him. The sergeant agreed to the arrangement, with a brief nod. The old man handed Ralph his whip, and returned him the fur coat; which Ralph was glad enough to put on, for the morning was bitterly cold, and Ralph -- enfeebled by his illness -- felt it keenly. In another five minutes, the carts were in motion across the bridge, and then away due south.

For half an hour Ralph walked by the side of his cart and -- being, by that time, thoroughly warm -- he jumped up in the cart and rode, during the rest of the day; getting down and walking -- for a short time only -- when he found his feet getting numbed with the cold.

In the afternoon they arrived at La Ferte, some fifteen miles from Orleans. There they remained for the night. There were not very many troops here, and Ralph could have obtained a bed by paying well for it; but he feared to attract attention by the possession of unusual funds and, therefore, slept in a hay loft; afraid, in spite of his fur coat, to sleep in the open air.

The next morning the train was divided, twenty of the carts going down towards Romorantin; while the rest -- now fifteen in number -- kept on towards Salbris. Ralph's cart formed part of this latter division. The night after they left La Ferte, they halted at La Motte Beuvron, where there was a strong force of Germans. The following day only four carts continued their route to Salbris, Ralph happening again to be among them. He had regretted two days before that he had not formed part of the division for Romorantin, as from that place he would have been less than twenty miles from Tours, which the Prussians had not yet entered; but as he had the good fortune to go on to Salbris, he did not mind -- as Salbris, like Romorantin, was one of the most advanced stations.

They arrived late in the afternoon, and the carts were at once unloaded. The sergeant in charge told them to wait, while he got their papers for them; and in ten minutes he returned.

"You will have tomorrow to rest your horses, and the next day a train will start for the north. Your work is over now, as there is nothing to go back. Here are the passes for you, saying that you have carried goods down here for the army; and are therefore to return back, without your carts being further requisitioned."

Ralph put up his horse and cart for an hour in the village, while he went to search for some farm house upon which no Prussian soldiers were quartered. He was unable, for some time, to find one; but at last, over a mile from the town, he found a small place which had escaped the attention of the Prussian quartermaster, and where there was a small, unoccupied stable. Ralph soon struck a bargain with its owner; returned to Salbris, mounted his cart, drove out; and was soon settled in the little farm house.

He anticipated no great difficulty in passing out through the outposts; as there was no French force of any importance, near, and the German troops interfered but little with the movements of the country people. The affair, however, turned out more easy than he had anticipated for, towards morning, he was awoke by the distant sound of bugles.

"Something is up," he said to himself; "either a French attack, a general advance, or a recall. If it should be the latter, I am in luck."

It turned out to be as Ralph hoped. The peasant in whose house he was stopping went into Salbris, early; and came back with the news that there was no longer a German there. Orders had come for them to fall back, towards Orleans.

"I am not at all surprised," Ralph said, when he heard it, "for Orleans was emptying fast of troops. This sudden march of Bourbaki for the east, and the necessity to reinforce Frederick Charles, near Vendome must try even Prussian resources to the utmost."

Half an hour later, Ralph was jogging along on his way to Vierzon. There he found that the railway was open to Bourges, from which town he should have no difficulty in getting on to Dijon. He soon found a purchaser for his horse and cart, at ten pounds, and the next morning started on his way home.



Chapter 21: Home.


It was a long journey from Vierzon to Dijon. At Bourges Ralph had taken advantage of a delay of some hours -- necessitated by the fact that no train was going -- to get some suitable clothes, instead of the peasant's suit in which he had traversed the lines. He had, of course, brought his papers with him; so that he had no difficulty, whatever, in getting on by the train. But the train itself made but slow work of it. Bourbaki had passed west only the week before, with all his army, upon his march to the relief of Belfort; and the railway was completely choked. However, Ralph was not inclined to grumble at the cause of his delay; for it was only upon Bourbaki's approach that the Germans had evacuated Dijon -- which was now held by Garibaldi's irregulars, and a considerable force of Mobiles.

So great were the delays that it was evening when the train reached Dijon. Ralph had scarcely stepped out on to the platform when Percy bounded upon him, and threw his arms round his neck.

"Dear, dear old Ralph! Thank God you are back again."

"My dear Percy, where did you spring from?"

"I have been home five days. I was still down at Marseilles, when I heard that Dijon was open again; and I came straight up.

"And how are you, Ralph?"

"Oh, I am getting all right again. How are they all, at home?"

"Well -- quite well -- but dreadfully anxious about you."

By this time the boys were out of the station, and were walking homeward.

"But you have not told me how you happened to be at the station."

"Well, I was waiting there, just on the chance of seeing you. Mamma was so dreadfully anxious about you that I wanted to do something. At any rate, I could not sit quiet at home. There are never more than two trains with passengers in a day, sometimes only one; so I have been staying down in the town, most of the days since I came home -- having paid one of the railway people to send me word, directly the train was telegraphed as starting from Dole."

"How long is it since my letter arrived?"

"Nearly three weeks, Ralph; fortunately it came four or five days before a letter from Tempe, saying that he feared you were killed. Not having heard again, they were terribly anxious."

"I had no means of writing," Ralph said. "The English ambulance -- through whom my letter was sent -- moved down to Vendome, the very day after I wrote; and I had no other way of sending my letter."

"I said it was something of that sort. I pointed out to them that it was evident, by what you said, that the fever had passed off, and that you only wanted strength; but that being in hiding, of course, you could not write. I gave you three weeks to get strong enough to start, and four or five days to manage to get through the lines; so that by my calculation you were just due, when you arrived.

"It has pulled you down, Ralph, very much. I wish I had been there to nurse you."

"Thank you, Percy. Fortunately I did fall into very good hands, and was well looked after. I hope papa has not been over anxious about me?"

"I think he has been nervous, Ralph; but he did not show it, but talked cheerfully to keep up mamma and Milly."

"And are you quite strong again, Percy?"

"Yes, I think I am nearly as strong as ever, Ralph.

"There, we are just at the house, now. You had better wait outside; while I go in and let them know, gradually, that you are home. I came in like a fool, suddenly, and mamma fainted -- she says for the first time in her life -- and Milly went into hysterics, and cried and laughed so wildly that you might have heard her in Dijon. She frightened me nearly out of my senses."

Ralph remained, accordingly, outside the door; while Percy went in alone. The others had finished tea.

"You are a little late, Percy," Mrs. Barclay said. "We gave you twenty minutes' law. It is not the least matter, your being late; but I do not think it is wise to be out, these bitter nights, until you are quite strong."

"I am quite strong, mamma, as strong as ever," Percy laughed; but his laugh was, in spite of himself, a little unnatural.

His father looked sharply up.

Percy sat down, and drank a little of the tea his mother handed to him.

"I waited for the train to come in," he said, "and -- of course it may not be so -- but I heard of someone who, by the description, seemed to be Ralph."

"What was it, Percy, what was it?" Milly cried; while her mother gazed at him with a pale face, and appealing eyes.

"Don't agitate yourself, mamma dear -- you see, it may not be true, after all -- but among the people in the train was one who had come straight from Bourges. I spoke to him, and he said that he had heard -- by a friend who had come straight from Vierzon -- that a young officer had just arrived there, in disguise; who had been wounded, and in hiding, ever since the capture of Orleans. You know, mamma, it is just the time I calculated he would be coming; and from the fact of his being a young staff officer, and in disguise, I have very little doubt it is Ralph."

Captain Barclay rose from his seat and -- standing for a moment behind his wife's chair -- looked at Percy, and then at the door, inquiringly. Percy nodded.

Captain Barclay leaned over, and kissed his wife

"Thank God, dear, for all His mercies! Another day or two, and we shall be having him home."

"Thank God, indeed!" Mrs. Barclay said; "but though I hope -- though I try to think it was him -- perhaps it was not, perhaps -- "

"No, mamma," Percy said, "from some particulars he gave, and from what he said, I feel almost sure -- I may say I am quite sure -- it is Ralph. I would not say so, you know, unless I felt very certain."

Mrs. Barclay felt that he would not, and fell into her husband's arms, crying softly with happiness.

Milly was no longer in the room. She had caught the glance between her father and Percy, and had rightly interpreted it. She had risen to her feet, but a warning gesture from Captain Barclay had checked the cry of gladness on her lips; and she had stolen quietly from the room, closed the door noiselessly, had flown to the front door and out into the road beyond, and was now crying happily in Ralph's arms.

"And when do you think he can get here, Richard?" Mrs. Barclay asked her husband.

"Soon, dear -- quite soon," he answered. "He may come tomorrow. He would be certain to come almost as quickly as the news."

"Oh, how happy I am!" Mrs. Barclay said. "Thank God for His mercies! To think that, tomorrow, I may have both my boys back again."

"Will there be another train in, tonight, Percy?" Captain Barclay asked.

"Quite possibly," Percy said; "indeed, indeed," -- and he hesitated -- "you see, I walked up fast; it is just possible that he may have arrived by this train."

Mrs. Barclay understood now.

"He is come," she exclaimed, looking up. "I know it, now."

Captain Barclay took her up in his arms.

"You can bear it, can't you, Melanie? Yes, dear, he has come."

Percy saw that it was safe now. He went to the door, and opened it. Ralph was standing outside, in readiness; and in another moment his mother was in his arms.

Later in the evening, Captain Barclay said to Ralph:

"I suppose tomorrow you will obtain a medical certificate, and write to General Chanzy: saying that you are alive, but unable to rejoin?"

"Yes," Ralph answered, "I suppose that will be the best plan. I must have a month's rest."

"That means, my dear boy, that you will not have to go out any more. Another month will see the end of the struggle -- or at any rate, if the end has not absolutely arrived, it will be unmistakable.

"The game is, I am convinced, altogether lost. A fortnight ago, I had still hope. Chanzy and Bourbaki had each an army, nearly or quite equal to that of Prince Frederick Charles. He could not attack one in force, without leaving the road to Paris open to the other.

"Bourbaki has come upon this mad expedition to the east; and you will see Prince Frederick Charles will throw his whole strength upon Chanzy, crush him, and then attend to Bourbaki. Bourbaki may relieve Belfort, but in that corner of France what is he to do? Prussian reinforcements are coming down to Werder, every day. Troops are marching on this town from Paris and, if Bourbaki is not wonderfully quick, we shall have another Sedan here.

"After the defeat of these, the last two armies of France, it would be madness to continue the war. Paris must surrender, for there would be no further possibility of relief; and there would be no advantage, whatever, in enduring further sufferings.

"No, my boys, I said 'Go' when I thought that there was a possibility of saving France. You have done your duty -- more than your duty. It would be worse than folly -- it would be wickedness -- to voluntarily put your lives into danger, when success has ceased to be possible. I should be the last man to hinder you from what was your duty. I said 'Go' before, when few fathers would have said so. I would say 'Go' again, now, if your duty called you; but as you can both obtain sick leave, for another six weeks, I say take that leave. Do not do more than your duty, for heroism is now of no use to France."

"I agree with you altogether, papa," Ralph said. "I have seen, and had, quite enough fighting for my lifetime. Of course, if the war goes on Percy and I, as officers, must return to our duty, but I am willing to obtain all the sick leave I can get; for although I still believe in the individual bravery of the French soldiers, I am quite convinced that it is altogether out of the question that -- with their want of organization, want of generals, want of officers, want of discipline, want of everything -- they can drive out the magnificent armies of Germany.

"Has Percy got his leave extended?"

"Yes," Percy said; "I am fairly well, but I am still shaky. I have not quite got over that swim; and the surgeon said, without my applying for it, that I must have prolonged rest so, at the end of the month, he extended it for two months longer.

"I thoroughly agree with you both. We have had quite enough of it. We shall always have the satisfaction that we did our duty to France, and our rank; and these ribbons," -- and he touched the rosette of the legion of honor, in his buttonhole -- "will prove that we have distinguished ourselves. We have had great good fortune, hitherto; it might turn, next time."

And so it was settled that the boys should remain at home, for the next two months; by which time they agreed, with their father, the resistance would be fairly worn out. Ralph wrote to General Chanzy, relating the whole circumstances of his absence. General Chanzy wrote in reply -- in spite of the demands upon his time -- saying how pleased he was that Ralph had escaped, as he had quite given him up. He ended his note by saying that he had already mentioned his name, in dispatches, and should now make a fresh report.

Colonel Tempe -- or rather General Tempe, for he now commanded a brigade -- wrote also to congratulate him. One portion of his letter contained bad news; for he mentioned that Tim had lost an arm, at the battle of the 8th December, but that he was now doing well.

Those were exciting days at Dijon. The news of the victory at Villersexel, followed by the fighting which ended in the capture of Montbeliard; and then the obstinate contests near Belfort, when Bourbaki in vain endeavored to drive back the Germans, and to relieve the besieged town -- all this kept the excitement up, at fever heat.

It was not fated that the war should end without the boys seeing service once more for, upon the 21st, heavy firing was heard upon the northwest of Dijon. The Barclays' house was on the southwest of the town. Upon the northwest the ground rises in two steep hills -- or rather one steep hill, with two summits about a mile apart. One of these summits is called Talant, the other Fontaine les Dijon. Behind the latter, and upon even higher ground -- at a distance of two and three miles, respectively -- lay the villages of Daix and Hauteville.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning that the boys heard the faint boom of a cannon.

"Listen, papa," Percy shouted; "there are cannon. The Prussians are attacking the heights, on the other side."

Captain Barclay came out into the garden, and listened for a while with them. The enemy had taken up positions upon some of the numerous heights surrounding, and were playing upon the batteries at Talant, Fontaine les Dijon, Daix, and Hauteville. The French replied vigorously; and it was evident that they were stronger, in artillery, than were the enemy.

"I fancy," Captain Barclay said, "that it is no attack. It is merely, I think, a fire opened to occupy our attention; in order that a body of troops may pass along to the northward of Dijon, to fall upon Bourbaki's rear. However, my place is with my company of national guards. There is no fear of an attack, at present; but they will get under arms no doubt."

"We will go down into the town with you, papa."

The firing continued until five o'clock, when it gradually died away, the Germans retiring. An hour later, the greater portion of the troops marched back to the town. The enemy, they reported, were not over 15,000 strong while, in all, the Garibaldians and mobilized national guards in the town were 30,000 to 40,000 strong. The French were also much stronger in artillery.

Captain Barclay returned home with the boys. They sat up late, talking over the affair, and it was nearly midnight when they went up to their rooms. Suddenly, they were startled by a fresh outburst of fire upon the heights. In a minute or two, all the household were in the garden.

"It is a night attack," Captain Barclay said; "and judging by the sound, they are in earnest. I can hear musketry, as well as artillery."

As they listened, it came nearer.

"They have taken Daix and Hauteville," Ralph said. "What shall we do, papa? We can't stay here, quiet. It is our plain duty to go down, and report ourselves to General Pelissier."

"I think you ought to do so," Captain Barclay answered, gravely.

The boys went off to put on their uniforms -- for Ralph had replaced the one he had left behind, in the cottage near Orleans.

"I do not think you need be uneasy, Melanie," Captain Barclay said to his wife. "It is our duty to go; but I hardly think that they can have been reinforced in sufficient strength to attack the town."

The boys were soon down.

"Goodbye, mamma; goodbye, Milly. Don't be alarmed about us. We have no horses, and there can be no risk of our being sent on any perilous service, tonight."

Two silent kisses, and then father and sons hurried away towards the town.

"They have taken Fontaine les Dijon," Ralph said. "We shall soon see if they are in earnest."

Dijon they found in utter confusion. Mounted orderlies galloped about. The troops were all under arms. Engineers were at work, crenelating the walls and houses upon the side threatened with attack. General Garibaldi was sitting in his carriage, in readiness to move in any direction, instantly. General Pelissier -- who commanded the mobilized guards -- was in his office, and staff officers came in and out with reports, every five minutes.

The boys entered, and briefly reported themselves for service. They had already reported their presence in the place, upon their arrival.

"Thank you, gentlemen," he said. "I do not think that you can be of any use, just at present; but if the Germans press the attack, I shall be greatly obliged. In that case, please dismount two of the orderlies, and take their horses."

The night passed off, however, quietly. The Germans, satisfied with the advantage, remained in the positions they had taken; and the French prepared to drive them back again, in the morning.

At daybreak, the troops began to pour out from the town; and the cannonade commenced with greater fury on both sides. Two of the orderlies, in obedience to General Pelissier's orders, gave up their horses to the Barclays; who rode out with the general's staff. The Prussians had evidently been reinforced, in the night; but the French nevertheless gained ground, gradually. After several hours' heavy cannonading, the Mobilises were ordered to take the position of Fontaine les Dijon, with the bayonet. Three Zouaves -- who happened to be present -- took their places at the head of the column and, at the double, they went up the hill amidst a storm of shot and shell. The Germans did not await the assault, but fell back upon Daix.

The spirit of the Mobilises was now up and, still led by the three Zouaves, they dashed forward. The resistance here was obstinate; but the Germans were driven back, with great loss. The pursuers gave them no rest; but went forward at the double, and drove them out of Hauteville at the bayonet's point, thus winning back all the positions lost in the night. The Barclays had little to do during the affair as, after the orders had once been given, the spirit of the troops carried them on over everything. The loss upon both sides was considerable, and one of General Werder's sons was among the prisoners taken by the French.

The fight over, the boys returned home for a few hours. Their father had come in half an hour before them.

The next morning they returned, at daybreak, to Dijon. The Prussians had received considerable reinforcements, in the night; and had executed a long detour, advancing this time by the Langres Road, nearly due north of the city. They left the road and took up their position upon a plateau, near the village of Pouilly, about three miles from Dijon. The French positions were about a mile nearer to the town, extending from the foot of Fontaine les Dijon through the villages of Saint Marten, and Fontaine.

From the morning, until three in the day, a heavy artillery fire was kept up, on both sides. At that hour, the Prussians gave signs of an intention to advance. Their artillery took up fresh positions, their fire increased in rapidity, and it was evident that the crisis of the day was at hand. Up to this time, the boys had had but little to do. Sitting on their horses, or leaning against them, they had chatted with the officers of the general staff. At this period, however, General Garibaldi drew up; and there was a brief consultation between him and General Pelissier. A few hasty orders were given and, in an instant, the whole of the staff were dashing away to different parts of the ground.

"Charge in line!" was the order and, forming shoulder to shoulder, the Garibaldians and Mobiles moved forward in a grand line, a mile and a half long; uttering loud and inspiriting cheers. The boys had been sent to the regiments next to each other and, their message delivered, they joined each other and rode on with the advancing line.

"This is grand, Ralph," Percy said, enthusiastically. "We have seen a good many defeats. We are going to wind up with a victory, at last."

For a while the Germans stood their ground, pouring a shower of shot and shell into the advancing French; but the dash and go of the latter -- excited by their successes of the two preceding days -- were irresistible. The Germans wavered and fell back as the French advanced and, from that moment, the fate of the day was decided. Isolated German regiments fought desperately, but in vain. The French pushed them back, from position to position, until nightfall covered the retreat.

The German loss was very heavy; and the French, in addition to a considerable number of prisoners, had the satisfaction of taking a German color -- the only one captured throughout the war.

This was the last fight in which the Barclays took part during the war. The boys escaped unhurt; as did their father, who had joined one of the regiments of Mobiles, and had advanced with them.

The events followed fast, day after day. In rapid succession, they heard of the defeat of Chanzy at Le Mans, the retreat of Bourbaki; the terrible sufferings of the troops, as they fell back upon the Swiss frontier, for refuge. Simultaneously with the news of this retreat came the intelligence of the surrender of Paris, and of the armistice and, grieving over France's misfortune, they were yet heartily rejoiced that the hopeless contest was over.

No sooner were the preliminaries of peace signed than Captain Barclay carried out his intention of leaving for England. Monsieur Duburg had already agreed to purchase the cottage, and adjoining grounds; which he intends for Louis, when he marries. The Barclays were sorry to leave their uncle and cousins, but there was no great grief with reference to the separation from Madame Duburg.

General Tempe they parted from with regret. That officer's fighting days were over, for he lost a leg in the battle before Le Mans.

Ralph obtained the step as major, in consequence of General Chanzy's report in his favor, but he never put on the uniform of the rank; nor is it likely that he ever will do so, although he hopes, some day, to attain the grade in the British service. He is at present studying hard for an examination in the artillery which, if practical knowledge goes for anything, he is pretty certain to get.

Percy has had enough of fighting, and his present idea is that he shall go to the Bar; but he has plenty of time before him, yet. Both never boast of their achievements -- indeed, are straightforward, unaffected English lads, still -- and it is only to intimate friends that they ever speak of their adventures in the war.

The Barclays live now a short distance out of London; and the pony chaise in which Captain Barclay drives his wife and Milly can be seen, any day, on the Richmond road. If you stop and watch it turn into the little drive, up to the house, you will observe that a one-armed man -- who has previously been busy in the garden -- throws down his spade, and takes the ponies off to the stables and, should he not happen to be at the front of the house, as the ponies draw up, you will hear Milly summon him with a loud call of "Tim!"

<eob>

The Boy Allies Under The Sea

Or

The Vanishing Submarines

By

Robert L. Drake



Chapter I.

A Mystery.


"What I would like to know," said Frank Chadwick, "is just how long England intends to put up with the activities of the German submarines in the waters surrounding the British Isles."

"How long?" echoed Jack Templeton. "Surely you know that England is already conducting a vigorous campaign against them."

"I don't seem to have heard anything of such a campaign," returned Frank dryly; "but another big liner was torpedoed and sunk off the coast of Ireland yesterday. What are we going to do about it? That's what I want to know."

"I'll tell you a little something you don't seem to know," said Jack. "In the last thirty days, in the neighborhood of a hundred German submarines have disappeared -- sunk or captured -- no one seems to know which. Nevertheless, it is a fact. Through diplomatic channels word has been received in London that a large number have failed to return to their bases. The German government is much disturbed."

"Where have they gone?" asked Frank, with some surprise.

"I don't know. Nobody knows -- unless, perhaps, a few high government officials. They have just naturally disappeared -- vanished."

"How do you know all this?"

"I happened to hear Lord Hastings discussing it with Mr. Churchill while you were out the other day."

"But, of course, Mr. Churchill knows what has happened to the submarines."

"Of course; but he's not telling everything he knows."

"But doesn't Lord Hastings know?"

"I suppose so; but he is keeping his information to himself."

"Well, I didn't know any of them had disappeared."

"They have, though, and I heard Mr. Churchill say that the government hoped within another month to have rid British waters entirely of the German submersibles."

"I hope his hope comes true," said Frank with a smile.

"And I; but I would like to know something more of the mystery of these vanishing submarines."

Both lads were to learn something more, even sooner than they could possibly have hoped.

The door opened and a man strode into the room. Attired in the full uniform of a British naval commander, he made a striking appearance in his gold and lace. He greeted the two lads with a smile.

"Well, boys?" he said.

The newcomer was Lord Hastings, erstwhile distinguished secret service agent and new commander in his British majesty's royal navy. Also, though the fact was known to few, he was a distant cousin of the king himself and one of the most highly trusted officers of the empire.

"Well, boys?" he repeated.

"Well, sir," said Frank, "we were just discussing the mystery of the vanishing submarines."

Lord Hastings gazed at the lad in surprise.

"Vanishing submarines!" he repeated. "And tell me, how did you know there were such things as vanishing submarines?"

"Why, Jack told me, sir," replied Frank.

"And how did you know it?" demanded Lord Hastings of Jack.

"I heard you and Mr. Churchill discussing it, sir," replied Jack.

Lord Hastings drew a long breath, evidently of relief.

"I didn't know we had been so indiscreet," he said, half to himself. "However, there is no harm done, for I know you boys are to be trusted not to repeat what you overhear. I'll tell you this, you two are among the very few who know that any of the German submarines have been accounted for."

"Then it is true?" asked Frank.

"Oh, it's true enough," replied Lord Hastings. "Perhaps a hundred of them have disappeared."

"And where are they, sir?" asked Frank. "At the bottom?"

"That," said Lord Hastings with a slow smile, "is the mystery the German government would like to solve."

"But surely you know, sir."

"If I did, I would not repeat it within these four walls," declared Lord Hastings. "Walls have ears, you know, as is proven by the fact that Jack overheard my conversation with Mr. Churchill."

"I didn't mean to listen, sir," interrupted Jack.

"Oh, I know that," replied Lord Hastings. "But now take my advice, and keep what you know locked close within you."

"We shall, sir," replied both lads.

"Good! Now I have a piece of news for you."

The two lads stepped forward eagerly.

"Are we to go on active service again, sir?" asked Frank anxiously.

"It's about time we did," mumbled Jack, half to himself.

Lord Hastings smiled as he saw the eager looks upon the faces of both.

"Well, we have a little work cut out for us," he replied quietly.

"Hooray!" cried Frank.

A pleased expression fluttered across Jack's face, but he gave voice to no exclamation; he was never as effusive as his chum.

"I'm glad you're pleased," returned Lord Hastings. "Yes, we shall see active service, at once."

"When do we start, sir?" asked Frank, his face shining.

"In the morning."

Frank's face fell.

"I was in hopes it was to-night," he replied.

"Scouting, submarine or what?" demanded Jack.

"You will have to wait for an answer to that question," said Lord Hastings. "In the meantime, it would be well this afternoon to get whatever equipment you may need. Your other things, together with mine, are at the bottom of the sea with the old D-16."

"And perhaps," said Frank slyly, glancing at Lord Hastings, "before our present work is over we may know something of the mystery" -- he lowered his voice -- "of the vanishing submarines."

Lord Hastings eyed him somewhat coldly.

"Perhaps," he said, and, turning on his heel, left the room.

"You shouldn't have said that, Frank," declared Jack, when they were left alone. "You remember what he said about the walls having ears."

"I know it," said Frank, with sincere regret. "It just slipped out."

"If you'll take my advice, you'll see that it doesn't slip out again," advised Jack.

"I'll be mum from now on," said his chum with a slight smile. "But now I guess we may as well get what things we may need."

"All right," said Jack.

They picked up their caps and made their way from the house.

And while they are engaged in the task of out-fitting themselves for the coming expedition, a few words concerning the two chums may well be written.

Jack Templeton was an English boy some eighteen years of age. Born in the British Isles, he had nevertheless spent most of his life in Africa, his father having conducted a small trading station upon the coast of that continent. Jack's father was a scholar and from him the boy had acquired a good education.

Jack's father died, leaving the boy as a legacy nothing but the little African trading store; and Jack set about to make his own living there and to put by enough so that within a few years he would be able to return to the land of his birth.

And then fate took a hand in shaping his career.

A party from a passing schooner stopped for supplies at Jack's store, and, in the lad's absence, departed without paying for the provisions. Jack set forth to collect. He climbed aboard the schooner before it hove anchor, and, payment being refused by the schooner's crew, a fight ensued.

Jack was forced to take refuge in the hold, while the ship got under way. He succeeded in making his way to the next compartment, where he was surprised to find two other prisoners. These he released, and they proved to be a British secret service agent and Frank Chadwick.

Frank was an American boy. He had been separated from his father, and while seeking him in Naples had been shanghaied aboard the schooner, and there he was, following a mutiny among the crew, as Jack found him. By some resourcefulness and not a little fighting, the lads overcame the crew and made their way back to Jack's home, taking the other prisoner with them.

Here they joined an expedition in which the secret service agent was implicated, and in this manner met Lord Hastings. The latter took an interest in them at once, and, after they had proved their mettle, the British nobleman took them aboard his own vessel as midshipmen.

Then followed a series of exciting adventures, which had led them to many parts of the world. They had been instrumental in the first big victory of the British fleet off Heligoland; they had taken part in the pursuit of the German cruiser Emden, "the terror of the seas," and had been in at the death; they had been with the British fleet that had sunk the last German squadron upon the oceans -- off the Falkland Islands; they had taken part in many and dangerous other exploits, having more than once been in the heart of the enemy's territory; and always they had returned safely.

But there was once when it seemed that all -- Lord Hastings, Frank and Jack -- had come to their end. It came about in this wise: After a long cruise, which resulted in great successes, their submarine, D-16, had come to grief in the Dardanelles. They were caught below and it seemed that all must perish.

Then Jack had decided that it was futile for all to die; there was safety for all but one. A deck of cards decided who was to stay, and Jack had drawn the fatal card -- the ace of spades.

Officers and crew were launched to safety by means of a torpedo tube; and Jack sat down to await the end. But, in some unaccountable manner, the submarine had suddenly risen to the surface, and Jack, taking advantage of the single instant the vessel was above water before it took its final death plunge, flung himself clear. And thus all were saved.

But, because of their desperate experiences, they were unfit to immediately resume new duties; so all had returned to England until such time as they would be physically in shape again.

Now Jack Templeton, although young in years, was wise in the ways of the world. Also he was of huge stature and as strong as an ox, as he had proved more than once when put to the test. Frank, although by no means as large as his chum, was sturdy and strong, and able to give a good account of himself when occasion required.

The one noticeable difference between the two was that Frank was high-tempered and quick, whereas Jack was always cool and collected. And this very fact had more than once showed that Jack, while not exactly more dependable, could always be relied upon to keep his head.

While both were skillful in the use of weapons, here was a place where Frank excelled. He was a dead shot with rifle or revolver and was a strong swordsman. Jack was a good shot himself and a skillful fencer, but he was not in Frank's class when it came to the use of sword or firearms.

Upon their last expedition Jack and Frank had acted as first and second officers respectively of the submarine, and both now held the rank of first lieutenant. Their promotions had come deservedly. They had the implicit confidence of Lord Hastings and more than once had offered valuable advice, which Lord Hastings had acted upon.

Now a few words about the progress of the war. The seven seas had for some time, save for the presence of the German submarines, been swept clear of German, Austrian and Turkish fighting ships. Not a one remained at large to prey upon the shipping of the Allies. The real fighting strength of the navies of the three central powers still remained in their own fortified bases, well guarded by mines.

The Allies had established such an effective blockade that none dared to venture forth. So the naval situation was practically at a standstill, where indications pointed to its remaining until the main German fleet, bottled up in Heligoland, and the main Austrian fleet in the Adriatic should summon sufficient courage to sally forth and give battle; and there had been nothing to indicate any sudden action on the part of either.

On several occasions British submarines had penetrated the mine fields and created considerable havoc, and aircraft had dropped bombs from the air. But along these lines the German submarines had been more successful and now were the one real menace confronting the naval supremacy of the Entente powers.

Hundreds of ships, large and small, had fallen easy prey to these under-sea terrors. Big ocean liners, crowded with passengers, non-combatants, had been sent to the bottom with terrible loss of innocent lives. Chief among these tragedies laid to the door of the German submarines was the sinking of the Cunard liner Lusitania, in which more than a thousand men, women and children had been drowned.

And, so far as the British public knew, England had taken no steps to combat this under-sea peril. However, as Lord Hastings had told the boys at the opening of this story, Great Britain had taken such steps, and that they were effective was evident from his additional statement that in the neighborhood of a hundred submarines had "vanished."

But this warfare was not to end until the submarine evil had been eradicated. The German under-sea craft must be disposed of so effectively as to preclude further danger to British shipping. And it was in this work that Jack and Frank were soon to play a prominent part.



Chapter II.

On Active Service Again.


For some reason unknown to Jack and Frank, when morning came, Lord Hastings announced that the start would not be made until after nightfall, at which both lads showed keen disappointment.

"I'll tell you what you can do," said Lord Hastings. "I'll give you an order for my motorboat and you can go to Gravesend during the day if you care to. I'll meet you there at the Lion Inn to-night at 10 o'clock."

Frank was delighted.

"That's better than hanging around here all day, waiting for night to come," he said. "What do you say, Jack?"

"Anything to humor you," replied the latter with a smile.

"Take all your things with you," said Lord Hastings; "and, above all, hang on to that motorboat. Don't let anybody get it away from you."

"We'll hang on to it, never fear," replied Frank. "Come on, Jack."

"Wait a minute," ordered Lord Hastings. "You'll need this written order to get the boat."

"I'd forgotten, sir," said Frank.

Lord Hastings scribbled rapidly on a piece of paper, which he passed to Jack.

"This will fix you up," he said. "Now remember, 10 o'clock sharp."

The boys nodded their understanding of this order, saluted and left. Getting their things together, they hurried to the river, where Lord Hastings kept his motorboat; and an hour and a half later they were proceeding slowly down the river.

"Guess none of the enemy will ever get in here," declared Frank, after a careful survey of the river.

"Guess not," replied Jack. "Look at the boats. You wouldn't think we were at war."

"Not if it wasn't for the warships," agreed Frank. "And there are enough of them to make it hot for any hostile fleet. But it's a wonder to me some of these German submarines haven't taken a little trip up the Thames."

"Mines," replied Jack briefly.

"True," said Frank, "but you will remember we took a pretty long jaunt up the Dardanelles, and passed through the Kiel canal."

"And when you stop to think of it, we're pretty lucky to be here right now," returned Jack dryly.

"Well, so we are, if that's the way you look at it. However, I wouldn't mind having another such chance."

"You'll probably get it."

Conversation lagged as the boys took in the scenes about them; and there was little more talk during the trip. They stopped more than once, and, loitering along, it was dark when they neared their destination.

As they would have drawn up to the wharf there was a sudden flash of light -- gone in a moment -- followed by a dark body that swished by them like a flash.

Frank uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"See that?" he demanded.

"Yes. What could it have been?"

"You've got me, but it's heading toward the open sea. Great Scott! Maybe it's an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Yes; you know how anxious the Germans are over this submarine business. Maybe this fellow has been spying about. May be going to report to a German submarine out there some place."

"Think we had better follow and have a look?" asked Jack.

"Believe it would be a good idea. Let's go."

Without another word, Jack brought the boat about and headed after the one that had so recently dashed by them. In the darkness ahead there was nothing to be seen.

"Like looking for a needle in a haystack," Jack called to Frank.

"That fellow can't be up to any good," declared Frank. "He showed no light and was going in a terrible hurry. There's something up."

"Does seem that way," agreed Jack.

"Say! Is this as fast as this thing can go?" demanded Frank. "We won't ever get any place this way. Let her out a bit."

Jack did so and the little boat seemed literally to fly over the dark water. This terrific speed Jack kept up for some time and then slowed down.

"We'll bump into something at this rate," he said; "and that would settle the whole business. We must be cautious."

"Cautious!" repeated Frank. "We won't find that German being cautious."

"If we weren't cautious, it wouldn't do us any good if we did find him," argued Jack. "First thing you know we would be at the bottom."

Frank considered this point a moment.

"Guess you're right," he said at last.

"Swish!" went something at this moment, and, turning quickly, Frank saw a dark shape speeding away up the river.

"Hey! There went one the other way," he cried to Jack.

"That so?" replied Jack anxiously. "There is something up here, and I'm going to find out what it is."

He slowed down even more, and, striking a match, lighted the searchlight, which, until this moment, he had not deemed advisable.

As the light flashed over the water, the lad made out another small motorboat dead ahead, upon which signs of life became apparent. Jack saw figures gesticulating violently; then the boat headed directly for the one occupied by the two boys.

"Guns, Frank!" said Jack quietly. "They are coming at us."

"Leave it to me," replied Frank. "You run the boat. I'll do the rest."

"Don't shoot unless you have to," warned Jack.

Frank made no reply.

Jack kept the light full upon the approaching boat. He could see several oilskin-clad figures and that was all; and then came a hail from the oncoming boat.

"What do you want here?"

The query was in English. Jack answered the hail.

"What are you doing here yourself?" he demanded. "We are British officers. I command you to surrender."

"More likely German officers," was the response. "Heave to now. I'm coming aboard you."

"If you do you'll get a warm welcome," replied Jack.

He stopped the boat and drew his own revolvers.

"Stand back!" he cried, as the other boat came closer.

In the glint of the searchlight the men aboard the other boat made out the boys' uniforms. The boat slowed down and the men talked among themselves.

"They wear British uniforms," said one in a low voice.

"That's no sign they are English," said another.

"Tell 'em to give the countersign," said a third.

Another hail came from the boat.

"Pass the countersign," it said.

"I don't know any countersign," replied Jack, and would have said more, had not a voice from the other boat interrupted him.

"I thought not; hands up now or you are dead men. Quick!"

Jack made his decision in a moment. Much as he would have liked to fight it out, he determined upon a wiser course.

"Hands up, Frank," he said quietly. "They've got the drop on us."

He raised his hands in the air.

Not so Frank.

"They won't get me without a fight," declared the lad angrily, and, raising his voice, he cried:

"Come and get me, if you want me."

At the same moment he raised his revolver and fired.

"Here," cried Jack angrily, "don't be a fool. Give me that gun."

He seized Frank's wrist and wrenched the revolver from his grasp.

The latter turned on his chum angrily.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded. "Have you turned coward, that you surrender to a couple of Germans without a fight?"

"I haven't turned crazy," replied Jack quietly. "They are too many for us; that's all."

The other boat came alongside now and an officer stepped aboard the boys' craft.

"Your weapons," he said in perfect English.

"Then please step aboard my boat. You shall be taken to Gravesend at once."

"Gravesend!" echoed Jack. "You couldn't take us to a better place. But if you are German, why should you take us there?"

"German," repeated the man. "You know we are English. You are the German spies."

"No such thing," declared Frank, taking a hand in things. "We are British officers and we thought you were German spies. That's why I fired at you. We thought you were here to learn the secret of the vanishing submarines."

"Frank!" cried Jack in warning, but it was too late.

"The vanishing submarines, eh?" repeated the stranger. "So you have given yourselves away. Who but a German spy would be here seeking word of the vanishing submarines?"

"But I tell you --  -- " began Jack.

"Silence," thundered the officer. "You have betrayed yourselves, and that is enough. I give you my word you shall be shot in the morning."

"Oh, I guess not," replied Frank with a laugh. "I guess Lord Hastings will be able to get us out of this mess."

"Lord Hastings?"

"Why, yes, we happen to serve under him; that's all."

"Tell it to the marines," replied the man with sarcasm. "I am not asking you to admit anything, for I know enough now."

"Oh, all right," said Frank.

"Climb into my boat," ordered their captor.

The lads complied.

"Say," said Frank, "this is Lord Hastings' motorboat. He told us not to lose it. Tie it on behind and pull it along, will you?"

"We'll pull it along all right," replied their captor. "Now the best thing you fellows can do is to keep quiet."

The lads obeyed this gruff command, for they had nothing particular to talk about.

Half an hour later the motorboat docked at Gravesend and the boys were ordered to climb out, which they did, under the noses of their captors' weapons.

"Where to now?" asked Frank.

"Where I tell you," was the reply.

Jack was struck by a sudden thought.

"Will you tell me what time it is, sir?" he asked the leader of the party which surrounded them.

"As you ask in such a polite way, I shall do so," was the reply. "I wouldn't tell this other fellow anything. He's too smart." He produced his watch, and after a glance at it, said: "Five minutes to ten."

"By George!" exclaimed Jack. "And we were to meet Lord Hastings at the Lion Inn at 10 o'clock."

"I can promise you'll be at the Lion Inn at 10 o'clock," replied the leader of the capturing party, "but whether you will find Lord Hastings there I can't say."

"You mean you are taking us there?" asked Jack.

"Exactly."

"That's what I call luck," broke in Frank. "We'll be all right in a few moments now, Jack."

"You'll be all right till in the morning, I can guarantee that," growled their captor.

At the door of the inn he motioned them to enter ahead of him. They did so and the first person on whom their eyes rested was Lord Hastings.

"Well, I see you are on time --  -- " the latter began, and then broke off as he saw the armed men behind them.

"Yes, sir, we are on time," replied Frank with a smile, "and we have brought company to see you, sir!"



Chapter III.

A Lesson.


Lord Hastings was on his feet by this time and advanced toward the two lads and their captors.

"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded of the man who appeared to be the leader.

"We caught these fellows scooting down the Thames in a high-power motorboat, sir," was the reply. "They were unable to give a satisfactory account of themselves and one of them took a shot at us. So we brought them here."

"Do you know who they are?" asked Lord Hastings, smiling a bit to himself.

"No, sir; but I would take them for a couple of German spies, sir."

"H-m-m," muttered Lord Hastings. He stroked his chin a moment and then asked: "And what do you intend to do with them?"

"Turn them over to Colonel Masterson, sir, who will return about midnight. He is stopping here, sir."

Lord Hastings seemed to consider the matter a few moments, and then, with a gesture, he turned on his heel, remarking:

"Well, I can't see that it is any of my business."

"Very good, sir," said the boys' captor.

Frank and Jack had remained quiet up to this time, but now the former took a step after his commander, exclaiming:

"Aren't you going to get us out of this, sir? You can explain that we have done no wrong."

Lord Hastings turned toward him.

"I have this officer's word," he said, indicating the boys' captor, "that you were captured under suspicious circumstances. I thought I knew you -- both of you -- but it may be that I have been mistaken. Stranger things have happened than for a man to sell out to the enemy. I cannot interfere with the officer in the performance of his duty."

"But, sir --  -- " began Jack.

Now the officer interrupted.

"You know them?" he asked of Lord Hastings.

"I thought I did," was the reply. "It would seem that I have been mistaken."

"I should say it does," said the officer. "Certainly they were making their way down the river for no good purpose."

"I am afraid I must agree with you. However, I shall not interfere. You may do as you think best with them."

"Very good, sir." The officer motioned the boys to precede him to the stairs at the far end of the room. "Up with you," he commanded.

Frank hung back.

"Prod him up a bit there, men," instructed the officer.

A second man advanced and pushed his revolver against Frank's ribs.

"Move along," he commanded gruffly.

"Now look here --  -- " began the lad, but Jack interrupted him.

"Come, Frank, don't be a fool," he said.

He led the way up the stairs, and Frank, still grumbling, followed. At the top of the steps the boys were marched into a small room. The door closed behind them and a key turned in the lock.

"Now," said Frank, turning to his friend, "what is the meaning of all this?"

"You know just as much about it as I do," was the reply.

"But a word from Lord Hastings would have settled all this."

"But he didn't give it, did he?"

"No, he didn't; and that's what seems so strange. It looks to me as though we are in for a peck of trouble."

"Say! you heard what Lord Hastings said about 'selling out.' Do you think he believes us guilty of such a thing?"

"It's hard to tell what a man believes in times like these. Men have been stood up against a wall and shot on less evidence. You remember taking a shot at the other boat, don't you?"

"Yes, but --  -- "

"'Buts' won't help us any, I'm afraid. I can't account for Lord Hastings' actions, but you may be sure he has good reasons for whatever he does. It may even be true that he suspects us."

"By George! I don't believe that," exclaimed Frank.

"It doesn't seem possible; but still you can't tell."

"But what are we going to do?"

"Do? There is nothing we can do. We'll have to stay here until they decide what to do with us. There is nothing else to do."

The boys kept up their conversation for some time, and the more they talked the more they became convinced that their plight was more serious than they had at first supposed. It seemed very plain to them now that Lord Hastings must believe in their guilt and that he would not raise a finger in their behalf.

It was after midnight and the boys were still talking when the key again turned in the lock of the heavy door. It swung inward and their captor entered.

"Down stairs," he said briefly, motioning them to march down ahead of him.

The lads obeyed this order.

There was no one in the room below; and the lads sat down before the fireplace to await whatever might transpire.

"There will be no use trying to escape," said their captor. "The place is surrounded. You would be shot down like dogs. Now just be as comfortable as you can. I have business elsewhere."

He wheeled about quickly and disappeared through the door and the lads heard him lock it after him.

"Well, why are we allowed to sit here in solitary glory?" asked Frank.

"Ask me something easy," returned Jack. "We're here; that's all I know about it. However, I don't imagine we shall be here alone very long."

And he was right, although the first corner could not possibly have been in his mind, nor the nature of his coming.

Jack's attention was attracted toward the window by a slight squeaky sound. The lad glanced toward it, but no second sound followed immediately.

"Sounded like some one at the window," he said to Frank.

"I didn't hear anything," said the latter.

A moment later the noise came again. Jack sat up straight in his chair.

"Hear that?" he asked.

Frank nodded affirmatively.

"Some one there, all right," he agreed.

He made as though to rise, but Jack stayed him.

"Wait and see what happens," he said softly.

Both leaned back in their chairs and seemed to pay no further heed to the window. But without looking each became aware that the window was being raised softly, and clear across the room they could hear the breathing of a man. A foot sounded on the floor and at that moment both boys sprang to their feet and faced the intruder.

Before either could speak, the newcomer laid a finger to his lips in a sign for silence and came toward them.

"Quick!" he whispered, when he was close to them. "Tell me what you have learned. This may be your only chance!"

Frank and Jack stepped back in astonishment.

"Tell you what?" demanded the latter.

"What you have learned," repeated the man. "About the vanishing submarines. What has happened to them?"

Noticing the apparently puzzled looks on the faces of the two boys, the man smiled slightly and thrust a hand into his inside vest pocket.

"I see," he whispered. "You want to be sure it is all right. Here. Look!" he exhibited a small card. "My number. Thirty-two. See it?"

Jack's quick mind took in the situation on the instant.

"But you are no German," he protested.

"No, I'm English. Name of Davis. But I am in the game for what it's worth, the same as you are."

"I see," said Frank. "And you have been sent after our information?"

"Yes; and I shall have to hurry. We may be interrupted at any moment."

"We haven't had time to jot down anything," said Jack, "but we'll tell you what we have learned."

He whispered for some moments and Davis nodded understandingly. At last the boy ceased his whispering.

"And that's all you know?" asked Davis.

"Absolutely all," replied Jack, and added to himself, "and a whole lot more than I know, for that matter."

"Then," said Davis, "you believe that if we can get to the mouth of the Thames we can learn the whole secret?"

"That is my opinion," said Jack.

"Good; then I'll pass the word along. Good-bye."

Davis moved toward the window and a moment later disappeared on the outside.

"Now," said Frank to Jack, "just what did you tell that fellow? I couldn't hear all that whispering."

"Well," replied Jack, "I told him we had learned very little; but that the secret of the whole affair was at the mouth of the Thames; that that was where we were heading for when we were captured."

"And did you give him some kind of a hint as to the nature of the mystery?"

Jack smiled.

"Well, yes," he said. "I told him he would find some queer explosives there and a large number of swift torpedo boat destroyers, equipped with submarine nets. I told him that these made nightly raids into the Channel and the North Sea and thus disposed of the German submarines."

"And he believed it?"

"He seemed to. But that was the best I could do on short notice and knowing no more than I do of the matter."

"Well, it wasn't so bad," grinned Frank.

"I flatter myself that it could have been worse," returned Jack modestly.

They fell into a long silence, which was suddenly broken by Frank, who exclaimed anxiously:

"Say! Do you suppose that could have been a trap?"

"Trap?" repeated Jack. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you think Lord Hastings or some of the other British officers sent that man here simply to get evidence against us?"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Jack. "I never thought of that. Whew! Maybe I have gotten us into worse trouble than ever."

"If it was a trap, I guess you have," returned Frank glumly. "Yes, it was a good job you did, I don't think."

"Wait a minute, though," said Jack. "If it were a trap, it would be plainly evident we didn't know what we were talking about. That should be enough to let us out."

"Unless they believe we smelled a mouse and acted accordingly," returned Frank.

"Oh, well," said Jack, "there is no use worrying about it. We'll have to take what comes and that's all there is about it. Now, I'm going to rest a bit. When they come in, wake me up."

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes; and in the meantime Frank continued to turn events over in his mind.

Half an hour later Lord Hastings, the man who had led the party that captured the boys, a figure attired in the uniform of a colonel of infantry, and several others entered the room. The uniformed man Frank immediately took to be Colonel Masterson, and he was right. Frank nudged Jack and the latter opened his eyes. Then both boys got to their feet.

"So these are the German spies, eh?" said Colonel Masterson.

"That's not true," declared Frank hotly. "We are no more spies than you are."

"So?" said the colonel insinuatingly. "Then how does it happen you hold such friendly conversation with another man who is under suspicion?"

Frank's heart sank. So it had been a trap, after all.

"I can explain that, sir," said the boy, turning to Lord Hastings.

"I have no doubt of that," was the reply. "The question is, can you explain it satisfactorily?"

"Yes, sir, we can," interrupted Jack.

Here Colonel Masterson took a hand again. He spoke to Lord Hastings.

"What shall we do with them?" he asked.

"That, colonel, is for you to decide," was Lord Hastings' reply.

"Do you think it necessary to call a court martial?" continued the colonel.

"In view of the evidence we have, I should say not," returned Lord Hastings.

"And still," said Colonel Masterson, half to himself, "it seems to me that every man should be given a chance."

In the minds of the two boys now there was not the slightest doubt that they were in as perilous a situation as they had ever faced.

"Lord Hastings," said Jack quietly, "I assure you you are all mistaken. However, we shall protest our innocence no longer, for I see it would be useless."

And then the two lads were treated to one of the surprises of their lives. Lord Hastings' stern expression gave way to a smile, and he strode quickly toward them and extended a hand to each.

"Surely," he said, "you didn't think I doubted you."

The lads were too stunned to say a word.

"I just wanted to teach you a little lesson," continued Lord Hastings. "In the future, perhaps you will neither fall short nor go beyond your orders. I ordered you to Gravesend. You should not have gone beyond."

"But Davis, sir?" exclaimed Frank.

"As long as you were here, apparently prisoners," was the reply, "I simply used you to advantage. Davis is a German spy."



Chapter IV.

Strange Warfare.


It was the following night.

Clad in heavy oilskins, Frank and Jack stood in the bow of the large, high-powered motorboat as it sped down the Thames in the darkness. Not a light was visible anywhere and it was impossible to see a yard ahead. But in spite of this, the boat fairly flew over the water; for the strong hand of Lord Hastings was on the wheel and there was not a spot in the river with which he was not familiar.

"Whew!" said Jack, as he turned about to shield his face from the icy spray. "This is what I call taking a long chance, if you ask me."

"I should say so," replied Frank, raising his voice to a shout to make himself heard above the sound of the whistling wind. "Wonder how long we are going to keep this up?"

"Don't know," responded Jack. "But I don't feel very comfortable. This is too fast for me."

"Particularly when you can't see where you are going," Frank agreed.

Both became silent and peered into the intense darkness ahead.

For possibly half an hour the motorboat continued its terrific speed; and then it slowed down abruptly. The two boys heard Lord Hastings call them. They felt their way to where he stood by the wheel, for it was impossible to see.

"Here," said their commander, "take this searchlight and flash it ahead. See if you can pick up anything."

He passed a small but powerful searchlight to Jack, who again moved to the bow.

Jack pressed the little button and a tiny but brilliant light flashed over the water before the boat. There was nothing in sight, so far as the boy could see.

"Nothing ahead, sir," he reported to Lord Hastings.

"Guess we had better remain about here, anyhow," muttered Lord Hastings, half to himself.

Although the lads had no idea of the nature of their present mission, they had asked no questions of their commander. They knew he would tell them whatever he deemed necessary when the time was ripe; and until that time they were satisfied to await whatever might transpire.

But one thing the boys had noticed which had given them much food for thought. In the prow was mounted a small but heavy gun, and a second one of the same size loomed up formidably astern. Plainly they were there for a purpose, and Frank and Jack both realized that there was serious work ahead of them.

Lord Hastings himself had examined both guns carefully and announced that they were in first-class condition.

"All ready for use," he had said.

And now, although neither lad knew it, the time was fast approaching when they were to be greatly needed.

Several times in the course of the next hour Lord Hastings ordered Jack to see what he could pick up ahead; but each time the result had been the same. There was nothing to disturb the calm peacefulness of the night.

And then they were spared the need of another look, for there suddenly loomed up less than a hundred yards ahead a dull-glowing white light.

"To the forward gun, Mr. Templeton," ordered Lord Hastings, thus, for the first time on this mission, falling into old aboard-ship terms.

Jack sprang forward.

"Man the gun astern."

Frank obeyed this command with alacrity.

Then the two lads awaited developments.

Apparently the craft ahead had not discovered the presence of the motorboat containing Lord Hastings, Jack, Frank, and a crew of four men; neither did the distance between the two boats seem to diminish. The two were not approaching each other.

"Twenty-five knots," came Lord Hastings' command, and the little craft seemed to leap ahead.

The light ahead drew closer.

"Train your gun on her, Mr. Templeton," ordered Lord Hastings, "and if I give the command, fire to sink her."

This command was needless, for Jack had already gauged the range and trained the gun. Nevertheless he replied:

"Yes, sir."

The pursuers now had approached within fifty yards of their quarry, and still not a sound save an occasional order from Lord Hastings had broken the stillness of the night. There had been nothing to indicate that the other boat was even occupied, save the sudden appearance of the light aboard.

But now, as the pursuers crept even closer, there came a sudden startled exclamation from ahead; and at the same moment the light disappeared.

"Fire!" cried Lord Hastings.

"Boom!"

Jack had fired the gun.

There was another startled exclamation from ahead.

"Did you hit her?" asked Lord Hastings.

"Think so, sir," replied Jack. "Don't see how I could have missed at that distance."

"We'll cruise about a bit and see," said Lord Hastings.

He gave the command and the motorboat slowed down.

For half an hour the little craft circled about, but there was no trace of the other boat. All aboard flashed searchlights about the water, and the larger light in the bow was turned on, casting a bright ray over the water.

"They've either gone away or to the bottom, sir," said Frank.

"And I guess it's away," said Lord Hastings. "Jack must have missed."

"Don't see how I could, sir," declared the lad.

"Better let me try with a revolver next time," put in Frank. "I know I could have landed one of them."

"Well, they have gone. But we'll get them if we have to follow them for a month."

"Who, sir?" asked Frank, who could restrain his curiosity no longer.

"Why, your fellow conspirators, Davis and Baron Blosberg."

"Baron who?" asked Frank.

"Blosberg. He is the man we are after. We have evidence to prove that he is at the head of a body of spies that have been divulging our plans to the enemy. Davis is merely one of his instruments."

"I don't know anything about the baron," interrupted Jack, "but if he is anything like Davis, I haven't any use for him on general principles."

"He's just a bit worse, if that is possible," declared Lord Hastings.

"Then we shall have to get him," declared Frank.

"Right," agreed Jack. "A man like that is too dangerous to be running around loose."

"We may as well proceed then," Lord Hastings decided. "The chances are we shall find them at the mouth of the river. However, we will hardly pick them up before daylight."

And Lord Hastings was right.

Day dawned cool and grey, and in spite of their heavy oilskins, Frank and Jack were chilled to the bone from their long stay in the cold. Several times Lord Hastings had asked them if they wished to go below and warm up a bit, but each was too interested to leave his post for a moment.

"Can't tell what minute we may run across them, sir," Jack had said, "and I want to get even for the miss I made a while ago."

A slight fog rose over the water. Lord Hastings gave an exclamation of impatience.

"Even the elements conspire against us," he said aggrievedly.

"It's not much of a fog, sir," said Jack. "It may lift at any minute."

But it didn't lift, and at noon was as dense as before.

But the very fact of the fog finally brought the pursuers upon their quarry.

A small boat appeared suddenly perhaps a hundred yards ahead, barely visible in the gloom.

"Looks like them, sir," declared Jack.

"What makes you think so?" demanded Lord Hastings, at the same time throwing over the wheel.

"I don't know, sir," replied Jack. "I don't really mean it looks like them. I just think it is them. It's what Frank would call a -- a -- a --  -- "

"Hunch." Frank supplied the word.

"That's it," agreed Jack. "A hunch, sir."

"We'll see," said Lord Hastings grimly.

At this moment the occupants of the craft ahead realized that they were pursued. The boat bounded ahead with a sudden burst of speed.

"It must be they," declared Lord Hastings. "If they were not here for some ulterior purpose they wouldn't run."

He signalled full speed ahead and the motorboat sprang forward.

"Shall I have a shot at them?" shouted Jack.

"Not yet," replied Lord Hastings. "It may not be the boat we are after."

The race continued.

Suddenly the foremost boat swerved sharply to the left, then dashed straight ahead again.

"They are heading for the shore, sir!" shouted Jack.

The pursuing boat also swerved sharply, one side dipping to the water's edge and all but throwing Jack overboard.

"So they are," replied Lord Hastings, "Gun ready, Mr. Templeton?"

"All ready, sir."

"Good. Try and do better this time. Fire!"

"Boom!" went the little gun, and all strained eagerly forward to watch the result of the shot.

A volume of water shot up a few yards behind the pursued.

"Missed again," said Frank sorrowfully.

"Again," commanded Lord Hastings. "Fire!"

And the second shot also went wide, for even as Jack fired the boat ahead again swerved suddenly. Now the pursued began to steer first to one side and then to the other, momentarily approaching closer to shore, however.

Twice more Jack fired in response to Lord Hastings' command, but the result was always the same. As long as the pursued continued to zig-zag there was little hope of a successful shot.

But in the meantime the pursuers were gaining. A bullet from ahead whistled over Frank's head.

The lad grew angry and drew his own revolver. Taking careful aim, he fired. So far as he could see there was no result.

"Where's that infallible aim of yours?" demanded Jack.

Frank made no reply but fired again. This time his effort was rewarded.

A figure straightened up in the boat ahead, waved his arms above his head, and with a cry toppled into the water. The boat did not slow down. The others plainly did not intend to take the time to attempt a rescue.

"Shall we pick him up, sir?" asked Frank.

Lord Hastings shook his head.

"We have more serious business in hand," he replied. "He will have to take his chances."

Still the pursuers gained; but it became apparent now that they could not hope to overtake their quarry before he reached shore.

"Ready to take a shot as they jump out of the boat," was Lord Hastings' command.

All drew their revolvers and stood ready.

Now, there was little doubt in the minds of all that they could pick off the fugitives as they leaped ashore, and they probably would have done so but for an unforeseen occurrence.

The pursuers had lost a little time in maneuvering to get in an effective shot, and the pursued now were more than a hundred yards ahead.

As the first boat was a scant fifty yards from shore, a third craft hove in sight, headed down the river. It was going in such a manner as to pass directly between pursuer and pursued as the latter landed.

In vain Lord Hastings signalled the third boat to stop. It came on, paying no heed; and what Lord Hastings feared came to pass. Just as the first boat grounded and its occupants leaped ashore, the third craft passed between the first and the pursuers. Although all held revolvers ready, there was no chance to fire; and when the pursuers reached shore their quarry were some distance away.

"After them!" cried Jack.



Chapter V.

The End Of Blosberg.


Lord Hastings and Frank needed no urging. With a cry to the other occupants of the boat to remain there until they returned, Lord Hastings leaped lightly ashore and dashed in pursuit of the fugitives. Jack and Frank were close at his heels.

All had drawn their revolvers and a weapon swung in the right hand of each as he sped over the ground.

Ahead the fugitives had redoubled their efforts. A quick backward glance had showed them they were pursued and now they sped over the ground as fast as their legs would carry them.

Frank gradually forged ahead of the others. At school the lad had always been known as something of a sprinter and his training stood him in good stead now.

"Wait for us," panted Lord Hastings, but Frank paid no heed and continued to lengthen the distance between himself and his friends.

The fugitives had now reached the first street off the waterfront and were dashing along it madly, still more than a hundred yards ahead of Frank, their nearest pursuer. Strangely enough, there was not another soul in sight at this minute, for they were still at the extreme edge of the city.

But at this moment a man suddenly came out of a building ahead and stood looking at the running men curiously. Frank raised his voice.

"Stop 'em!" he shouted.

The man stepped directly in front of the fugitives and threw up a hand, signifying for them to halt. But the fugitives had no time to waste on him. Frank saw Davis, who was slightly in advance of Blosberg, extend his arm before him; and a moment later the man who would have stayed the fugitives' progress went sprawling in the street. In the language of the football field, Davis had "stiff-armed" him.

Neither Davis nor his companion had slowed up for this maneuver, so the pursuers had gained nothing because of the stranger's attempt to aid them.

Davis and Blosberg now came to a cross street and turned the corner without slackening their speed. Frank, still gaining steadily, darted around it a few seconds later, now less than seventy-five yards from his quarry. Lord Hastings and Jack, running about evenly, were still fifty yards behind Frank.

The fugitives doubled around the next corner without diminishing their speed and Frank did likewise. The next corner saw the same maneuver enacted, and this time Frank brought up against trouble as he followed unwarily.

As the lad turned the corner something struck him in the face and he went tumbling to the ground in a heap. He felt as though he had collided with a wall. He was just picking himself up when Jack and Lord Hastings darted around the corner and almost stumbled over him.

Jack would have stopped, but Frank shouted:

"After them! Never mind me."

Jack and Lord Hastings dashed on, and Frank pulled himself up and took account of his injury. A stream of blood flowed from a cut just over his left eye, but Frank knew that he was not badly hurt.

"One of them bumped me with his fist," the lad told himself. "I wonder which? Guess it must have been Davis. I don't believe a German could do as much damage with his hand."

Quickly he staunched the flow of blood and then darted after Jack and Lord Hastings, who at that moment were disappearing around another corner.

In spite of the cut on his face, Frank felt greatly refreshed by his enforced but brief rest, and he took after the others with renewed energy.

"They must be getting pretty tired," he told himself as he dashed along. "If Jack and Lord Hastings can just keep them in sight until I overtake them, I'll promise not to be fooled again."

Two minutes later he was again on even terms with Jack and Lord Hastings, and a moment later once more took the lead. A minute later he again found himself less than fifty yards behind the fugitives, who were now plodding along more slowly and plainly out of wind.

"A little sprint here, I guess," Frank muttered to himself, and suited the action to the word.

But the fugitives were able to round another corner before the lad could come up with them. Remembering his past experience, Frank turned the corner more warily and then he came to a dead stop, a cry of dismay on his lips.

There was no one in sight.

"Now what in the name of all that's wonderful can have happened to them?" he asked himself.

He looked around quickly. The fugitives were not on the street. Frank gazed at the house before which he stood. It was a two-story brick building and stood right upon the street. There was no yard. A flight of eight stone steps led to a small vestibule.

"Guess they must have gone up there," the lad muttered.

He moved up the steps just as Lord Hastings and Jack hove in sight around the corner. They pulled up at Frank's side.

"Where did they go?" demanded Lord Hastings.

"I don't know," replied Frank, "unless they went in this house."

"We'll have a look," said Lord Hastings briefly, and mounted the steps.

Frank and Jack followed him.

Lord Hastings turned the knob and the door opened easily.

"Look out, sir," warned Frank. "They're liable to take a shot at you from some place."

Lord Hastings did not reply, but issued orders rapidly.

"Frank, you take the rear door. If it's locked the chances are they are in the house. Jack, hunt the door to the basement and stand guard there, also keeping an eye on this door if possible. I'll try and round them up."

The two lads nodded their understanding of these orders. Jack found a door leading to the basement, in the hall, fortunately still in view of the front door. Frank dashed to the rear of the house and found the back door still locked.

"They must be in here, then," declared Lord Hastings.

He examined his revolver carefully and then, holding it ready for instant use, entered the front room. There was no one there.

In vain Lord Hastings explored all the downstairs rooms. There was no one to be found. He came again into the hall.

"Must be upstairs," he said to Jack as he passed him.

He mounted the stairs rapidly, though cautiously. In the first room he entered he found nothing. The door of the second room was shut. Lord Hastings laid a hand on the knob and turned it. The door opened easily and Lord Hastings stepped over the threshold.

And even as he would have moved into the room a hand, gripping the barrel of a revolver, was raised in the air and descended violently in the direction of Lord Hastings' head. Fortunately the latter caught the glint of steel and whirled in time to dodge the blow and grasp the arm that delivered it. At the same time he shouted:

"Frank! Jack! Upstairs!"

Then he gave his entire attention to his foes, of whom he now found, there were two. Lord Hastings recognized the man whose arm he grasped as Davis. Blosberg, with levelled revolver, was circling about the struggling figures, seeking an opportunity to shoot Lord Hastings without wounding Davis.

With a mighty effort Lord Hastings lifted Davis clear of his feet and, exerting tremendous strength, swung him around. There was a sound of a thud, and Davis' figure dropped limply to the floor. His head had come in contact with the solid wall.

At the same moment Blosberg fired and Lord Hastings felt a stinging sensation in his left shoulder.

He staggered back.

Blosberg took advantage of this and darted out the door just as Frank appeared at the top of the steps. Both raised their revolvers at the same moment, but Blosberg was the first to fire.

Frank's gun seemed to explode in his hand. It leaped in the air like a live thing and the lad felt a strange sensation in his hand. He wiggled his fingers, but now he was unable to tell whether he had a right hand or not. There was no feeling there. Blosberg's bullet had struck the lad's revolver and the shock had numbed the lad's hand.

Before Frank could recover, Blosberg had darted down the hall and turned into a narrow passageway at the end of it, disappearing just in time to escape a bullet from Jack's revolver, the lad appearing on the second floor at that moment.

He dashed after Blosberg.

Turning off the main hall into the narrow passage at the end, Jack brought up sharply against an object in the semi-darkness; but he found no Blosberg. Quickly he took a match from his pocket and struck it. There was no sign of Blosberg, and Jack made out that the object that had interrupted his progress was a ladder leading upward toward the roof.

"He's up on the roof," cried Jack. "Come on."

Without taking thought of what danger might be in store for him above, he mounted the ladder rapidly.

When Blosberg reached the roof he had replaced the trapdoor, but he wasted no time, and began looking for a means of descent. He still held a gun in his hand and whirled sharply as the trapdoor suddenly flew open. He saw Jack at the same moment Jack saw him, and both fired.

But the aim of each was poor and Jack followed his shot by leaping to the roof. Then he dropped down suddenly as Blosberg fired again, and, still unharmed, drew himself quickly behind a chimney nearby. Blosberg took refuge behind a second chimney.

Now Lord Hastings' head appeared and drew back suddenly as Blosberg took a quick shot at him.

"All right, sir, come on!" called Jack. "I'll get him if he tries to pot you again."

Lord Hastings sprang through the opening and a moment later Frank also appeared on the roof. Blosberg made no effort to fire again, apparently realizing the hopelessness of his case.

Frank and Lord Hastings now had taken their places with Jack behind the chimney.

"Well, we can't fool around here all day," said Jack. "We'll circle about and one of us can get him."

Lord Hastings, wounded, was left behind the chimney, while Frank, who had produced another revolver, leaped out suddenly to the left, Jack at the same time springing to the right. Then they moved forward.

"Hold on," came Blosberg's voice at this moment. "I surrender."

The three friends breathed easier.

"Drop your gun and come out -- and have your hands in the air," ordered Jack, still holding his revolver ready.

A moment later Blosberg appeared, unarmed.

Jack lowered his own weapon, and as he did so Blosberg, with a sudden cry, dashed forward and leaped off the roof into space.

For a brief instant Jack was stunned; then he dashed to the edge of the roof and peered over. He saw Blosberg's twisting, tumbling body crash head-first upon the hard walk, and then lay still.



Chapter VI.

With The Motorboat Fleet.


Frank and Lord Hastings also came quickly forward and peered over the edge of the roof.

Jack wiped beads of perspiration from his face; then turned and lifted his hat.

"That," he said quietly, "took nerve; for he must have known he would be killed."

"But he preferred it to falling into the hands of an enemy," said Frank. "He was a brave man."

"Come," said Lord Hastings; "we shall go down and carry him into the house. Then we shall notify the civil authorities and they can take charge of his body."

They made their way down stairs and tenderly carried the body of the Baron into the house, where they stretched out his mangled form as well as possible and covered it with a sheet. Lord Hastings went to the telephone in the hall and notified the authorities.

"Well," he said, "we may as well go now."

"How about your wound, sir?" asked Jack. "I saw blood on your coat a moment ago."

"True; I had forgotten," replied Lord Hastings.

He stripped off his coat and Jack examined the wound.

"Just a scratch," he said cheerfully. "I'll fix it up in a jiffy, sir."

He did a neat job and Lord Hastings again donned his coat and turned to go.

"Wait a minute, sir; you are forgetting something," exclaimed Frank.

"What's that?" asked Lord Hastings in surprise.

"Davis, sir."

"By Jove! I had forgotten all about that scoundrel," said Lord Hastings.

He led the way to the room where he had so recently placed Davis hors de combat, but there was no Davis there.

Lord Hastings was greatly crestfallen.

"I should not have forgotten him," he said. "He may work more mischief around here."

"The chances are, knowing he has been discovered, he'll make himself extremely scarce," suggested Frank. "He'll probably figure that his usefulness here is at an end."

"Well, that's probably true," admitted Lord Hastings.

"We'll come across him again some place," said Jack. "I wonder if he recognized us as the ones from whom be obtained his information?"

"I wonder, too," said Frank with a laugh. "If not, he probably believes we are in trouble. Guess he will imagine we have been executed as spies by this time."

"To tell the truth, I don't believe he recognized us," said Jack. "We were too far away for that."

"Except for the time he laid me out down the street there," said Frank ruefully. "Then the chances are he didn't take time to look at me. And he was unconscious when we came upstairs here. No, I don't believe he recognized us."

"Well, I hope we shall have the pleasure of introducing ourselves to him more fully at some future date," said Jack.

"And I have a hunch that we shall," declared Frank.

"There is nothing more to be done here," said Lord Hastings at this juncture. "We'll get back to our boat."

Accordingly they took their leave of the house, and half an hour later were again moving down the waters of the Thames.

"Where to now, sir?" asked Frank.

Lord Hastings smiled slightly.

"Can't wait until you find out, eh?" he replied. "Well, I'll tell you. We are about to do a little submarine chasing."

"Submarine chasing?" exclaimed both lads.

"Exactly."

"Good!" ejaculated Frank. "And where is our vessel, sir?"

"If you will look about a little you will see it," replied Lord Hastings.

Frank and Jack let their eyes roam over the broad expanse of the Thames, but they could see nothing but a few small boats of various sorts -- nothing bearing the slightest resemblance to a ship of war.

"I don't see anything that looks like it, sir," declared the boy.

"That," said Lord Hastings, "is because you insist on looking too far away. You don't see it for the reason that you are sitting in it right now."

"What, sir?" exclaimed Frank. "Sitting in it now? You mean we are going submarine chasing in this motorboat?"

"Exactly," replied Lord Hastings.

"But, sir --  -- " began Jack.

"You'll find," interrupted Lord Hastings, "that for submarine warfare there is nothing to equal the motorboat -- particularly a swift motorboat such as this; and we are now on our way to join the fleet."

"Fleet? Fleet of what?" asked Jack, with some sarcasm. "Fleet of motorboats, perhaps?"

"Precisely," said Lord Hastings with a smile, and added: "You don't seem to think much of the idea."

"No, I don't, sir," was the reply. "I was in hopes that we were to feel a real vessel beneath our feet once more. What good is a motorboat against a submarine, anyway?"

"That's what I would like to know," agreed Frank.

"I'll tell you," replied Lord Hastings. "But first let me ask you something. Do you remember, the other day, of asking me to explain the mystery of the vanishing submarines?"

"Yes, sir," replied both lads.

"Very well. The solution of this mystery is, primarily, motorboats."

"What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Jack.

"Just what I say. In the main, the possible hundred German submarines that have disappeared recently have been accounted for by high-speed, powerfully armed motorboats. The government has discovered, after much experimenting, that the one craft with an advantage over a submarine is a powerful motorboat; and England now has a fleet of several hundred scouring the seas in the proximity of the British Isles."

"But I can't see where they would do any good," said Jack.

"In the first place," said Lord Hastings, "they are so small that they escape the notice of a submarine until the motorboat is almost upon them; and then it is too late for them to act. Also, the motorboat, being small, is a much more difficult object to hit with a torpedo -- it is, in fact, a very poor target. Then again, a motorboat is so much swifter than a submarine that the advantage is all with the motorboat."

"By Jove, sir! the way you explain it I can see the advantages," said Jack eagerly.

"And so can I," agreed Frank.

Lord Hastings smiled.

"You are easily convinced," he replied. "Had some of the admiralty officials been convinced half so easily, this submarine menace might have been effectually stopped long before this."

As the motorboat continued down the Thames, each occupant remained busy with his thoughts. It was Frank who broke the silence.

"What has happened to the torpedoboat destroyers, sir?" he asked. "I understood they were the real submarine foe, with their heavy nets."

"They are still in use," replied Lord Hastings. "You know how they work their nets, I suppose?"

"Why, I think so, sir. The net is carried by two ships, and when a submarine crashes into the net she either tangles her nose or her stern in the net and can be disposed of with ease."

"Yes, but what I want to know," said Jack, "is why she doesn't fire a torpedo through the net and sink the torpedoboat?"

"Because," said Lord Hastings, with a smile, "being beneath the water, she is blind. She doesn't know in which direction to fire it. You forget that the German submarines are not equipped as was the D-16."

"The good old D-16," said Jack. "How I wish we had her again, sir."

"And I," agreed Lord Hastings. "And yet she came near being the death of all of us."

"So she did," said Frank, "but at the same time I wouldn't mind being aboard another such craft."

"Well, just between the three of us," said Lord Hastings, "I may tell you that another such craft now is nearing completion and probably will be at our disposal within a month."

"You don't mean it, sir!" exclaimed Frank happily.

"If he didn't mean it he wouldn't say so," Jack reproved his chum.

"Oh, I know that," replied Frank. "But it seems too good to be true."

"But just where are we bound now, sir?" asked Jack.

"Well," said Lord Hastings, "at first we shall do a little cruising off the Irish coast. In fact, most of the motorboat fleet is in Irish waters. Since the sinking of the Lusitania, most of the work has been done there; and apparently the German government is still bent upon the destruction of big passenger ships, neutral or not."

"Well, the sooner we can get busy the better it will suit me," declared Frank.

"I agree with you there," said Jack.

It was a long voyage for the little motorboat, and though Lord Hastings wished to join the others of the fleet at the earliest possible moment, he did not push the little craft, which bore the name of The Hawk.

Therefore, it was late the next day when they came to where the motorboat fleet had its base -- Bantry Bay, on the extreme southern coast of Ireland.

As the little motorboat nosed its way into the harbor, several others dashed forward, with guns bared and alert figures standing ready for action. It was not until Lord Hastings had been satisfactorily identified that the warlike atmosphere disappeared.

The two lads looked about curiously. The bay was black with the little craft.

"Great Scott! There are more than two hundred here, if you ask me," declared Frank.

"Looks that way to me, too," agreed Jack.

They mentioned the matter to Lord Hastings.

"Captain Smithers just told me," replied Lord Hastings, "that at this moment there are in the neighborhood of a thousand of these little craft here. However, the bulk of them probably will be sent to other stations before long."

"You mean distributed up and down the coast?" asked Frank.

"Exactly."

"And when are we going to get busy, sir?" asked Jack.

Again Lord Hastings smiled.

"To-night," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "I think I can promise you a little excitement to-night. Captain Smithers has a tip that he intends to follow, and we have been selected for the job."



Chapter VII.

An Enemy.


The Hawk crept over the still black waters as silently as the night itself. Not a light showed aboard the little craft -- not a human voice was heard. Now and then the faint exhaust of the engine could have been heard by a keen ear, but the engine was muffled and whatever sound it might make carried but a few yards at most.

The Hawk, with Lord Hastings, Jack and Frank and the other few members of the crew, was stalking the foe -- no particular foe, perhaps -- but any enemy that might be foolhardy enough to show itself.

Aboard, each member of the crew, besides his revolvers, was equipped with a small hand flashlight; and the larger searchlight in the bow was ready for instant use -- to flash in the eyes of an enemy to blind him and to spoil his aim.

And the two heavy guns -- one forward, the other aft -- were ready for action.

The men stood at their posts -- had stood there now for two hours -- ever since The Hawk had crept silently from the friendly shelter of Bantry Bay. The crew had been ordered to silence and the crew of The Hawk, commanded by Lord Hastings, obeyed orders.

So far The Hawk had come upon nothing that had justified its lonesome and silent vigil -- not an object of any kind had been encountered, and the hour was now after midnight. Still, keen eyes aboard the little craft peered untiringly ahead and swept the waters in all directions, trying to pierce the darkness of the night.

The night, though dark, was perfectly calm and peaceful, albeit black, overhanging clouds heralded the approach of a storm. But Lord Hastings, than whom there were few better weather prophets, announced that the storm would not break before well along toward morning and held to his quest without trepidation.

Frank and Jack were now becoming somewhat restless, for they had begun to fear that the night's venture would not bear fruit. However, each remembered what Lord Hastings had said regarding a "tip," so they knew that their commander had some object in view. Also, since leaving port, The Hawk had held steadily to her course.

Now and then the commander of The Hawk, by the faint glare of his searchlight, shielded by his hand, consulted a chart and several times muttered low directions to the man at the wheel.

Suddenly there came a subdued command from Lord Hastings, and in response the engines were stopped. Lord Hastings placed a hand to his ear and listened intently.

"Did any of you hear anything?" he asked in a low voice.

No one had.

"Strange," muttered Lord Hastings; "I could have sworn I heard something moving through the water."

He gave the command to go ahead again; but less than five moments later once more brought The Hawk to a pause.

"I am sure I heard something," he said to Frank, who stood near him.

"I thought I did myself, that time," replied the lad. "Sounded like a boat, and not a great distance away."

"We shall have to be careful," said his commander. "I know that there is not another British vessel in these waters to-night. If there is a second craft out here, it must be an enemy."

"Shall we flash our light about?" asked Frank.

"And betray our own presence? Not much. No; we shall just remain here for half an hour and see if we can't pick up the other fellow in the darkness."

Again the silence of death hung over The Hawk.

Then, suddenly, Jack, aft, gave a subdued exclamation.

Lord Hastings hurried to his side.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"Small craft of some kind bearing down on us, sir," he replied quickly. "She'll bump us!"

Lord Hastings took in the situation at a glance. Less than 150 yards away a small object was coming toward The Hawk.

Lord Hastings gave a quick command.

"Full speed ahead!" he cried, and in response to this command, The Hawk leaped forward.

Lord Hastings hurled a second quick command to the man at the wheel, and The Hawk came about in a broad circle; and at the same instant a blinding glare flashed into the faces of all aboard.

A searchlight from the other craft had been turned upon them, lighting The Hawk up like day, while all those aboard could see was the blinding glare, the other boat being shielded by this light.

A shot rang out over the water -- the sound of a heavy gun.

Lord Hastings took prompt action, in spite of the fact he could not make out the enemy.

"Turn the searchlight on him!" he shouted.

A second shot rang out and Frank heard the whistle of a heavy missile overhead.

He sprang quickly to the searchlight, and with a single movement, whirled it about. In another moment a second white glare lighted up the sea.

Frank pointed his light squarely at the point from which he could see the other light came. While he was unable to see the other boat, because of its light, he knew that once his own searchlight had found its object, those aboard the other craft would no longer be able to see The Hawk.

Then came the sound of a third shot, but this time the missile was not even heard, and Frank knew that he had been successful. The enemy had lost the range.

"Good!" shouted Lord Hastings. "And just in time, I should say. The next shot would have hit us."

"Yes, sir," said Frank quietly. "He's blinded us, sir, but we have done the same for him. Now what, sir?"

"By Jove! I don't know," replied Lord Hastings. "Here, Jack, stand by this forward gun, and be ready to let her go the first moment you can see the enemy. If we can manage to work out from under his light we may be able to get him. Frank, don't you let that light off him a minute."

"I'll keep it on him, sir," replied the lad.

So there the two boats were, less than a hundred yards apart, but still unable to do one another harm, unless by a chance shot. For, although the occupants aboard each craft could see the light of the other, they couldn't gauge its origin with accuracy.

Several times the enemy fired, but without result.

"Well, we've got to do something," declared Lord Hastings. "Can any of you suggest anything?"

"I believe I have a plan, sir," declared Frank.

"Let's have it quick," said Lord Hastings.

"Well, sir, I should say that if you would stand by the gun, Jack and I can slip over the side in one of the small boats. We'll make a slight detour, to get out of the blinding glare, then row toward the enemy. Without the light in our eyes, we should be able to pick off a couple of the enemy with rifles. Then he'll have to shift his light to hunt new foes. You can be ready and sink him the moment he does so."

"That's not a half bad idea," declared Lord Hastings. "It shall be done. Over with you, lads."

Quickly Frank and Jack got a little boat over the side, procured a rifle apiece, and rowed away.

In spite of the fact that the glare of the enemy's searchlight was squarely upon them, they could not be seen because of the light aboard The Hawk playing upon the eyes of the foe. So, though they rowed rapidly, they knew they were safe enough.

Out of the glare of the searchlight, they shaped their course toward the enemy, whose bulk they could now see looming up in the darkness.

"By Jove! It's another motorboat," Frank whispered.

Jack nodded his head in the darkness, but did not reply.

Less than a hundred feet from the enemy, Frank made out several forms forward.

"This is close enough," he whispered to Jack.

Jack shipped his oars and picked up his rifle. Frank did likewise.

"You get the one on the left; I'll take the one on the extreme right," said Frank. "Then get the one next your first man if you have time before he ducks, and I'll do the same."

"All right," said Jack. "Give the word when you're ready."

"Ready! Aim! Fire!" said Frank quietly.

Two sharp cracks broke the stillness of the night, followed almost instantly by two more.

When the lads lowered their rifles and gazed toward the foe, there was not a man in sight.

"Don't know whether we got them or they just ducked," said Frank. "We'll fire a couple of more shots, enough to make them take their light off The Hawk."

They did so, and a moment later their efforts were rewarded. The searchlight aboard the enemy, moved by an unseen hand, turned and swept the sea carefully.

"Row back!" shouted Frank, and seized his oar.

Jack followed suit. Quickly the little boat was brought about and headed back in the general direction of The Hawk.

And the enemy's boat was now lighted up by the glare of The Hawk alone.

Suddenly the flashlight of the enemy fell squarely upon the two boys.

"We're gone now, unless Lord Hastings sinks them first," said Frank quietly.

"Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!"

Bullets began to spatter around the two lads. One grazed Frank's ear.

"Guess we had better go overboard," he said, "They'll --  -- "

"Boom!"

The voice of a single big gun spoke once.

"The Hawk!" cried Frank.

"Boom!"

The voice came again.

And then the boys were left again in darkness as the enemy sought out The Hawk with his searchlight.

"Boom!"

It was the third word of the forward gun of The Hawk.

Cries of terror and confusion came from the direction of the foe, followed by hoarse German cries of command.

"Bully for Lord Hastings!" exclaimed Jack. "He has scored a hit."

"Hurrah!" cried Frank, and raised his voice in a series of cheers.

The big gun aboard The Hawk did not speak again, and following The Hawk's searchlight with their eyes, the two lads saw a mass of wreckage floating a short distance away.

"That," said Frank quietly, "is the end of her."

"Right you are," agreed Jack. "Now we'll go back to The Hawk."

Both lads bent to their oars with a will.



Chapter VIII.

Frank In Trouble.


Now perfectly happy, the two boys rowed back to The Hawk as rapidly as possible. They were happy for two reasons -- first because they were once more in active service, and second, because they had just emerged successfully from a desperate venture.

A light glowed brightly aboard the little motorboat, now that the enemy had been disposed of; so the two lads had no trouble making their way back. Lord Hastings greeted them with outstretched hands as they went over the side.

"A pretty good job you made of it," he declared.

"Well, we did pick off a couple before you got busy, sir," agreed Frank. "But if you hadn't fired the moment you did they would have potted us sure. They had a couple of shots at us, but fortunately, they didn't have time to get the accurate range."

"I had no idea you were so hard pressed," replied Lord Hastings. "I fired the moment I caught sight of the foe. Even when the searchlight was turned from The Hawk, it was a moment or so before I could make out the enemy. The light had all but blinded me."

"There is no harm done, anyhow," Jack put in. "The enemy is at the bottom of the sea and we are safe again."

"Then we may as well continue a bit," declared Lord Hastings. He turned to give an order, when Frank interrupted him.

"Are you sure we are safe, sir?" he questioned.

"What do you mean?" demanded his commander.

"Why, I was just wondering if by any chance there might be more of the enemy in these waters?"

"To tell the truth, I hadn't thought of that," replied Lord Hastings.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and made his way to the searchlight, which still threw its brilliant rays across the silent waters. Quickly he snapped it off; then returned to the lads.

"We won't be spotted so easily now," he remarked.

"Unless we have been spotted already," said Jack dryly.

And Jack proved to be a better prophet than he really meant to be.

At a signal from Lord Hastings, The Hawk now moved slowly forward again.

"Can you tell us just where we are bound, sir?" asked Jack.

"Well, not exactly," was his commander's reply. "I have information that leads me to believe an enemy, or several enemies, may be prowling about around --  -- "

An interruption came suddenly and from an altogether unexpected source, and with the interruption all aboard became suddenly silent, except Lord Hastings, who sprang quickly to the wheel, and before the astonished helmsman knew what was going on, threw the wheel over hard.

For the interruption which had come so suddenly was the voice of a big gun.

Lord Hastings threw the wheel over with such violence that the motorboat careened desperately and all but capsized. Frank and Jack saved themselves from being thrown overboard by a quick grasp at the rail, to which they clung with all their might.

And then, before Lord Hastings could flash the searchlight across the water, had such been his intention, a blinding glare lighted up The Hawk. The enemy had been too quick for those aboard.

Now another shot rang out and the boys heard a terrible whistling overhead.

"Pretty close," said Jack quietly. "They are liable to get us next time."

An idea suddenly struck Frank, and he dashed aft. There he picked up his rifle and hurried forward again.

"Hold her steady a minute, sir," he called to Lord Hastings.

And the latter, realizing that the lad had some plan, did as requested without asking a question.

Quickly Frank raised his rifle to his shoulder, and pausing just long enough to take careful aim, fired.

Frank's keen mind had detected the one hope of salvation for those aboard The Hawk. The enemy was very close and the lad realized that the next shot must find its mark. There was but one thing to do. The light aboard the enemy must be destroyed; without it The Hawk could escape, for minus the light, which was its eye, the foe could not hope to detect them.

As Frank's finger pressed the trigger he knew that he had not missed; and at the same moment he cried to Lord Hastings:

"Hard-a-port!"

Again The Hawk careened desperately in response to the quick turn of the helm; but it was well that Lord Hastings had acted upon the instant; for even as Frank had fired there was another heavy "boom" and a heavy shell passed the spot where The Hawk had been a moment before.

But with the sound of the shot, the glare of the enemy's searchlight vanished. Frank's aim had been true.

"I shot her eye out, sir," he cried to Lord Hastings.

"I see you did," chuckled his commander. "Now it's time for us to get busy. Mr. Templeton, see if you can pick up the enemy with our light."

Jack sprang to the searchlight eagerly, and under his guiding hand, it threw its brilliant rays over the dark waters. He swept it in a wide half-circle to the right without result; and then swung the glare around to the left; and there, presenting her stern, a little motorboat was moving swiftly away.

"She's running, sir!" exclaimed Frank, who stood forward, still holding his rifle. "Shall I give her a shot?"

"If you like," replied Lord Hastings. "It can do no harm. In the meantime we'll have after her."

He gave the signal, "Full speed ahead," and The Hawk leaped forward.

Again Frank took careful aim at a moving figure upon the deck of the enemy and again his finger pressed the trigger. Not for nothing had he been called a crack shot. The figure, as Frank could see in the glare of The Hawk's searchlight, threw up its arms and pitched into the sea.

And now suddenly misfortune befell The Hawk. The enemy had stolen an idea from Frank, and one of the men aboard, taking aim at the powerful searchlight of The Hawk, fired. His aim was as true as had been Frank's; and the ray of light disappeared from the surface of the water. The Hawk also was blind now.

Lord Hastings gave an exclamation of dismay.

"Pretty tough," he muttered.

"But we should have guarded against it, sir," declared Jack. "We should have figured that what we could do the other fellow could do also."

"True," replied his commander; "but it's too late now. We'll keep after her. Maybe we can pick her up in the darkness."

"Not much chance," muttered Frank to himself.

But again fortune was to smile on them, although it came near being misfortune.

An hour later, The Hawk having been slowed to a bare five knots, Frank thought he caught the sound of another moving object. He called Lord Hastings' attention, and The Hawk's engine was shut off. Again came the sound, as of a choked automobile engine.

"She's off there, and pretty close," whispered Lord Hastings, with a gesture to port.

"Shall we try a shot in the darkness, sir?" asked Frank.

"No; that would be folly," said Lord Hastings. "There is not one chance in a thousand that the first shot would go home; and then she would be on the move again. Now, from the fact that the sound has come twice from the same place, I judge she is standing still -- hoping that we shall run past her."

"If you please, sir, I have a plan," said Jack.

"Let's have it," said Lord Hastings briefly.

"Well, why can't Frank and I take to the boats again. Not one boat this time, but two. We can approach from different directions. One of us can open fire, and if a light is shown aboard, the other can do likewise. Caught between two fires, I believe a light will be shown, that the enemy may try to pick us up. That will betray the enemy's presence to you and you can sink her."

"That's not a half bad idea," decided Lord Hastings after a moment's reflection. "You shall each have a man. Here, Edwards! Williams!"

The two men came forward quickly.

"Williams, you lower a boat and go with Mr. Templeton. Edwards, you accompany Mr. Chadwick. Get your rifles first, men."

The men hurried aft to obey, Frank and Jack in the meantime giving their attention to lowering the boats. This done, all leaped in and rowed in the general direction of the foe.

Upon Jack's suggestion, Frank and Edwards rowed some distance ahead before pointing the nose of their little craft toward where they believed the enemy to be, and then rowed a considerable distance.

"We should be beyond her now," declared Frank, after some further rowing. "We'll double back a bit."

They did so; and five minutes later a dark shape loomed up beside them, so close almost, that Frank could have thrown a rock aboard.

"Cease rowing!" Frank commanded, laying down his own oars.

Edwards did likewise.

"Get your rifle ready," Frank instructed.

Edwards obeyed.

"Now," said Frank, "the first man you see show himself aboard that craft, pick him off. I'll wait for the second one."

"Very well, sir," replied Edwards quietly.

He brought his rifle to bear upon the deck of the enemy and sat quietly, waiting, as the little boat bobbed gently up and down with the swell of the sea.

And he had not long to wait.

A dark shadow appeared aboard the enemy and Edwards and Frank caught the faint glow of a cigar or cigarette as the man puffed upon it. The light from this made his face plainly visible.

"A very indiscreet sort of a gentleman," remarked Edwards. "Here goes, sir."

He pressed the trigger.

A howl of pain rewarded this effort and Edwards smiled grimly to himself.

"Got him," he said cheerfully.

The sound of the rifle brought another figure to the deck. Now it was Frank's turn and he acted instantly. Again there was a faint report and the second man toppled over.

"Two," said Frank quietly.

"Right, sir!" replied Edwards. "All ready for another, sir."

"I guess the next will be along in a minute," said Frank dryly. "Besides, it's about time for Jack and Williams to take a hand in the game."

"Wouldn't want to leave them out all together, would we, sir," grinned Edwards.

"I should say not," replied Frank.

"No, sir; they wouldn't like that."

They waited patiently, but ten minutes passed and no other form appeared aboard the enemy.

"Guess Jack is playing a waiting game on the other side," muttered Frank. "Now, I wonder --  -- "

There came an abrupt interruption to his thoughts.

"Throw up your hands!" came a sharp voice from behind, a trifle to the right. "Surrender or you are dead men!"



Chapter IX.

Jack To The Rescue.


Frank and Edwards both whirled hurriedly; and not a fathom's length away rode a second small boat; and standing forward were two men, their revolvers levelled directly at the heads of our friends.

"Up they go, Edwards," said Frank quietly, dropping his rifle and suiting the action to the word. "It's no use; they've got the drop on us."

"They have, sir," agreed Edwards.

His rifle also fell to the bottom of the boat with a clatter and his hands went in the air.

"Good!" said one of the men in the other boat. "You will please keep your hands where they are." He turned to his companion. "Fritz, you row closer, while I keep them covered."

The latter obeyed and soon the two boats scraped.

"Now you will please come aboard my boat," ordered their captor, still keeping them covered. "One false move and you are dead men. Come quickly now."

Frank realized there was no hope for it, so he obeyed without a word. Edwards followed suit.

"Take your places forward there," commanded their captor.

The prisoners obeyed.

"Very good. Now, Fritz, row to the boat."

The latter dipped his oars in the water and the rowboat moved toward the motorboat, at which Frank and Edwards had so recently fired. There the first captor -- the man who seemed to be in command -- ordered Frank and Edwards over the side.

"Quick, now!" he commanded.

Frank climbed aboard first and as he rose to his feet there was the sound of a shot and the lad felt a bullet whistle past his ear. He dropped to the deck.

"Great Scott! I forgot about Jack being out there," he muttered. "He almost picked me off that time." He raised his voice in a shout. "Hey, Jack! quit that! It's me, Frank! We are prisoners!"

A moment later Edwards clambered over the side of the motorboat and this time there was no shot. Frank felt sure that Jack had heard him and understood the situation.

Now their two captors came quickly over the side and the first turned upon Frank.

"Who were you shouting to?" he demanded.

"Oh, just a friend of mine," replied Frank, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "He's out there," and the lad waved an arm across the water.

"And what's he doing out there?"

"The same thing we were doing when you found us. Trying to get you fellows."

"Oh, I see," was the reply. "You had us between two fires, eh. It's lucky we put off before you got so close. We heard firing and came back to have a look around."

"Then that's the way you spotted us, eh?" said Frank. "I didn't think you could have got off without my seeing you."

The man made no reply to this, but turned quickly to the other.

"We'll have to get away from here at once, Fritz. Take the wheel."

The latter sprang aft with alacrity, while the first man leaned down and began to tinker with the engine. Frank took a quick step forward and seemed about to leap upon his captor, but the latter turned from the engine and a revolver was in his hand.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he said quietly.

Frank stepped back.

"Oh, all right," he said.

The little motorboat began to move.

The captor raised his voice.

"Hans! Franz!" he called.

There was no answer and after a moment he repeated his calls.

"If you were calling your men, I fear you are wasting time," said Frank quietly.

"What?" exclaimed his captor.

"Exactly," replied Frank. "It was necessary for us to shoot them before you were fortunate enough to find us."

"I see," replied the boy's captor slowly. "Well, I shall have more to say to you about that later."

He again began to tinker with the engine and the motorboat now increased its pace; and then, as the man raised his head to look at Frank, he perceived two dark figures suddenly clamber over the rail and dash toward him.

Frank saw them in the same instant.

"Jack!" he cried.

The German, for such Frank felt sure his captor was, rose quickly to his feet, revolver in hand. He raised it quickly, and pointing it at Jack, who was dashing forward closely followed by Williams, fired.

The distance was so close that a miss would have been impossible and Jack would probably have been killed had it not been for Frank.

The latter sprang quickly forward and seized the German's arm even as his finger pressed the trigger and the bullet went wild. With a muttered imprecation, the German whirled on Frank, reversed his revolver quickly and brought it down on the lad's head.

Frank fell to the deck without a groan and lay still.

At the same moment a shot from the helmsman struck Williams in the chest as he and Edwards dashed toward him and the man fell to the deck, mortally wounded.

Edwards, unarmed, dashed upon the other, but even as he would have grappled with the man, the latter dodged and Edwards went staggering by. Before he could recover himself, the German had clubbed him over the head with his revolver butt.

Thus were three of the friends put hors de combat almost quicker than it takes to tell it. There remained now only Jack, with two against him, both armed.

Jack raised his revolver at the moment Frank fell unconscious to the deck and the German whirled quickly to face him. Both fired at the same moment and both stepped aside as they did so. Jack felt a bullet graze his hand and his revolver fell clattering to the deck. The other, he saw, had not been touched.

Jack sprang forward and grappled with the German even as the helmsman, having disposed of Edwards, took a snap shot at him. The lad stepped forward just in time to escape the bullet.

Realizing now that he had a foe behind as well as in front, Jack seized the first German in a powerful embrace, the man's pistol hand going over his shoulder; and at that moment the German pressed the trigger.

A howl of pain came from the helmsman. The bullet had struck the latter's revolver on the barrel and the force of the shock had momentarily numbed the man's hand.

Jack seized the first German's arm and by a quick twist sent the revolver spinning across the deck, and it passed beneath the rail and into the water.

Now the lad brought rushing tactics into play and pushed the first German the length of the deck before the latter could brace himself. There Jack's eye caught the gleam of the helmsman's pistol and with a quick kick he sent it hurtling overboard also.

But Jack's antagonist was a strong man and the lad knew that he had a hard job on his hands to dispose of him alone, to say nothing of the second man, who, the lad knew, would be fit again in a moment.

But it was no time for indecision; and Jack sprang forward. His right fist shot out with stinging force -- a blow that would have ended the battle right there had it landed, but the German ducked and clinched. At this kind of fighting, he was more Jack's match and he seized the lad in a tight embrace.

"Fritz!" called the German, as he and Jack struggled about the deck. "A hand, quick!"

Fritz was now on his feet and he came forward in response to this command. One huge fist he raised, and would have brought it down on Jack's head had not the lad seen him out the tail of his eye and moved his head swiftly to one side.

The blow missed.

Jack, with one hand free for a moment, dealt the helmsman a blow in the face as he swooped past; then again turned his attention to the first man.

The latter now also freed an arm and Jack staggered back from a heavy blow in the face. Blood streamed from a cut over his right eye, blinding him momentarily.

Jack shook the blood out of his eyes with a toss of his head and stepped forward angrily. He had no mind to let his adversary clinch again if he could help it.

As the German rushed Jack met him with a stiff left to the face and the man halted in his tracks with a cry of pain. Jack followed up this advantage with a right-handed blow to the abdomen, doubling the German up like a knife. Then the lad reached his opponent's jaw with a hard left.

The man staggered back and crumpled up in a heap.

"So much for you," muttered the lad, turning just in time to meet the rush of the helmsman, who had now recovered from the effects of Jack's blow and was coming angrily forward.

Now, this second man was even larger and more powerfully built than the first German, and one huge arm warded off Jack's first short jab for the face. Instead of attempting to return the blow, the helmsman grabbed Jack by the arm, and yanked him suddenly forward.

Jack, caught unprepared, went stumbling forward. The helmsman stepped aside and struck heavily at the lad as he reeled past.

Had he taken his time and aimed carefully the battle would have ended right there; fortunately, however, his haste was too great and he only struck the lad a glancing blow.

In spite of this fact, however, the force of it was so great that it staggered the lad. Apparently believing that this one blow would end the fight, the German stepped back to watch the effect of it.

But Jack did not fall. Staggering forward, his hand caught the rail of the boat, where he stood a moment, recovering himself.

The German advanced with a smile on his face. Jack turned to meet him.

Slowly the German came on, his great arms raised awkwardly and then it dawned upon Jack that all that was necessary to dispose of this great brute was a little skill and caution. His head was clear now and he advanced confidently.

The German rushed forward. Jack side-stepped neatly and struck his opponent a heavy blow just above the right ear as he passed. The man turned quickly and just in time to catch a second powerful blow on the forehead. Another man would have gone down, but the German sprang forward ready for more.

And he got more. Jack stood off at arms' length and peppered him beautifully. In vain the German struck out and sought to clinch. Jack dodged his blows and evaded his clasp with ease. And then the lad saw the opportunity he had been awaiting.

In a desperate attempt to clinch, the German exposed his jaw. Jack's right flashed out quickly and then the lad stepped back. His fist had found its mark; and the German staggered back, reeled, swayed -- fell to the deck unconscious.



Chapter X.

Lost -- The Storm.


Jack now surveyed the field of action with some satisfaction.

"Well, I managed to lay 'em all out at last," he told himself. "Now to see how Frank and the others are."

He hurried first to Frank's side. The latter was just returning to consciousness and raised himself on one elbow as Jack kneeled beside him.

"How do you feel, old man?" asked Jack gently.

"I don't feel so much," was Frank's reply. "Say, that fellow must have given me a pretty good crack."

"He did," said Jack dryly. "I can vouch for that. He landed on your head with that revolver like a ton of brick. Do you think you can stand?"

"I guess so. Lend a hand, will you?"

Jack helped his chum to his feet. Frank staggered a bit at first, but in a minute or two announced that he was fit for whatever might come. He followed Jack aft, where lay the bodies of Edwards and Williams.

Jack passed his hand over Edwards' face and the man stirred feebly.

"Water, Frank," said Jack.

Frank hurried forward again and returned in a moment with water. This Jack sprinkled over Edwards' face. Five minutes later Edwards sat up.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Jack explained.

"I remember now, sir," said Edwards, trying to smile. "And did you lick 'em?"

"I did," said Jack.

"And Williams, sir? How is he? I saw him go down just before I went under."

"We'll see," replied Jack briefly.

He led the way to where Williams still lay prone, Frank and Edwards following.

Jack bent over the man, then placed a hand over his heart. Then he got slowly to his feet.

"Is he --  -- ," began Edwards.

"Dead," replied Jack quietly.

For a moment there was silence; then Edwards spoke brokenly.

"The best shipmate a man ever had, sir."

He knelt beside his dead companion and tears streamed down his face. Jack and Frank did not speak as he mourned silently for some minutes. At last Edwards got to his feet.

"War is war, sir," he said quietly.

He moved aft.

"Well," said Frank, "I guess we may as well be getting back to The Hawk. Lord Hastings will be worried."

"Right," said Jack. "You take the wheel. I'll try and coax the engine along."

They took their respective places.

"Which way, Jack?" called Frank.

"By Jove! You know as much about it as I do," was the reply. "I don't know where we are."

"Must be off to the left," declared Frank. "We'll steer that way, anyhow."

"All right," said Jack.

The engine began to sputter and directly the motorboat moved.

"We may as well go this way as another," Frank shouted to make himself heard. "It'll be daylight soon, anyhow, and we can probably pick up The Hawk."

"We'll go slowly, at all events," said Jack.

For half an hour the little craft forged slowly ahead, all three aboard keeping a sharp lookout for The Hawk.

Suddenly a breeze sprang up. It blew lightly at first and then with more and more violence.

"Looks like Lord Hastings' gale was about to materialize," shouted Jack.

"Guess this is it all right," replied Frank.

Edwards now came aft and took his stand by Frank.

"Want me to take the wheel, sir?" he asked.

"Guess I can handle it all right," replied Frank.

"Very well, sir, only I thought you would rather be forward with Mr. Templeton."

There was an odd note in his voice and Frank glanced at him inquiringly.

"What made you think that?" he asked sharply.

"Only," replied Edwards, "only because this is liable to settle things for all of us."

"You mean the storm?" asked Frank.

"Yes, sir."

"You think it will be severe?"

"Very severe, sir. I have sailed the seas longer than you have, sir, and I recognize the signs."

"And you don't think this craft can weather the storm?"

"I am afraid not, sir. Of course there is always a possibility, and by running with the storm we have, of course, a fighting chance; but that's all we have, sir, a fighting chance."

"It is as much as we have had many times before," replied Frank.

"Very well, then," to Edwards, "you may take the wheel. Your advice is to run before it?"

"Yes, sir, at full speed."

"Your advice shall be taken. We'll keep the engine going and the steering is up to you."

"Very good, sir."

Edwards took the wheel and Frank made his way forward.

"Hello," said Jack. "Thought you were going to do the steering."

"I was," replied Frank, "but Edwards seemed to think he could do better and I guess he is right. He says we are in for a bad gale."

"He's right," replied Jack. "I've seen the signs before. You may remember I lived on the ocean. Yes, we're in for it, I'm afraid. All we can do is run."

"That's what Edwards said."

"It'll be daylight in less than half an hour," Jack continued. "That will help some. If it will hold off that long, I'll feel better."

And the gale did hold off.

A faint gray streaked the east, making more plain the seriousness of their situation. The clouds hung heavy and low and it took no mariner to tell that a storm was brewing.

Gradually the wind increased and the little motorboat tore along before it. Now the swell of the sea became heavier. Waves rolled higher and higher and the little craft first wallowed in the trough of the sea and then climbed the gigantic waves.

"No wonder people get seasick," Frank muttered to himself.

The wind increased in violence until it blew a hurricane, but still the little motorboat did not falter; it bore on as bravely as before, climbing wave after wave swiftly and unerringly. Edwards, at the wheel, was giving a splendid example of seamanship.

A mountainous wave, greater than the rest, descended upon the motorboat and broke over it, drenching all on board to the skin. The wind whistled overhead and the air grew icy cold. Frank shivered, as he held fast.

"Br-r-r," he said. "Right now it would feel awfully nice to be ashore. I wonder what of Lord Hastings and The Hawk?"

At the same moment, Lord Hastings was wondering what of them.

For hours and hours, it seemed to the two lads, the little craft battled the storm, at each moment seeming in imminent danger of capsizing; but always the master hand of Edwards at the wheel righted the little craft and it dashed away in the gale.

"Great Scott!" cried Frank, raising his voice to a shout to make himself heard above the terrible roaring of the wind, "we can't stand this much longer."

"You are right," declared Jack. "We are liable to be swamped at any moment."

As each wave descended upon them, breaking over the little boat, Frank was confident that the end had come. It did not seem possible that the craft could withstand another. But each time the little boat seemed to brace itself for the shock and a moment later would ride high to safety.

Edwards, at the wheel, had lashed himself fast, that he might not be swept overboard; and once, soon after the storm had descended, he was startled.

Something soft touched his feet; and taking his eyes from ahead long enough to look down, he saw that the object was the body of Williams, which the water had washed over the deck to him.

His hands fast, as they were, he could not stoop down to touch the body as he gazed at it mournfully; then another wave descended, and when it had gone, Williams' body was no longer in sight.

"Good-bye, old friend!" Edwards shouted after it. "Good-bye! I may be with you soon. If I could have reached down I would have shaken hands with you once more before you went away."

Another gigantic wave swooped down and he gave his attention to keeping the boat's head right.

At last, when it seemed that the storm would never end, it broke suddenly. As if by magic there was a calm, and bright sunlight streamed down from above. The gale was over. The motorboat and its crew of three were safe.

Frank and Jack clasped hands.

"Safe once more," said the latter quietly.

Suddenly the little craft pitched violently. Frank turned a quick gaze aft to the wheel where he made out the reason for this sudden lurch.

Completely exhausted by his recent experience, Edwards had lapsed into unconsciousness once the strain was over. No hand grasped the wheel and the motorboat pitched this way and that in the trough of the sea.

Frank made his way aft as rapidly as possible and took the wheel. Jack shut down the engine and followed him. He poured water over Edwards' face and directly the latter sat up.

"Funny I had to keel over like that," he said grinning feebly. "Don't know what's the matter with me. Must be getting old, I guess. Never happened before."

"Here," said Jack, "you come forward with me and rest awhile. You're about done up."

The sailor protested; but Jack had his way, and a few moments later, in the little cabin, Edwards was fast asleep. Jack returned aft to discuss the situation with Frank.

"Well, what now?" asked the latter. "Where are we going to find Lord Hastings?"

"I imagine the best thing for us," said Jack, "is to return to Bantry Bay. If The Hawk weathered the storm, Lord Hastings will put in sometime to-day."

"I suppose that is best," agreed Frank. "Let's be on the move."

The head of the motorboat was brought about, and gaining his bearings from a compass in the cabin, Jack shaped his course.

"A four or five hour run," he said to Frank, in giving him the proper directions.

He glanced at his watch. "Six o'clock. Well, we shall be there before noon, anyhow."

He returned to his place at the engine and the motorboat headed toward the British coast.



Chapter XI.

On The Hunt.


"Isn't that The Hawk?"

It was Jack who spoke. He had left his engine and made his way aft, for he had caught sight of another craft in the distance.

Frank peered ahead.

"I should say it was built along the same lines as The Hawk," he replied, "but what's the matter with her?"

Something was wrong, as both boys could see. The craft ahead, whether The Hawk or not they could not yet distinguish, was plainly in distress. She wallowed in the sea, apparently without a hand to guide her.

"Something wrong aboard, sure," declared Frank. "Little more speed, Jack."

Jack sprang back to his engine and soon the motorboat was dashing through the water at full speed.

Jack left the engine to run itself and made his way forward as far as possible, where he stood gazing at the craft ahead. At last he was able to make out the name of the craft.

"The Hawk!" he cried.

It was The Hawk and she was plainly in distress. As the boys drew nearer, they were unable to make out a sign of life aboard.

"Maybe they have all been washed overboard," Frank called to Jack.

Jack made no reply. He had begun to fear so himself.

Suddenly he uttered a loud cry.

"I can see some one aboard," he cried. "He's stretched out on the deck. Looks like he might be dead."

"Who is it?" Frank shouted back.

"I can't make out yet."

He peered forward eagerly and anxiously; and five minutes later he cried out again:

"It's Smith."

Smith was another of the crew.

"Can you see Lord Hastings?" shouted Frank.

"No."

The two craft were less than a hundred yards apart now and still Jack could make out but a solitary figure aboard, that of Smith, stretched out at full length aft.

The boys closed up the remaining distance quickly and the two boats scraped alongside each other. Pausing only long enough to lash the two together, Frank and Jack sprang aboard The Hawk.

Quickly they glanced about. There was Smith and no one else in sight. Frank stooped over him.

"He's breathing," he said.

He hurried to the side of the boat, and leaning over, filled his cap with water. This he sprinkled in Smith's face and the man stirred.

Jack, in the meantime, had gone into the little cabin and a startled cry now came to Frank's ears.

He hurried to his friend; and there, in the cabin, the boy stood over the prostrate form of their commander. The latter lay still and white and Frank stared at him with a great fear in his heart.

"Is he dead?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"I don't know," said Jack slowly. "He doesn't seem to be breathing."

Frank knelt down and placed a hand over Lord Hastings' heart.

"Yes, he is," he cried excitedly. "His heart is beating. Water, quick!"

Jack dashed away in response to this command and was back in a moment with his cap filled with water.

This he poured over his commander, while Frank bathed his head; and soon these efforts were rewarded.

Lord Hastings stirred, breathed a long sigh and moaned. Five minutes later he opened his eyes and tried to sit up.

"Lie still, sir," commanded Frank.

Lord Hastings let his eyes rest on the lad's face, tried to say something, attempted to move, then fell back with a long sigh.

Again Frank was alarmed. He bent over his commander and placed a hand over his heart. Then he arose with an exclamation of satisfaction.

"He's sleeping," he said. "Let's get to shore as soon as possible."

Jack hurried away. First he returned to the other craft and assisted Edwards aboard The Hawk. Then he went to the engine, Frank took the wheel and they headed for Bantry Bay at full speed.

It was still before noon when they entered the bay and came to anchor in the midst of the motorboat fleet. The lads had Lord Hastings removed ashore immediately and listened to the diagnosis of the surgeon with bated breath.

"Nothing serious," said the surgeon, much to the lads' relief. "He's been knocked unconscious in some way. Something must have struck him a hard blow across the head. All he needs is perfect quiet for a week."

"He'll get it," declared Jack, "if I have to sit on him for that length of time."

"And if I have to help you hold him down," Frank agreed.

For the next week the boys gave their undivided attention to caring for their wounded commander. Each day, after the first, Lord Hastings grew stronger. On the third day he wanted to get up, but the surgeon would not hear of it.

"Seven days in bed," he declared. "Not a second less; and two more days before you can move about much."

"Yes, but look here, Doc," said Lord Hastings. "I've work to do. I've got to get back into harness."

"And two weeks exactly before you can get back in harness," declared the man of medicine.

From this ultimatum he would not swerve.

At the end of the first week Lord Hastings was for disregarding the surgeon's orders and getting back into harness anyhow; but Jack and Frank would not hear of it.

"Might just as well get well, first, sir," declared Jack.

Lord Hastings glared at him.

"How about you?" he demanded. "How would you like to stay around like this doing nothing? You couldn't sit here for five minutes. I know you."

"You may be right, sir," agreed Frank. "But you are older than I am, sir, and should have more patience and fortitude."

Lord Hastings was forced to smile at this rejoinder.

"You see, sir," said Frank, "I can remember some of the things you have said to me."

"I see," agreed Lord Hastings. "I guess, then, that I shall have to remain here, if for no other reason than to set a good example for you."

"That's right, sir," declared Jack. "If you didn't, there would be no living with Frank."

"Oh, I don't know," said the latter. "I can remember one time when you were in bad shape that I had to threaten to lick you to keep you in bed."

"Well, that's different," said Jack. "I --  -- "

"Well, let's talk about something cheerful," said Lord Hastings. "Germans or anything like that."

And so the conversation was changed.

When the two weeks had come to an end Lord Hastings proceeded to get back in harness immediately.

"I've been here long enough," he told the boys. "Back to The Hawk again now."

And back to The Hawk they went that day.

Aboard The Hawk Lord Hastings made a careful inspection and then left the lads, while he held an interview with the British commanding officer in charge of the motorboat flotilla. When he returned he had a smile on his face.

"Good news," he said, as he came aboard.

"What, sir?" asked Frank.

"Action to-night, sir?" demanded Jack.

"Better than that -- for you boys," replied Lord Hastings. "Action, and at once."

"Where?" asked Frank.

"Around the same neighborhood we were in before."

"Good," declared Jack.

"And more important prey, this time," continued Lord Hastings.

"Submarines?" asked Jack.

"Well, that's what we expect," replied Lord Hastings. "We hope to be fortunate enough to find one or two."

"When do we start, sir?" demanded Frank.

"As soon as the Glasgow comes along."

"The Glasgow, sir? You mean the steamship Glasgow?"

"Exactly. It appears that passengers have been warned not to take passage on the Glasgow. A warning has been circulated through the newspapers, the same as was done before the Lusitania sailed and was sunk. This naturally leads to the belief that the Germans are planning to torpedo the Glasgow. We are to be on hand to see that this does not happen."

"I see, sir," replied Frank. "Is it just The Hawk, sir?"

"Well, no," replied Lord Hastings. "The Hawk and nine other motorboats."

"A regular fleet," remarked Jack. "I suppose the idea is for us to trail in behind the Glasgow?"

"Exactly. You see the submarine, nine times out of ten, lying in wait for its victim, will come to the surface a short distance ahead of the steamer. Now, in view of the furore that the sinking of the Lusitania caused in neutral countries, it is hardly to be expected the Glasgow will be torpedoed without warning."

"But just how do we get at the enemy, sir?" demanded Frank.

"I'm coming to that. When the submarine comes to the surface and gives warning for passengers and crew to leave the ship, we shall sneak out from behind at full speed. Before the submarine can submerge, we shall be close enough to get her. That's why we carry such heavy guns. One of us is bound to get her."

"I see," said Frank. "Of course if the submarine could submerge in a moment, it wouldn't be possible."

"Exactly," agreed Lord Hastings.

He led the way to the rail.

"See," he said, waving a hand in the direction of the others of the motorboat fleet, "they are all getting ready for action."

It was true. There were signs of great activity aboard some of the other little vessels. "Just overhauling to see that everything is shipshape," said Lord Hastings. "We may as well do the same."

The next hour was spent in minute inspection of every part of the little craft and then Lord Hastings pronounced himself satisfied.

Hardly was the work completed, when Frank perceived a dark smudge upon the distant horizon.

"Vessel of some kind, sir," he reported to Lord Hastings.

Lord Hastings gazed long and earnestly; and directly the shape of a large ship loomed up.

"The Glasgow," he said quietly. "All ready, boys. Time to get busy."



Chapter XII.

The First Victim.


As the steamship Glasgow drew nearer, the signs of activity among the various units of the motorboat fleet became more acute. The little craft darted hither and thither, finally dividing into two sections, one section on each side of the channel through which the Glasgow steamed toward them. When the big steamship had steamed past, the ten little boats fell into line behind her, moving swiftly forward, two abreast.

Apparently the commander of the Glasgow, Captain Sawyer, had been informed that he was to be provided with an escort, for only the fluttering of a few signal flags from the Glasgow and from the motorboat Lion, which carried Lieutenant Commander Thompson, in charge of the mosquito fleet, betokened a greeting.

The Glasgow swept majestically past, not pausing in her stride. From the decks hands were waved and handkerchiefs fluttered toward the little vessels below, the passengers aboard leaning over the rails and speculating idly upon their presence.

The two foremost motorboats were The Hawk and the Lion, commanded by Lieutenant Commander Thompson and Lord Hastings. The others followed close behind.

Jack and Frank had watched all this maneuvering with great interest; and now that the flotilla, in perfect formation, was proceeding straight ahead, Frank turned to his commander with a question:

"And about where do you expect to pick up the enemy, sir?" he asked.

"Hardly more than twenty miles out -- certainly not more than two hours," was the reply.

The motorboats followed closely in the wake of the big steamship. Although they were, of course, plainly visible from the steamer, and could possibly be seen from the sides, it was hoped that the enemies' submarine would take a position directly in front of the Glasgow when she accosted her. This would shield the motorboats from sight.

The Glasgow and its bodyguard were now out of sight of land. The sun shone brightly and the day was perfectly calm. There was scarcely a ripple upon the smooth surface of the sea.

Below, aboard the Glasgow, the passengers were at dinner. They were laughing and joking among themselves.

Aboard the motorboats all was peacefully quiet. The men not on duty were idling about and talking.

Suddenly Edwards, who stood forward on The Hawk, caught the peculiar fluttering of the signal flags aboard the Glasgow.

"Glasgow signalling, sir," he reported to Lord Hastings.

Lord Hastings quickly drew the attention of Commander Thompson to the Glasgow's signals, at the same time deciphering them for Frank and Jack.

The first signal read:

"Small vessel dead ahead."

Commander Thompson flashed back his response:

"Submarine?"

"Can't make out yet," was the answer.

There was some further wig-wagging; and then the need for this means of communication suddenly ceased.

There came a sharp blast from the Glasgow's horn and the big ship slowed down abruptly. Then came the sound of a shot from dead ahead and there was a splash between the Glasgow and The Hawk.

"The enemy!" exclaimed Lord Hastings.

Aboard each of the small motorboats every man sprang to his post. Soft commands carried back and forth across the water, while the signal flags of the Glasgow continued to flutter.

Then, even as Lord Hastings received from the Lion the command to advance, he read the last signal of the Glasgow.

"Submarine has halted us," it read. "Dead ahead."

The motorboat fleet came to life upon the instant. Again it divided into two parts, one passing on each side of the Glasgow, and darted forward toward the enemy.

Aboard each the forward guns were manned, the gunners ready to fire at the word.

On the Glasgow all was confusion. Passengers, attracted by the sound of the shot from the submarine, sprang from their tables and dashed on deck. There, as they made out the submarine, they turned pale. Only the reassuring voices of the officers averted a panic.

Then the passengers turned their attention to the fleet that was now passing around the big liner to the attack.

Rapidly the little craft sped forward and before the submarine commander had divined their presence, they were swooping down upon him, seemingly from all directions. Stunned at this unexpected arrival and before he could give a word of command, The Hawk unloosened her forward gun.

The shell went wide, but it brought immediate action from the submarine commander. Evidently he had no mind to try and torpedo the little craft, realizing, perhaps, that did he sink one the other would destroy him.

Motioning the other three men on deck before him, he sprang toward the little conning tower, bent on flight.

At this juncture the Lion came within range and her forward gun spoke loudly. The shell kicked up the water a few yards from the submarine.

"Hoorah!" came the British cry.

"A little soon to cheer," muttered Frank to himself, as he stepped forward to take his second shot at the submarine.

"Boom!"

The gun spoke sharply.

Ahead there was a terrible crash. The German submarine seemed to soar in the air like a skyrocket, and came down in a thousand pieces.

Frank's one well-directed shot had ended the battle.

Then a mighty cheer went up from the men of the mosquito fleet, in which the passengers aboard the Glasgow joined with a will.

Jack sprang forward and gave his chum a resounding slap on the back.

"That's what I call shooting," he declared fervently.

"Good work, Frank," said Lord Hastings quietly, stepping forward. "An excellent shot."

Masses of wreckage floating upon the surface of the sea were all that was left of the German submarine, with here and there a few floating bodies. Soon these disappeared and there was nothing to indicate that an under-sea craft had so recently been near.

From aboard the Lion, Commander Thompson signalled his compliments to The Hawk.

"And now I suppose we will go back again," said Frank to Lord Hastings.

"Well, no," was the reply. "The Glasgow is not safe yet. There may be other submarines in these waters. I should say that we shall escort her all of a hundred miles."

"What I would like to know," said Frank, "is why her commander, instead of trying to escape at once, didn't launch a torpedo or two. He might have disposed of one of us."

"But the others would have surely done for him," said Lord Hastings. "He probably figured he could submerge before we could hit him."

"He guessed wrong that time," declared Frank.

"Rather," agreed Jack with a smile. "There is no use talking, Frank, you are some boy when it comes to shooting."

All that afternoon the motorboat flotilla trailed the Glasgow; but until nightfall no other German submarine had appeared. An hour after nightfall, Commander Thompson gave the command to put about and return.

Slowly the little craft came about and started back toward Bantry Bay. Behind them now, the Glasgow, safe at last, steamed rapidly away, bound for the distant port of New York, and "home," said Frank to Jack.

"Do you wish you were on her," asked his chum curiously.

"No," replied Frank, slowly, "unless I was sure I would find my father waiting for me when I reached there. However, I am having a pretty good time on this side and I know that I shall return safely some day."

The Hawk, last in line, made her way back slowly.

An hour after the lights of the Glasgow had faded from view, Frank, glancing forward, was unable to make out the distant light of a single of the other motorboats. He called Lord Hastings' attention to this fact.

"Is that so?" exclaimed his commander in some surprise. "I had no idea we had been going so slowly. We'll step out a bit."

He issued a command, and the speed of The Hawk increased. But still, after an hour, they had failed to come up with the others.

"Well, it's nothing to worry about I guess. We know the way back as well as the others; besides, there is no particular hurry."

Accordingly The Hawk continued at rather slow speed.

Half an hour later, Frank, forward, made out a dark hulk lying low in the water a short distance ahead. He immediately called Lord Hastings' attention to the object.

The latter acted quickly.

"Extinguish all lights quickly," he called sharply.

The order was obeyed, and at a second command, The Hawk was slowed down so that she was barely moving.

"What's the matter, sir?" exclaimed Jack, in great surprise.

"Matter is that there is a submarine dead ahead of us," was his commander's reply.

"You mean that dark object there?"

"Yes."

"And are we going to sink her, sir?" asked Jack.

"We'll have a try at it," was the reply. "In this darkness we can go very close without fear of being seen, The Hawk is so small."

Fifty yards from the submarine, which lay quietly in the water, The Hawk came to a stop and the forward gun was made ready for action.

"Funny there isn't some one on deck," muttered Frank.

"By Jove! So it is," declared Lord Hastings. "Must be something wrong. I wonder what?"

"I have it, sir," declared Frank. "It's one of the vessels that those other motorboats -- the ones we sunk -- were to have reported to."

"I believe Frank is right," agreed Jack. "It probably comes to the surface here every night, awaiting their return."

"In that event the chances are that most every one aboard is asleep," remarked Lord Hastings.

He gave the command for The Hawk to proceed.

"What are you going to do, sir?" asked Frank.

"See if we can't capture her," replied Lord Hastings quietly.

Frank gave a low whistle. It was a plan after his own heart, but he was keenly sensitive to the danger that it involved.

"Very well, sir," he said quietly.

"This," declared Jack, manifesting a show of enthusiasm, "is where we have a little fun."



Chapter XIII.

A Desperate Venture.


There was not a sound aboard the submarine as The Hawk grated alongside. To climb aboard the silent vessel, which lay so low in the water, was a simple task. Lord Hastings went first and Frank and Jack followed in order. Behind the latter came Edwards and behind him three sailors, Allen, O'Brien and McDonald.

For a brief moment they stood silently upon the deck, each with a revolver in his hand. Then Lord Hastings led the way to the conning tower, which was open, and descended. The others were close behind him.

At the foot of the companionway Lord Hastings paused again, straining his ears for a sound. None came. He motioned the others to follow him and led the way aft.

At the extreme afterpart of the vessel he paused before a door on the port side. From within came the sound of voices.

Lord Hastings laid a hand on the knob and surveyed those behind him.

"All ready?" he asked.

"Ready, sir," replied Jack quietly.

With a sudden movement Lord Hastings jerked open the door and stepped quickly within.

"Hands up!" he called sharply.

Four men sat at a table in what appeared to be the commander's cabin. They looked up from their game at Lord Hastings' gruff command and seeing but a solitary figure, all dropped their hands to their side.

"Hands up!" commanded Lord Hastings again.

Instead of obeying this command, one man produced a revolver, shouting:

"There is only one! Shoot him!"

But Lord Hastings' revolver spoke first and the officer tumbled over. The other three had now drawn their weapons and one fired at Lord Hastings. The shot went wild and Lord Hastings dropped him with a second well-directed bullet.

At this moment Jack and Frank sprang into the room. They saw Lord Hastings confronted by two enemies and they acted instantly and before the Germans could do so.

The revolvers of both lads spoke simultaneously and both Germans dropped to the floor.

Jack sprang back to the door.

"Stand guard there, men!" he cried. "There may be more of them."

He jumped back to Frank's side again, fearing that one of the fallen men might arise and return to the fray. But these fears were groundless. All four were beyond human aid, as Lord Hastings found after gazing at each sharply.

"Poor fellows," he said sorrowfully, "but it was their lives or ours, and they wouldn't yield. Oh, well --  -- " he broke off with a shrug of his shoulders and turned to the lads.

"Search the vessel," he commanded. "There are probably others aboard."

Jack and Frank hurried away in response to this command. They went through the submarine from stem to stern, but nowhere were they able to find another living soul.

"Looks like those were the only ones aboard," remarked Jack.

"It does," agreed Frank. "Maybe the men in the motorboats were part of their crews and they have been lying about here all these days waiting for them to return."

"Well, I can't guess the answer," said Jack. "But certainly there is no other German here."

They returned and reported to Lord Hastings.

"Very well," said their commander. "Then the best thing we can do is to try and work this submarine back to port. It is an important capture."

"If you please, sir," said Jack. "I believe I can suggest a better plan than that."

"And that is --  -- " prompted Lord Hastings.

"To assume the identities of these German officers, sir. Or not necessarily to assume their identities, but just to take charge of the vessel as if we had been duly commissioned by the German government. Then we can seek out the enemy's naval base and perhaps gain information of importance."

Lord Hastings looked at the lad in amusement for some moments before he replied:

"By Jove! You and Frank here do turn up some of the most remarkable ideas I have ever heard!"

"Then you don't think much of the plan, sir?"

"I think so much of it," replied Lord Hastings, "that I shall act upon it at once."

Now it was Frank's turn to show his enthusiasm.

"Hoorah!" he cried.

"That is," Lord Hastings qualified his statement, "I shall act upon your plan if Mr. Chadwick here can restrain his enthusiasm. Otherwise, I would be afraid to undertake the venture."

"I'll restrain it, sir," declared Frank, subdued.

"Good! See that you do," returned Lord Hastings. "Some of these days that enthusiasm of yours will get us all into trouble."

"And what shall we do with these men, sir?" asked Jack, indicating the fallen Germans.

"Overboard with them, I suppose," returned Lord Hastings. "It's where I expect to go when my time comes. It's as good a grave as another."

"And shall we take their uniforms, sir?"

"Yes. It may spare some explaining."

And thus it was arranged.

Two hours later, following a thorough exploration of the submarine, Lord Hastings announced that he could navigate it without trouble.

"Fortunately," he said, "I find that it will be possible for two men to handle the engine room. We three and Edwards will take our turns at the wheel and doing whatever else is to be done, relieving in the engine room when it is necessary. Of course we are short-handed, but I believe we can pull through. Perhaps, if we are fortunate enough to fall in with one of the enemy, we can borrow a few men. We can concoct some story that will pass muster and thus account for the loss of the others of our crew."

Jack smiled.

"I guess it can be done, sir," he replied.

The dead Germans had been buried by this time and the three British officers had donned their uniforms, which, fortunately, were not bad fits.

"To tell the truth, I don't care much about these uniforms," declared Frank, "but if they are going to help out any I suppose I can stand mine for a while."

"You don't necessarily have to be in love with them," responded Jack.

"And now, sir," said Frank, "would it not be well to be moving? There may be some of these men prowling about the sea some place and they may return."

"Yes; there is no use lingering here," replied Lord Hastings. "Are the men at their posts?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good! Then you may give the signal to submerge, Mr. Templeton."

"I can give it all right," grinned Jack. "But I don't see what good it will do unless I obey myself."

"True," laughed Lord Hastings. "I had forgotten about the tanks. We shall have to take turns looking after them also."

"I'll attend to them this time," said Jack, and took himself off.

Directly the submarine began to sink slowly and at a depth of ten fathoms Lord Hastings called a halt. Then he signalled the engine room for twelve knots.

"Just where are we bound, sir?" asked Frank.

"Well," said Lord Hastings, "the Germans are understood to have established a naval base at Ostend and I have shaped my course for that port."

"And what are we to do when we get there?"

"Events will have to shape themselves," declared Lord Hastings. "It is impossible to foretell anything."

Jack re-entered the room at this moment, and the three held a consultation, Edwards meantime steering the course that Lord Hastings had given him.

And so the submarine continued on its course beneath the sea for the rest of the night, running slowly.

At eight o'clock in the morning, Lord Hastings decided to go to the surface for a look around. He stopped for a moment, however, just below the surface, with the periscope protruding slightly above the water and took in his surroundings.

In the distance he made out a coast line, which, according to his calculations, should be the coast of Belgium.

"We should not be more than an hour's run from Ostend," he told the lads. "We'll continue on the surface."

The submarine was brought clear of the water and continued on her way.

But there was to be no need of the submarine putting into Ostend. Half an hour after the vessel had been brought to the surface, Frank, who was alone for the moment upon the bridge, made out a second submarine approaching. Quickly he summoned Lord Hastings and Jack.

"Well," said Lord Hastings, "here is where we have to do some tall talking, as the Americans would say. He's headed directly for us."

It was true. The submarines were approaching each other rapidly.

The enemy slowed down, and in response to Lord Hastings, the captured vessel did likewise. A voice from a figure on the bridge of the second vessel came across the water.

"Who are you?"

"U-16," answered Lord Hastings, who had gone through the former commander's papers carefully, "Bernstorff, commanding."

"Bernstorff," came the surprised response. "Where is Captain Tarlenhein?"

"If you will come aboard, I will explain," shouted Lord Hastings.

"Very well."

A few moments later a small boat left the side of the other vessel and came toward the U-16.

"Now, boys," said Lord Hastings quietly, "keep a tight rein on yourselves and leave the talking to me. Say nothing unless you are addressed. It would not do for us to be tripped up. We would all be put to death as spies."

The boys nodded their understanding of this order.

"We'll be as mum as a couple of oysters, sir," declared Frank.

"I wouldn't know what to say, anyhow," agreed Jack.

"Sh-h-h," whispered Lord Hastings. "Here he comes."

The small boat scraped the side of the U-16 at this juncture. A man in the full uniform of a German lieutenant commander stepped aboard. Lord Hastings advanced to meet him with extended hand.

Jack and Frank followed their commander closely.



Chapter XIV.

With The Enemy.


"I am Captain Bernstorff," said Lord Hastings quietly, "and you?"

"Lieutenant Commander Von Rosten, sir," replied the other, who could not have been more than twenty-five years of age.

"Von Rosten, to be sure," replied Lord Hastings, affecting to recall the name. "Allow me to present my friends, who are at present acting as my officers."

He beckoned to Frank and Jack to approach.

"Lieutenant Papen," he said, introducing Jack; "and Lieutenant Bohring," indicating Frank.

The three acknowledged the introductions and then Lord Hastings continued:

"I suppose you are wondering how I come to be in command of the U-16?"

"I am, sir," was the reply.

"And also," continued Lord Hastings with a smile, "you are no doubt wondering just who I am anyway?"

"I must confess to that, too," answered the young German.

"Well, I can explain in a very few words," said Lord Hastings quietly. "In the first place, I carry a number -- you know what I mean?"

The German nodded.

"The secret service," he said quietly.

Lord Hastings gave him a glance of approval and the young man flushed.

"Exactly," replied Lord Hastings. "My friends here also carry numbers. They are young, as you see, but they have proved themselves more than once in His Majesty's service."

The young German bowed again.

"Now," continued Lord Hastings, "I shall take up the little matter of how I happen to be in command of the U-16 and the unfortunate fate of Captain Tarlenhein."

"Fate!" exclaimed Von Rosten.

"It is only too true," muttered Lord Hastings sorrowfully. "But he died as a loyal servant of the Emperor. I shall explain."

"If you will," said the young German.

"Under command of Captain Tarlenhein," said Lord Hastings, "the U-16, as you may possibly know, has been in the Irish Sea, and, at one time or another, off the mouth of the Thames. Whether you knew it or not, Captain Tarlenhein also carried a number. There was work to be done in England.

"Of course, we already had our agents there -- in fact, I was one of them, and my two friends here. We were instructed to report to Captain Tarlenhein aboard the U-16 at a certain time. We did so, the vessel at that time lying off the Thames. Captain Tarlenhein had other instructions for us. We went ashore again and there encountered trouble. We were captured.

"In London we were being taken to The Tower, when we all made a break for liberty right in the middle of the city. Captain Tarlenhein was shot down. The rest of us escaped. Through the instrumentality of my peculiar resemblance to a British naval officer, we overcame numerous difficulties, although my young friends here almost came to grief. It was here that my striking resemblance to this British officer of whom I speak enabled them to get away. We were, of course, dressed in British uniforms, but the haste of another agent of the Emperor almost caused our undoing."

The German officer had followed this account with interest. Apparently he was much wrapped up in the narrative. He clenched his hand as Lord Hastings paused.

"And who was this agent?" he demanded.

"An Englishman," replied Lord Hastings slowly. "An Englishman known as Davis. He almost spoiled it all. However, we at length managed to escape in spite of Davis -- I don't know what has become of him -- and made our way, after many perils, to where the U-16 still awaited the return of its commander.

"And what was our surprise, when we went aboard, to find it occupied by two British officers and several British sailors. Fortunately for us, these British officers -- lazy dogs -- were sleeping at their posts and we pounced upon them and tumbled them overboard, all but three; whom we kept as a crew, our own men having been taken prisoners by the enemy. That was only yesterday, and here we are."

Lord Hastings paused.

"You have indeed had a hard time," said the young German. "But I am glad to know you, all three of you. About this man Davis. I have a man aboard my ship who might possibly be the same. He says his name is Davis, and he is an Englishman; but I have placed no faith in his story. He is a shifty-eyed scoundrel. I picked him up off the British coast about two weeks ago."

"He is undoubtedly the same," said Lord Hastings. "Also his story probably is true. I can vouch for the fact that he carries a number, and that he was recently in England."

"Will you and your men come aboard my vessel?" invited the young German. "I should be pleased to have you look at this man Davis. I have him in irons."

"We shall be pleased," Lord Hastings accepted. "But first we must go below and tie up these English sailors. We don't want them to get away."

The young German bowed, and Lord Hastings, Frank, and Jack went below.

Here Lord Hastings called the men to him and in a few words explained the situation. The men consented to be bound and the three tied them up, for, as Lord Hastings said, it was just as well to keep up appearances.

Before returning on deck Lord Hastings also issued a few sharp commands to Jack and Frank.

"Just keep your nerve and everything will turn out all right," he said.

"But Davis," exclaimed Frank. "He is likely to betray us."

"Don't you believe it," said Lord Hastings. "Von Rosten doesn't trust him very much and Davis will be sharp enough to know it. That's why I want to appear to be doing him a good turn. Besides, it will throw both of them off the track."

"I see," replied Frank. "I wouldn't have thought of that, sir."

Lord Hastings again led the way on deck and informed the young German commander that they were ready to accompany him aboard his vessel. The latter motioned them into the small boat ahead of him.

Ten minutes later they were all seated in Captain Von Rosten's own cabin. The German summoned his first officer.

"Have the prisoner brought here," he commanded.

A few moments later, Davis, still in irons, stood before them. He gave an exclamation of surprise when he glanced at the three Englishmen, and all knew that he recognized them. Lord Hastings thought it would be well to get in the first word.

"I see you recognize us," he said sharply.

"Well, I guess I do," returned Davis. "You are --  -- "

"Never mind who we are," interrupted Lord Hastings. "Enough for you to know that you almost spoiled everything."

"What's that?" demanded Davis. "I almost spoiled everything? Me?"

"Yes, you," returned Lord Hastings quietly. "You and the Baron Blosberg, with your impatience. I don't suppose you know that we carry numbers, eh?"

"I didn't know you did," replied Davis. "These other two here," indicating Jack and Frank, "I surmised did, or else I was fooled. But the last time I saw you you wore a British uniform and seemed to be perfectly at home."

"Fortunately for the rest of you," commented Lord Hastings dryly. "Otherwise none of you would be here now."

Davis was apparently convinced.

"And did you have success?" he asked. "Have you solved the mystery of the --  -- "

"Vanishing submarines?" interrupted Lord Hastings. "Yes. We have solved it."

Von Rosten sprang to his feet.

"Is it true?" he exclaimed eagerly. "The mystery has been solved?"

"It has," replied Lord Hastings quietly.

"And you can suggest means for overcoming it?"

"I can," replied Lord Hastings, and added: "At the proper time and place."

Von Rosten sat down and indicated Davis.

"Then you can vouch for this man?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Lord Hastings. "And I should be glad if you would release him. He is a traitor to his country and something of a bungler, but I can make use of him."

"Very well, sir," returned Von Rosten. "Then I shall turn him over to you."

"If you would be so kind," said Lord Hastings.

The German again summoned his first officer.

"Take the irons off this man," he commanded.

The first officer motioned for Davis to follow him.

"Return when you have been released," ordered Lord Hastings.

"Very well," said Davis.

He left the cabin.

"Now," said Lord Hastings to Von Rosten, "I would be glad if you could do a further favor for me?"

"Consider it granted if it is within my power," said the young German.

"Thanks," said Lord Hastings. "I should like to borrow half a dozen of your crew. As you know, I am short handed, and I have work to do."

The German hesitated, but only for a moment.

"Very well, sir," he returned. "I shall be glad to let you have them. Would you also wish me to take care of your British prisoners?"

"Oh, no," replied Lord Hastings with a gesture. "They are hard workers, with a little urging," and he smiled. "They may come in very handily."

"As you please," replied the German.

A third time he summoned his first officer.

"Pick twelve men of the crew and have them ready to go aboard the U-16 with Captain Bernstorff here," he commanded.

The officer saluted and withdrew.

"Now, is there anything further I can do for you?" asked Von Rosten.

"Nothing, thank you," replied Lord Hastings, "and, with your permission, as soon as Davis is freed of his shackles and the men are ready, I shall return to my own vessel. I have work to do."

The young German bowed.

Half an hour later Lord Hastings, Jack and Frank again trod the deck of the U-16. Davis and a crew of twelve German sailors also were aboard.

"And now," said Lord Hastings, "having dispensed with the formalities, it is time to get busy."



Chapter XV.

Plotting.


"Now," said Lord Hastings, "as soon as we have lost sight of our new friend, Von Rosten, we shall take a little trip to Ostend anyhow."

"What for, sir?" asked Frank.

"Oh, just to look about a little," was the reply. "We may be able to pick up a little useful information."

"And why didn't you tell Von Rosten you were bound there, sir?" Jack wanted to know.

"Well, for one reason, because I wanted to borrow a part of his crew," said Lord Hastings. "Had he known we were headed for Ostend he would have thought it strange that we didn't wait until we got there to get more men. Besides, I wouldn't want to try and get men there. It might prove embarrassing."

"Well, sir," remarked Frank, "that was quite a little story you concocted for his benefit."

"I flatter myself it wasn't so awfully bad," smiled Lord Hastings. "Of course, I might have done better if I had been given more time."

"It was pretty good for a quick one," Jack admitted. "But, what are we going to do with Davis, sir?"

"Turn him over to the British authorities at the first opportunity. He is deserving of whatever punishment he shall receive. But in the meantime we must not let him suspect our true identity for he may be of use to us."

The lads nodded.

"Now," said Lord Hastings, "we may as well put about and run for Ostend."

Frank gave the command to Edwards, at the wheel, and the U-16 came about and headed east. Frank and Jack went below to their quarters, leaving Lord Hastings alone on the bridge.

"There is no use talking," said the latter. "It seems rather peculiar to be sailing under the German flag."

"And that's no joke," Jack agreed. "I hope we will not have to do it long."

It was late in the evening when the submarine approached Ostend, where it was known that the Germans had established a submarine base. The U-16 went along slowly, for Lord Hastings was not certain of his bearings.

Suddenly there came a hail across the water and a light flashed upon the U-16. In response to a command Lord Hastings brought the vessel to a halt.

"Who are you?" came the challenge in the darkness.

"U-16, Captain Tarlenhein," Lord Hastings shouted back.

"Good," was the reply. "We wondered what had happened to you. Everything all right?"

"All right."

"Ready to join us in another desperate mission?"

"Yes. Ready any time."

"Good. Remain where you are. We start within the hour. Your instructions will be sent to you."

Lord Hastings signified that he understood and the light on the other vessel was flashed off, leaving the U-16 in darkness again.

"Now what do you suppose is up, sir?" asked Frank eagerly.

"You have just as much idea as I have," declared Lord Hastings. "However, we shall probably know in good time."

And he was right.

Half an hour later a small boat approached the side of the U-16. In response to a signal from Lord Hastings, who had perceived his approach, a subordinate officer clambered aboard.

"Captain Tarlenhein?" he inquired.

Lord Hastings kept his face half turned in the darkness.

"Yes," he replied in a husky voice.

The officer drew a paper from his pocket and passed it to Lord Hastings.

"From Admiral Seibert, sir."

He brought his heels together, gave a quick salute, turned on his heel, and went back over the side.

Lord Hastings immediately hastened to his cabin and as hastily summoned Jack and Frank.

"Well," he said quietly, "here are our orders," and he laid the paper on the table. "Sit down."

The lads did so, and Lord Hastings, seating himself, picked up the document, broke the seal, and read aloud:

"Captain Tarlenhein,

"Commanding H.I.S. U-16:

"Proceed immediately, under command of Admiral Schuler, to Dover Bay, joining submarine flotilla there, to proceed to the Thames for attack British fleet. Flotilla to gather mile off Dover, midnight, Thursday.

(Signed) "SEIBERT."

"I should say that is plain enough," said Lord Hastings, looking up.

"Rather, sir," agreed Frank. "All we have to do is to be at a certain spot at a certain time."

"That's it. And the beauty of it is we do not go with any other vessel. I suppose Admiral Seibert deems it advisable for each vessel to make her way there separately, coming to the surface at the appointed time."

"And shall we be there, sir?" asked Frank.

"Rather," replied Lord Hastings dryly. "First, however, we shall have to find time to run even closer to Dover, take a trip ashore, and notify the Admiralty. Then perhaps we can arrange a little surprise for our friends the enemy."

"That's the way, sir," said Frank enthusiastically. "And I would suggest that the sooner we get under way the better. It may not be so easy to get ashore without being sent to the bottom by one of our own ships or forts."

"Very well," replied Lord Hastings. "You may give the word to proceed at eighteen knots, Mr. Templeton."

Jack gave the order, and the U-16 moved off in the night.

Having obtained Lord Hastings' permission, Frank and Jack decided to turn in. They made their way to the quarters they had chosen, and what was their surprise to find that Davis had appropriated it for his own convenience.

"I say," said Jack to Davis, who was sitting there in a comfortable chair, "you'll have to come out of here, you know."

"Will I?" said Davis. "What for?"

"Chiefly because we say so," replied Frank angrily. "This is our cabin."

"Yours?" repeated Davis, a rising inflection in his voice. "And who gave it to you, if you please?"

"We selected it," replied Frank, growing angrier at Davis' words.

"Well, I can't see that that makes it yours," returned Davis. "However, we won't argue about that. I'll just stay here and you go some place else."

"Not much you don't," declared Frank. "Either you'll skip out of here right now, or I shall have to throw you out."

"I don't believe you will do a whole lot of throwing," smiled Davis. "Anyhow, I'll take a chance by staying."

He settled himself more comfortably in his chair and picked up a book.

Frank's eyes flashed angrily, but Jack laid a soothing hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Let him alone," he commanded.

"What for?" demanded Frank. "Think I am going to let a man like him run me out of my own quarters? Not much."

"But we can seek other quarters," said Jack, who was always peaceable until aroused. "What's the use of getting in trouble?"

"It won't be much trouble," said Frank. "I'll just throw him out."

Jack smiled.

"He might fool you," he said quietly. "To me, he looks as though he would be hard for you to handle."

"I suppose you think you could do it all right?" said Frank.

"Well, I suppose I could if I started out to," declared Jack. "But I don't intend to make a fool of myself."

This answer only served to enrage Frank the more and he advanced upon Davis threateningly.

"Are you going to get out of here?" he demanded angrily.

Davis looked at him lazily.

"Well, no," he said at last; "I'm not."

Frank sprang upon him without another word and, seizing him by both shoulders, bore him over to the floor, falling on top of him. Then the lad quickly raised himself to his feet, and when Davis got up a moment later Frank grabbed him by the back of the neck with his right hand and the trousers with his left and hustled him to the door.

In vain did Davis seek to free himself from this hold. Although he was undoubtedly stronger and more than a match for Frank, the lad had him at a disadvantage; and he could do nothing to help himself as the boy hustled him through the door of the cabin.

There Frank gave Davis a last vigorous shove and he went spinning down the little hallway.

"There," said Frank, "perhaps that will teach you to stay where you belong."

He stepped back in the cabin, closed and locked the door. Then he turned to Jack.

"He's gone," he said quietly.

"I see he has," replied Jack, smiling. "Now, let's get to bed."

But Davis, routed though he had been, still had a few remarks to make. He tried the knob of the door, and, finding it locked, raised his voice.

"Hey! Let me in there," he demanded.

"You're out; stay out!" said Frank.

"You come out here and I'll punch your face," said Davis.

"Oh, I guess not," replied Frank, feeling quite well pleased with himself.

"You little Dutchman!" exclaimed Davis.

"Go hunt a hole and go to bed," said Frank.

There was no danger of his getting angry, for he was too amused. "If you don't," he continued, "I'll come out there and chuck you overboard."

"Oh, you will, will you? Well, come out here and I'll show you."

"Some other time," said Frank cheerfully.

"Right now I am going to turn in. Pleasant dreams to you, Mr. Davis."

Davis was very angry now. Outside the door he stamped his feet one after the other and rattled the knob vigorously.

"Let me in there, or I'll break this door down," he said fiercely.

During all this conversation Jack had shed his shoes and outer garments and was about ready for bed. He now decided that the affair had gone far enough and stepping forward called through the closed door:

"That's enough, Davis. Keep quiet, or I'll take a hand in this myself. If I do, you'll be sorry. Get away from that door!"

And Davis subsided.



Chapter XVI.

An Enemy Sunk.


"Steamship off the port bow, sir!"

Frank gave the hail from the bridge. A moment later Lord Hastings emerged from the little conning tower. For several moments he gazed searchingly across the water through his glass.

"Britisher," he said finally. "Guess we had better submerge."

"Why, sir?" demanded Frank. "Surely we have nothing to fear from one of our own vessels."

"You seem to forget about this German flag we carry," said Lord Hastings; "also, that, so far as we know, there are no British submarines in these waters."

"That's so, sir. I had forgotten just who we are supposed to be."

"We'll go below," said Lord Hastings.

He moved toward the conning tower, but even as he would have descended below, Frank gave a sudden cry.

"Submarine approaching the steamer, sir."

Lord Hastings immediately turned his gaze toward the vessel again. Frank had spoken truly. Halfway between the steamship and the U-16 a second submarine had suddenly appeared. Even from where he stood, Lord Hastings could see that the steamer had been ordered to halt.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "They're going to sink her!"

Jack came on deck just in time to hear his commander's last words, and he took in the situation at a glance.

"And we can't remain here idly and let a thing like that happen," he declared. "Come, sir, we'll go below and we'll have a shot at our German friend there."

"You forget," said Lord Hastings dryly, "that for the moment we are one of our friend, the enemy."

"But we can't let them sink the liner, sir!" exclaimed Frank in dismay. "We can creep up on them and launch a torpedo, sir."

"And be discovered ourselves?" remarked Lord Hastings. "Remember, we are playing for bigger game than a single German submarine."

"But no one will know the difference, sir. See, there are no other submarines near. If we sink this fellow, who is to know how it was done?"

"Your reasoning is all right," replied his commander, "but another submarine is likely to appear at just the wrong moment, and then what?"

"But surely, sir, you do not intend to remain here and let all the people aboard the liner drown?"

"The chances are that they won't drown," returned Lord Hastings. "Even now you can see that the vessel has halted. The German will give passengers and crew time to take to the boats."

"But they may not, sir."

"Well, we'll get as close as possible," said Lord Hastings, "and if the German threatens to sink the vessel before all are safely off, I'll give my permission to sink her. But I do not wish to risk discovery unless it is absolutely necessary."

With this the lads were forced to be satisfied.

The U-16 had now come within perhaps a hundred and fifty yards of the other submarine, which in turn was possibly another hundred yards from the big liner. The voice of the commander of the German under-water craft carried plainly to the U-16.

"Five minutes more," he called to the commander of the liner. "I can wait no longer. If all have not left the ship by that time, I shall sink you anyhow."

Instantly all became confusion aboard the steamship. Men, women and children ran shrieking up and down the deck; seeking a place of safety.

A boat was lowered over the side loaded with passengers. Hardly had it struck the water when perhaps a dozen men and women flung themselves over the side of the vessel into the boat. The little craft, already overloaded, could stand no more. It tilted gradually to one side and then suddenly turned over.

The occupants were thrown into the water and disappeared beneath it. Soon heads bobbed up here and there and pitiful cries were borne across the water to the U-16.

A second small boat, launched in haste, met the same fate, as did a third.

The panic aboard the liner became more acute. Hoarse commands of men and shrill cries of women and children rang out over the sea, while at the same moment the commander of the German submarine called out:

"Hurry now! Five minutes more!"

Lord Hastings took his decision instantly.

"Below," he said quietly as he led the way. Frank and Jack followed.

"Submerge, Mr. Templeton," came Lord Hastings' sharp command.

Jack gave the order. The conning tower was hermetically closed instantly and Lord Hastings took his place at the periscope. When the U-16 had submerged until the periscope barely protruded above the water's edge, Lord Hastings ordered:

"Hold her there!"

Orders came thick and fast now. Gradually the U-16 swerved a bit, to better bring her torpedo tubes to bear. Lord Hastings gave a hurried order to Jack, who stood at his elbow.

"Let no one come near me here," he said. "It would not do to have Davis or one of the crew see what we are about to do."

"No one shall pass me, sir," was Jack's quiet response.

"Good. Signal No. 2 torpedo."

Immediately upon going below Frank had ordered the men to their posts, where they now stood, eagerly expectant -- the German members of the crew because they believed a British ship was to be torpedoed, and the Englishmen because they knew a German craft of some kind had been encountered.

The electric signal board aboard the submarine now flashed red:

"No. 2 torpedo!"

The man on duty there, who chanced to be a German, stood tense and expectant.

"How does she go above, sir?" asked Jack.

"Still a panic on the liner," returned Lord Hastings. "Several boats have been lowered safely, however, and are picking up those in the water. If the German will withhold his fire for ten minutes, all will be saved."

"Does he seem to be ready to fire, sir?"

"He seems to be holding off and I hope he does. However, I'm ready, and we'll beat him to it."

"I --  -- " began Jack, and whirled about suddenly. He had caught the sound of footsteps behind him.

The lad looked into the face of Davis.

"Stand back there!" he commanded sharply.

"Why? What's the matter? What's going on?" demanded the latter.

"None of your business," replied Jack. "Back now, quick!"

"Look here --  -- " began Davis.

"You heard me," said Jack slowly and very quietly. "Now obey and be quick about it."

"By whose command?" inquired Davis with a leer.

"By mine," returned Jack, restraining his temper with difficulty.

"I don't recognize your authority," declared Davis, and took another step forward.

Lord Hastings had been peering intently into the periscope and had paid no attention to what was going on behind him. He had given Jack his orders and he knew they would be carried out. However, now turning from the periscope to speak a word to the lad, he saw what was going on and he caught Jack's last words and Davis' reply.

"Then perhaps you will recognize mine," he said. "Stand back, sir!"

Without awaiting a reply he again turned to the periscope. For a moment Davis hesitated and seemed about to protest, but Jack gave him time for no further words.

The lad stretched out a long arm quietly, seized Davis by the elbow, drew him toward him a pace, and then hurled him violently backward. Davis went tumbling head over heels. Jack wasted no further thought on him, and turned to Lord Hastings.

Davis, very angry, pulled himself slowly to his feet and glared at Jack evilly. Suddenly he put his hand to his belt, whipped out his revolver, and levelled it straight at Jack.

But before his finger could press the trigger his wrist was seized in a strong grasp from behind and the weapon was twisted from his hand. Whirling angrily Davis looked into the face of Frank, who was smiling quietly.

"What's the meaning of this?" demanded the latter.

Davis face turned dark with rage.

"I'll show you," he cried, and struck a vicious blow at the lad.

But Frank had been prepared for some such move and stepped back quickly.

Davis missed.

Frank realized that this was neither time nor place to settle his grievance with Davis, so he took the simplest way out. His hand flashed to his belt and his revolver came to a level.

"That's enough," he said sharply. "One step forward and I'll shoot, so surely as my name is Frank Chadwick."

There was no mistaking the menace in the lad's tones, and growling to himself, Davis dropped his hands. Then, still muttering and keeping at some distance, he slunk away, hurling over his shoulder:

"I'll get you for this yet. Remember that."

Frank did not take the trouble to reply, but instead approached Jack and Lord Hastings.

"How are things, sir?" he asked.

"At a standstill," replied Lord Hastings. "The German is withholding his fire, but there are still people on the liner. If he will restrain his impatience for a few minutes everything will be all right."

"Perhaps he will, sir," said Jack hopefully.

"I trust so. It will be better for all concerned. Everything ready, Frank?"

"All ready, sir. You're sure No. 2 torpedo has the range?"

"Perfectly. It will reach the enemy's bridge at its present angle."

"Could I have a look, sir?" asked Frank.

For a brief moment Lord Hastings hesitated, then stepped aside and motioned Frank to his place at the periscope.

"Give the command to fire if anything happens," instructed Lord Hastings.

Frank nodded, and placed his hand on the signal button, at the same time peering into the periscope.

Above everything was perfectly plain. The lad could see that the captain of the liner and some passengers still remained aboard; and, a short distance away, he saw the German submarine, with her commander standing upon the bridge, watch in hand.

Suddenly the German's watch closed with a snap. Frank drew a sharp breath, for he realized what was coming. Slowly the German officer's hand moved upward. Frank divined that he was about to give the signal to fire a torpedo at the defenseless vessel.

Frank's heart leaped into his mouth; and he pressed the little button beneath his finger. And once again the signal board on the U-16 glowed red:

"Fire!"



Chapter XVII.

An Argument Settled -- Temporarily.


There came a sharp, metallic click; and after it the silence of death aboard the U-16 for a brief second while Lord Hastings took Frank's place.

Then the German sailor who had launched the torpedo cried out:

"Did we hit her, sir?"

Lord Hastings took his eye from the periscope long enough to answer: "Squarely on the bridge, my man."

The sailor gave a guttural exclamation of joy, in which his countrymen joined. The three Englishmen had the presence of mind to say nothing. Then one of the Germans turned to Edwards, who stood by him at that moment.

"There goes one of your vessels," he said happily.

"Where many of yours will go before long," returned Edwards, turning away to hide a grin.

"Then we hit her, sir?" questioned Frank eagerly.

"We did," returned Lord Hastings.

"Shall we go to the surface again?" Jack asked.

"Hardly," returned Lord Hastings dryly. "The men naturally would want to go on deck to have a look at their work, and when they saw a British steamship floating safely they would probably do some thinking. No; we'll submerge still deeper and get away from here."

"And the people aboard the liner, sir?" asked Frank.

"Will have to shift for themselves," was the reply. "However, they are in no danger now."

"Very well, sir."

"You may submerge to ten fathoms, Mr. Templeton," said Lord Hastings.

Jack gave the order, and a moment later the tanks of the U-16 began to take in more water. When at the proper depth, Lord Hastings ordered full speed ahead.

"Where now, sir?" asked Jack.

"To where we can do the most good," was his commander's reply. "To Dover, where I shall make an attempt to acquaint the British authorities with what we have learned."

"And where we'll set a neat little trap for the enemy, sir," said Frank eagerly.

"We'll try," returned Lord Hastings grimly.

One of the Germans was now called to take the wheel, and, leaving Lord Hastings in the latter's cabin, Jack and Frank made their way aft. Here, as they passed the compartment in which the crew bunked, they heard a commotion.

The two lads entered quickly. There, in the middle of the floor, surrounded by half a dozen of the German sailors, stood Davis, and confronting him was the British sailor, O'Brien. The latter was speaking.

"Yes, I called you a contemptible traitor," he said, thrusting his face forward and speaking in German. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I'll show you," replied Davis.

He raised an arm suddenly, and, taking O'Brien off his guard, sent him to the floor with a blow to the point of the chin. The man lay still.

Frank's blood boiled.

"Guess I'll take a hand in this myself," he said through his teeth. "I've been wanting to get at him for some time now."

In vain Jack sought to stay his chum. The latter shook off the detaining hand and sprang forward. Before Davis noticed his presence the lad was upon him.

There was a resounding smack as Frank struck Davis lightly across the face with his open palm.

"You big coward," he said, "to taunt a prisoner. I'll teach you a little lesson. Take off your coat."

For a moment Davis shrank back before the boy; but seeing the eager faces about him and realizing that the others expected something from him he jerked off his coat and faced the lad.

"You'll wish you had kept out of my path," he sneered.

It was plain to be seen that sentiment was about evenly divided among the German crew. The men knew neither of the combatants were German, and while they knew that Davis was a traitor to his country, they had a pretty good idea that Jack and Frank were too. For some reason, however, none had the slightest doubt that Lord Hastings was a German.

Now Jack stepped forward, and, speaking in German, said:

"Men, as long as these fellows have got to fight, it may as well be done right, eh?"

There was a general murmur of approval from the crew.

"All right," said Jack. "Now, we won't have any rules, except that this is to be a straight fight. No kicking, biting nor gouging. Nothing but fists go." He looked Davis squarely in the eye. "Do I make myself clear?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Davis sullenly.

"Good. Then when I say 'go' you can tackle each other until I cry stop, which shall be at the end of fifteen minutes, if you are both on your feet. And then you'll stop if I have to take you both in hand. Stand back, men."

The Germans crowded back to the edge of the little room to give the combatants free play. To most of them this was something new.

Most had seen many fights and duels, but it is doubtful if any had ever witnessed a stand-up fight with bare fists. They leaned forward expectantly.

Frank and Davis had both rolled up their sleeves and now awaited the word, Davis sullen and glowering, and Frank cool and collected, apparently, though to Jack's keen eye the lad was plainly very angry. Jack was not without some misgivings as to the outcome of the encounter, for Davis was much the larger of the two.

Also he was apparently much stronger than his adversary, and from his position Jack knew that he must know something of the pugilistic art. To Jack, an exceptionally skillful boxer himself, it looked as though Frank had tackled more than he could finish.

"If Davis were only a German now," he muttered to himself. "But he's English, and, although he's a traitor, he'll probably give Frank a trimming."

"All ready," said Jack, watch in hand. "G --  -- "

At this moment there was an interruption from the doorway.

"What's the meaning of this?" demanded a stern voice.

All turned quickly. Lord Hastings stood in the doorway.

"I say, what's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Just a little personal affair, sir," replied Frank, stepping forward. "Davis here and I are going to settle a difference."

"Hm-m-m," muttered Lord Hastings, sizing the two up critically. "And you think you can thrash him, eh?"

"I think so, sir."

"Well, I don't," was the reply. "I have a notion to forbid it."

"Don't, sir," pleaded Frank. "It will have to come some time, and the sooner the better."

Lord Hastings was plainly undecided. But at last he threw open his arms in a gesture of permission.

"Go ahead, then," he said. "I'll stay and see fair play."

Watch in hand, Jack raised an arm. He was silent a moment. Then,

"Go!" he said, "and remember, fight fair!"

The two combatants had sprung forward before the words were out of Jack's mouth, and the latter was obliged to skip nimbly aside to get out of their way.

Davis rushed forward to meet Frank, who advanced more slowly, though with confidence written large on his features. Jack, perceiving this, shook his head sadly.

Frank evaded Davis' first terrific blow, that must have laid him flat had it landed. Side-stepping neatly, he struck Davis a light and glancing blow over the right ear. There was little force behind it and Davis did not even wince. He whirled and rushed again.

Again Frank side-stepped and planted a light blow to Davis' head, following it up quickly with a heavier blow to the forehead. Davis shook his head, and, raising his guard, stood still. Evidently he had decided to try no more rushing tactics.

Frank, nothing loath to take the offensive, advanced confidently. He feinted with his left and drove hard with his right. He knew that he gauged the distance carefully and he was unable to account for the fact that the blow failed to land. A moment later he staggered back a trifle from a blow upon the side of the cheek. Davis had outgeneraled him there.

There was not much force to the blow and Frank smiled. Now Davis advanced, and, feinting rapidly with both hands, placed his right against Frank's mouth. But the lad had perceived the blow coming and stepped quickly backward, breaking the force of it, and was not hurt. Before Davis could cover, the lad placed a hard right and left to Davis' nose, bringing blood. Davis gave ground.

Frank followed up this advantage quickly and followed his man around the room, striking out whenever opportunity offered. Plainly Davis was becoming rattled. He continued to retreat. Now Frank backed him into a corner and drove a hard uppercut to the chin. Davis' head jerked backward and struck the hard wood of the wall. Frank stepped back and allowed Davis to come out of the corner.

Davis, it could be plainly seen, was furiously angry; but he held himself in check, apparently realizing that victory depended upon coolness and caution.

Frank advanced swiftly, swung and missed by a fraction of an inch, as Davis jerked his head sharply to one side. Before the lad could recover, Davis struck out viciously and landed flush on Frank's jaw. The lad staggered back, but before Davis could follow up his advantage, Frank covered and held his opponent off. The blow had been the hardest of the fight so far.

Davis, with more confidence since this blow, stepped forward aggressively, feinted quickly two or three times, and sent a hard right to Frank's sore jaw. Again Frank covered up and gave ground. Believing that he had the lad at his mercy, Davis advanced quickly and swung hard with his left.

With dazzling rapidity, Frank stepped inside and, catching the swing with his left arm, planted his right fist squarely upon Davis' nose. Davis uttered a cry of pain and leaped back. Frank followed, pressing him closely.

Davis seemed content to remain on the defensive now, and for the space of perhaps a minute warded off all the lad's blows with a really remarkable defense. Even Jack was forced to give him his due.

"He can box," he muttered, "but I doubt if he can keep his head."

But the end of the battle came now with sudden and unexpected swiftness. Frank, seeking to put an end to the fight, stepped forward, feinted with his left, and drove his right straight for Davis' chin, swinging from the floor.

Davis jerked his head back sharply, and the lad missed. Before he could recover Davis had swung hard with both hands and both blows went home, one catching Frank in the abdomen, doubling him up, and the other straightening him again as it landed squarely on his chin.

Frank dropped to the floor and lay still.



Chapter XVIII.

Mistaken For An Enemy.


Davis had won -- fairly and cleanly -- there was no doubt about that.

But Jack and Lord Hastings wasted no time in considering the merits of the encounter. Each sprang forward and bent above the lad. Lord Hastings raised the boy's head to his knee.

"Water," he said to Jack.

The latter hastened to get it, and after a few drops had been sprinkled over his face, Frank opened his eyes. He glanced up curiously at Lord Hastings.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "What's happened?"

"Matter is," returned Jack quietly, "that you have just been convinced that you are not such a terrible fighter as you have been thinking."

"You mean he licked me?" demanded Frank, suddenly realizing just what had happened.

"He did," returned Jack dryly; "and he did a pretty good job of it."

"But I tell you I had him," cried Frank. "One more blow and -- and --  -- "

"The one more blow didn't land," replied his chum.

"But I tried --  -- "

"Yes, you tried, all right. I saw you. You just missed him and then he landed on you -- twice, and hard. That's why you're here."

"He couldn't do it again," said Frank feebly.

"Maybe not and maybe yes," said Jack. "However, you're not going to have another trial. You've been licked, and licked good and proper, and that's all there is to it. See if you can get up now. I'll take you to our own quarters."

Frank pulled himself to his feet, and, leaning on Jack, walked from the room.

Davis now had donned his coat and stood near as the two passed out. There was a sneering smile on his puffed face, and he spoke.

"Perhaps you fellows will pay a little more attention to me when I say something after this," he muttered.

Jack whirled on him sharply.

"See here," he said quietly, "if you make any trouble in the future I'll take you in hand myself. You'll find that the result will be somewhat different."

"So?" sneered Davis, feeling not a little proud of himself. "You are at liberty to try at any time. Right now, eh?"

He made as if to discard his coat. Flushed with victory, he manifested no doubt that he could handle Jack as well as Frank.

In spite of himself, Jack was forced to smile.

"We won't fight now," he said quietly. "You're not in condition in the first place. But when you have been fixed up, I just want to tell you not to trifle with me."

"Threats, eh?"

"Call them what you please. I don't want to have to spank you, but I may have to. Don't bother me, that's all."

He helped Frank from the room without another word. Lord Hastings, about to leave the room, stopped for a word with Davis.

"Just a word of advice," he said. "As you know, we are on a perilous duty. Any more trouble and I'll have you ironed if necessary. You're in no position to make a nuisance of yourself."

Davis made no reply. He recognized Lord Hastings' authority to do as he said and he was smart enough to say nothing. Lord Hastings left Davis with the sailors.

An hour after leaving the spot where the U-16 had so recently sent a German submarine to the bottom, Lord Hastings again gave the command to come to the surface; and the vessel proceeded then upon the top of the water.

Frank and Jack, tired out, had retired for a brief rest before their services would again be required; but had they been in Davis' cabin they would have overheard a strange conversation.

Davis and three of the German sailors were engaged in a deep and apparently serious discussion. They talked in subdued tones and cast occasional furtive glances at the door. Occasionally the three nodded their heads affirmatively as Davis talked, each occasionally volunteering a few words himself.

"Then you are with me?" asked Davis at length.

The men nodded.

"Good. But we shall have to bide our time. A false step and it would be the end of all of us. This Commander Bernstorff, I should say, is a bad man to fool with. But once we can get him in our power and silence the others, we can make something of ourselves."

"Yah!" muttered one of the sailors. "What is this war to us anyhow? You are English and we are German; but what of it? Why should we take orders from such men as Herr Commander Bernstorff and others of his kind?"

"Why, indeed?" echoed another.

"You are right," said Davis. "Now, when we take possession of this vessel we will be our own masters. No one to tell us what to do. We won't have to risk our lives for some one else's gain. And what booty we can get shall be evenly divided among us. There is rich prey upon the sea."

"But first," said one of the sailors, "to come into possession of this vessel, we shall have to dispose of Commander Bernstorff, his lieutenants, and others of the crew."

"How," exclaimed one of the others suddenly, "how if some of the others would join us? I have no doubt they would if approached in the right way."

"We don't want too many," protested the third. "The fewer of us, the fewer to share in the spoils."

"True enough," said Davis, "but we must have men enough for a crew. I, of course, shall command. You three will be my officers. We must have a crew."

"How about the English sailors?" asked one of the Germans. "They must be dissatisfied. Here they are prisoners and will be kept under guard until the end of the war. Certainly they should be willing to join us. It will mean freedom and a share in the rich spoils."

"With which to retire when the war is over," put in another. "Why, we can go to America and live at ease for years to come."

"Which is my plan exactly," declared Davis. "Yes, we must have a crew. Hans, do you think you could approach these prisoners?"

"Leave that to me, sir," replied Hans with an evil wink. "I think I can convince them, sir."

"Good; but in the meantime, do not talk this among yourselves. I believe we had better wait until after the end of the expedition we are now on. Vigilance, probably, will relax then. In the meantime, we must try and show ourselves to be perfectly loyal to the Kaiser."

"Very well, sir."

"All right then," said Davis. "You fellows clear out now. I want to get a little sleep."

Silently the three conspirators made their way from the traitor's cabin. No one saw them go and the success of the plot seemed assured as the U-16 continued on her journey, Lord Hastings, Frank, Jack and the other British aboard unaware and unsuspecting.

Shortly after dusk of the night upon which the German under-sea fleet expected to spring its coup, the U-16 lay upon the calm surface of the water still some distance from the point set for the gathering of the submarine flotilla at the midnight hour, and likewise a considerable distance from Dover.

Explaining his reason for stopping here, Lord Hastings said: "There may be British patrol boats about -- probably are. I want you boys to remain in charge here, while I take a boat and try to reach the British authorities."

"One of us had better go along, sir," declared Frank.

Lord Hastings considered this a minute.

"I don't know but you are right," he finally said. "Frank shall go. Jack will take command in my absence."

He addressed the latter. "Arm Edwards and our other men," he continued, "though do it unknown to the Germans. I don't altogether trust this Davis. Of course he is in the pay of the Germans; but once a traitor always a traitor. Watch him closely."

"I'll watch him," said Jack quietly.

"Very well. Frank and I shall leave at once."

Lord Hastings ordered a small boat over the side, the two jumped into it and rowed rapidly away, leaving Jack to pass the word among the crew that Commander Bernstorff had gone on a little scouting expedition.

For half an hour Lord Hastings and Frank rowed along without incident until they could see a few dull lights in the distant town of Dover.

"Seems to me there is a terrible lack of vigilance hereabouts," declared Frank.

"It does look that way," Lord Hastings admitted. "However --  -- "

There came a sudden interruption -- the sound of a shot, and a bullet whistled overhead.

"Not such a terrible lack of vigilance, either," remarked Lord Hastings. "I wonder where that shot came from?"

He gazed about but could see nothing in the darkness. Came a second shot from behind him, and turning, the two saw a little motorboat that had crept up behind them unnoticed.

"We surrender!" called Lord Hastings, fearing to take a chance that the next shot would miss.

The motorboat came toward them quickly.

"Who are you?" demanded a figure standing in the bow, and at this distance Lord Hastings could dimly make out that the man wore a British uniform.

"Friends," was the reply.

The British officer peered at them sharply, then noticed their German uniforms.

"Friends, eh," he said; "in those uniforms. Not likely. Climb into my boat."

Lord Hastings and Frank obeyed without a word, and at a command from the British officer the motorboat put about and headed shoreward.

"Where are you taking us?" asked Lord Hastings quietly.

"None of your business," was the sharp response.

"So?" said Lord Hastings quietly. "I would advise you to speak more respectfully. I would not like to report you. I asked you a civil question and I would appreciate a civil answer."

"Well, I'll tell you, seeing that you are so anxious," replied the officer. "I am taking you to Admiral Fischer, at Dover, who, most likely, will know better how to attend to your case than I do."

"Most likely," repeated Lord Hastings. "And how long before we may expect to see the admiral?"

"About half an hour."

"Good!" And Lord Hastings whispered to Frank: "Plenty of time. Fortunately I am well acquainted with Admiral Fischer."



Chapter XIX.

The Trap Is Set.


"Hastings!"

The exclamation was wrung from the lips of the astonished Admiral Fischer, in command of the naval forces operating about Dover.

"Right you are, Fischer," was Lord Hastings' smiling rejoinder, "though how you recognized me in all this German toggery is more than I can explain."

The admiral advanced and wrung Lord Hastings' hand.

"And why this German uniform?" he asked. "And who is this young man with you?"

"I'll answer the last question first," smiled Lord Hastings, "by presenting to your excellency, my second officer, Mr. Frank Chadwick."

Admiral Fischer acknowledged the introduction.

"Now for the answer to my other question," he said.

In a few brief words Lord Hastings explained. As he progressed with his recital Admiral Fischer became more and more astonished. And when Lord Hastings had concluded, the admiral burst out:

"And you mean to tell me the Germans have the temerity to attempt a raid in the very mouth of the Thames?"

Lord Hastings nodded.

"They certainly have," he said quietly, and he produced the order he had received from the German admiral.

Admiral Fischer scanned it closely.

"It's authentic enough," he said finally, "I know his signature well. And this raid is to take place at midnight, eh?"

"Well, no. We are to gather at midnight. How long it will take to reach the mouth of the Thames you can figure yourself."

"I can," declared the admiral. "And I can also figure that if these submarines dare enter the Thames they will never get out."

"But you must figure better than that, Admiral. You must figure so they will be unable to do any damage. That's even better than figuring that they cannot escape after the damage is done."

"So it is," returned the admiral. "Have you a plan?"

"Why, yes! You must immediately order all warships and other craft now at the mouth of the Thames, further up river. Order a swift torpedo boat flotilla down the river -- as many as are available -- and have half a dozen torpedo boats -- equipped with nets -- to take their places behind the motorboat fleet."

"And then?"

"Well, the motorboats will attack the submarines as soon as they appear. A few of them undoubtedly will be sunk. Then let the rest retire. The submarines, submerged by this time, will travel forward a bit. At this point have the torpedo boats, with nets stretched, proceed down each side of the river. Of course, the torpedo boats must advance at the moment the motorboats flee."

"But I should think the Germans are too wary to be caught in a trap like that."

"They won't be, because they expect the raid to be too unexpected for such details to have been arranged. Only one stipulation. Instruct all your officers under no circumstances to fire at the first submersible to move up the river."

"And why?" demanded the admiral.

"Chiefly," smiled Lord Hastings, "because I don't want to go to the bottom."

"Oh, I see! You mean to lead the German advance."

"Exactly, and for two reasons. First, because I wish to reach a place of safety at the earliest possible moment, and second, because if the Germans see one craft advance, apparently unafraid, the others will not hesitate to follow."

"But perhaps it will be impossible for you to lead the way."

"You just leave that to me, Fischer. I shall be in the first submarine. The only question that remains is whether you have time to lay your plans."

"Plenty," was the reply. "I'll begin now."

He pressed a button on his desk and an orderly entered. At a command he left the room again, only to summon other officers. Admiral Fischer scribbled rapidly, passing paper after paper to different officers. At the end of another half hour, he turned to Lord Hastings.

"All ready," he said quietly.

"You have lost no time," replied Lord Hastings with a smile. He glanced at his watch. "Almost ten," he said. "Come, Frank, we shall have to hurry."

"Look here, Hastings," said Admiral Fischer, "don't you think you are taking unnecessary risks? What's the use of going back? Why not stay here?"

"Impossible, Fischer," returned Lord Hastings. "In the first place, some of my men are there and I must return to them. Then again, I want to be in the fun."

The admiral shrugged his shoulders.

"I know you too well to insist," he said. "So be it. But one thing; remember that you must be in the first submarine."

"I'll be there," said Lord Hastings.

Admiral Fischer summoned the officer who had conducted the two to him and instructed him to return them to where he had picked them up. The officer looked surprised, but he said nothing. Lord Hastings shook hands with Admiral Fischer and he and Frank followed the officer from the room.

Quickly they made their way back to the motorboat, were hurried out over to the dark water, and finally were given their own small boat again, in which they headed for the U-16.

"Think you can find her, sir?" asked Frank.

"No trouble at all," was the reply.

And there was no trouble.

By eleven o'clock they were safely back aboard and Jack received them anxiously.

"What luck, sir?" he asked.

"Excellent," replied Lord Hastings. "How did everything go in my absence?"

"All quiet, sir."

"No trouble with Davis?"

"No, sir. I haven't even seen him."

"Very well. Now you may give the order to submerge and we'll make for the rendezvous."

Jack obeyed.

It was just exactly three minutes to twelve when Lord Hastings, having taken his bearings and found he was in the designated spot, gave the command to come to the surface.

Slowly the U-16 arose from the deep, and immediately she rested upon the surface, Jack and Frank followed Lord Hastings to the bridge.

The night was perfectly dark and at first they were unable to make out an object upon the silent water. But suddenly, to the left, there was a single brief flash of light; a second to the right; one forward and one astern; then other arrivals from the deep flashed a signal of their safe arrival. Producing his small pocket flashlight, Lord Hastings did the same.

"Seven besides ourselves," he muttered to himself.

Slowly now the submarines drew closer together until presently a voice from the bridge of one could be heard by all as Admiral Schuler addressed his captains.

"We shall submerge until our periscopes alone show," he gave his orders. "Then we shall proceed at full speed for the mouth of the Thames."

"But mines?" protested a voice.

"The mines have been swept clear," was the reply. "A flotilla of mine sweepers have been busy since dark. Now, heed these orders: We shall keep as close together as possible. Reaching the Thames, one submarine must lead the way. I shall call for a volunteer."

"Here, sir," Lord Hastings spoke up before the other commanders had a chance.

The others also volunteered, but Admiral Schuler awarded the honor to the U-16.

"You spoke first," he explained. Then he continued: "Unfortunately, we have been unable to learn the exact positions of the various British war vessels in the Thames, but we do know that there are many stationed there -- just how far up the river I cannot say. However, once there we shall not return until we have sunk them."

A subdued cheer ran across the water in the darkness.

"It is time to go," said Admiral Schuler. "I shall show the way to the Thames, when the U-16 will take the lead. To your posts and follow me closely."

He went below, and the other commanders did likewise. A moment later the purr of machinery became audible aboard each vessel. Each submerged until the tip of her periscope protruded above the water, and then they sped after the flagship into the darkness of the night.

Swiftly they went, for Admiral Schuler realized the value of haste. He wished to make the raid and be out to sea again before the break of day.

Aboard the eight units of the submarine flotilla there was joy unrestrained. The crews of each vessel had been taken into the confidence of their commanders by this time and the men aboard seven of the craft were eagerly awaiting the moment when they could strike a terrible blow at the British navy. In view of the successes that had already attended the efforts of the German submersibles, there was little doubt in the hearts of the men that the present venture would be accomplished.

Even the three British sailors aboard the U-16 were cheerful, for although they did not realize the exact import of their mission, they knew Lord Hastings well enough to realize that he was acting in this manner only because there was some big duty to perform. They were content to follow him blindly.

Perhaps the only four men with the fleet who did not really have their interests aroused were Davis and his three fellow conspirators. Their only hope was that the sooner they came through the venture successfully the sooner they might get to work on their own plans.

The submarine fleet sped silently through the waters, going as swift as the wind; and when it finally reached the broad mouth of the Thames, the key to London itself, it still lacked two hours of dawn. But it was time for quick work and Admiral Schuler was not the man to hesitate -- had he been, he would not have held this important post.

The submarines came to the surface now, in accordance with previous instructions, and Admiral Schuler, by a signal with his light, instructed the U-16 to proceed ahead. The other vessels dropped back a little.

"Well," said Lord Hastings to Frank and Jack, who stood beside him on the bridge, "here goes. May good fortune attend us."

He gave Jack the command:

"Full speed ahead!"



Chapter XX.

The Trap Is Sprung.


As the three officers aboard the U-16 knew, British battleships and vessels of war of all descriptions had been stationed all along the Thames, many of them patrolling the very mouth of the river. But now, as Lord Hastings, Jack and Frank stood upon the bridge of the little submarine after it had entered the mouth of Thames, there was not a vessel of any kind to be seen in the darkness.

"Admiral Fischer's orders have been followed out, sir," said Jack in a low voice.

Lord Hastings nodded but made no reply.

Behind the U-16 the other German submarines followed closely, two abreast. Aboard each the men stood to their posts, awaiting the signal they expected at any minute. All the vessels moved along upon the surface. The officers, from their places upon the bridge, followed with their eyes the movements of the U-16, which displayed a small stern light to guide them on.

In case of danger Lord Hastings had been instructed to give immediate warning, that the vessels behind might have time to dive.

Perhaps a hundred yards away in the darkness Frank's keen eyes now made out the forms of many little craft approaching them silently and swiftly. He immediately called Lord Hastings' attention.

"The motorboats," replied the latter quietly. "Things are working out just right."

Behind the motorboat flotilla could be seen forms of larger and mightier ships of war -- the torpedo boats which were advancing in the wake of the mosquito fleet to surround the enemy submarines and capture or sink them. They came along close to the shore on either side of the river and the U-16 continued up the river in the exact center.

"When we get by, they'll close in," said Lord Hastings.

But now one of the commanders with the motorboat flotilla could restrain his impatience no longer, and while still some distance from the enemy gave the command to fire.

A single big gun boomed in the darkness and a shell screamed over the U-16 toward the German submarines beyond.

"The fool!" exclaimed Lord Hastings angrily. "Why could he not wait? There is no reason for concealment longer."

Immediately he gave the signal agreed upon with the German admiral, the darkening of the tail light -- the signal for the others to submerge -- and the U-16 dashed forward faster than before -- to reach a place of safety as quickly as possible and to get out of range of the British ships, which, a moment later, opened upon the enemy with every available gun.

Directly opposite the U-16 there was a terrible explosion, a blinding flash, illumining the night like day. A German submarine had launched a torpedo and it had gone home. The foremost British torpedo boat had been destroyed.

But the others rushed on.

The Germans had heeded Lord Hastings' signal to submerge and were doing their best to disappear beneath the water before the British could reach them, the while firing an occasional torpedo, in the hope that it would go true, for they were unable to find the range and were working on mere guesswork.

Before the first of the foe could submerge a shell from one of the little motorboats struck her squarely upon the bridge, killing the captain and other officers, and shattering the conning tower. The men below no longer had a means of guiding the vessel, which drifted toward her nearest neighbor and rammed her amidships. This blow, while not necessarily fatal, threw the latter out of her stride, and being unable to tell for the moment what was wrong, the German commander gave the order to cease submerging; and the vessel remained where she was until a shell from a British torpedo boat put an end to her.

The two enemy under-sea boats last in line had turned about with the first warning and were making full speed down river again. The rest had submerged before the British could come upon them and had sought to come about and make their way to safety beneath the water.

But the British vessels were too swift for them. With mine nets stretched clear across the river, now that the U-16 had passed to safety, the torpedo boats dashed ahead; and an hour later four more German submarines, caught in these powerful nets, were helpless. It only remained to drag them to the surface and make prisoners of the crews, which work was deferred until daylight.

Aboard the U-16 none knew what had occurred save the three upon the bridge -- Lord Hastings, Frank and Jack. Below, all stood to their posts, awaiting they knew not what.

Jack descended.

"All right, men," he said, "you may turn in, if you wish. There'll be no fighting to-night."

There was an exclamation of disappointment from among the German sailors, who apparently had been banking on dealing a severe blow to the British. There were several questions, which Jack answered by saying:

"We haven't come upon the enemy yet, and will not to-day."

He returned to the bridge.

"I suppose," said Lord Hastings, "the best thing we can do now is to go ashore and report. Frank, you shall come with me. Jack will remain behind."

The lads nodded.

Half an hour later Jack was left aboard the U-16, while Lord Hastings and Frank were being rowed ashore.

Below, although Jack did not know it, trouble was brewing. Davis and his three fellow-conspirators were plotting again.

"And what did this man Edwards say?" demanded Davis of one of the Germans.

"He said he would let me know some time to-day," was the reply. "Also, that he felt sure the others would follow his lead -- would do whatever he said. He agreed with me that this was no war of ours, and added that as long as kings and emperors were using us to do their will, there was no reason why we shouldn't confiscate the property of kings and emperors to gain a few advantages for ourselves."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Davis. "The fellow reasons well. He may prove the very man for us." And he added to himself: "It would be a good thing to have another Englishman with me, if he is of the right sort."

The conversation continued for some moments, and then Davis said:

"Say, one of you fellows, tell Edwards I want to see him now."

One of the men departed, and returned a moment later, followed by Edwards. Davis engaged him in conversation and the two talked in low tones for perhaps five minutes. Then Davis turned to the others.

"I can see no reason why we should wait longer," he said. "Bernstorff and one of his officers is ashore. There remains only one and the crew. We can dispose of the one officer easily enough, and as for the crew, I am of the opinion that most of them will join us."

"Then," said Edwards, "if you will wait here until I return I will get my other men."

"It would be better that way," agreed Davis. "There will be seven of us and that should be enough. Hurry."

Edwards withdrew. First he made his way to where O'Brien and McDonald were asleep, and, rousing them, bade them follow him; but instead of returning to Davis' quarters, he led the way rapidly to where Jack stood upon the bridge.

Edwards explained the situation in a few brief words and Jack was dumbfounded.

"And you say Davis is preparing to spring this coup to-night?" exclaimed Jack.

"Right now, sir," returned Edwards quietly. "That's why I brought O'Brien and McDonald here. We are all armed, sir."

"Oh, we are more than a match for Davis and his trio of conspirators," Jack agreed. "The only thing that troubles me is that the others of the crew may join him. We shall have to act quickly. Follow me."

He drew his revolver and led the way below. There he hurried straight to Davis' quarters and flung open the door. Then he stopped in surprise.

"No one here," he ejaculated.

He was right. Davis and the others had gone; and though Jack did not know it, they were at that moment aft haranguing the crew, who had gathered about them eagerly.

Every man aboard the ship was now armed, for Lord Hastings had decided it would be inadvisable to relieve them of their weapons -- it would have aroused their suspicions -- and they were receiving Davis' proposals with satisfaction. It seemed that they had long harbored such thoughts and all that had been needed to egg them on had been a leader. They seemed to have found one in Davis.

"Then you men are with me?" asked Davis, his face flushed with pleasure.

The answer was a cheer; and the cheer carried to Jack, who was still in Davis' quarters. It told the lad what had happened just as well as though he had been present and overheard the conversation.

"Quick men! Back to the bridge!" the lad exclaimed.

He dashed forward, but he was not quick enough.

As he left Davis' cabin the Germans appeared in the little passageway aft, Davis in advance. He saw Jack the same moment the latter saw him and both raised their revolvers and fired. But neither had paused to take careful aim and both bullets went wide of their mark.

Edwards and the two other British sailors now sprang into the little passageway and levelled their revolvers at the foe. For a brief moment the Germans hesitated, and in that moment the British poured in a volley. Two men fell, another groaned, and two cursed -- while at a shouted command from Davis, the fire was returned.

The sailor McDonald flung wide his arms and toppled to the floor.

"Back, sir!" cried Edwards. "They are too many for us."

The three retreated along the passageway until they reached the ladder leading to the bridge.

"You first, sir!" said Edwards, at the same time firing down the passage.

Jack hung back.

"After you," he replied.

"Don't be a fool now," said Edwards. "Hurry, while I hold them off."

Again he fired at the crowd of German faces down the passage, as did O'Brien.

Jack hesitated no longer and climbed the ladder rapidly.

"You next, O'Brien," said Edwards.

O'Brien sprang to the ladder, but a bullet from a German revolver halted him halfway. He toppled over without a word. Edwards glanced at him quickly once, saw that he was beyond help, and sprang to the ladder himself.

A bullet struck him in the side but it did not stop him. Jack, at the top, lent the man a helping hand, and a moment later Edwards stood beside him on the deck.

"No time to waste, sir," said the sailor. "Over the side with you, quick!"

Jack flung himself into the river as Davis showed his face on deck.



Chapter XXI.

At Sea Again.


Edwards, also about to leap overboard at that moment, paused, raised his revolver, took careful aim at Davis and fired. Davis uttered a hoarse cry, dropped his own weapon, and crumpled up on the deck. Edwards smiled grimly, dropped his revolver and leaped lightly into the water.

He came up a moment later beside Jack, who was treading water while he awaited him.

"Which way, sir?" asked Edwards. "You know where we are. I don't."

"This," said Jack, "is the Thames. We'll have no trouble making shore. Follow me."

Edwards did so and a few moments later both stood dripping on land.

"Now where to, sir?" asked Edwards.

"We'll have to hunt up Lord Hastings. He's gone to make his report to the British authorities. By inquiring a bit we should have no trouble finding him."

The lad was right. A subordinate officer directed them to the quarters of General Hamilton, where Jack felt sure he would find his commander. At the door of the general's quarters an orderly halted them.

"Is Lord Hastings here?" demanded Jack.

"He is closeted with the general," was the reply.

"Well," said Jack, "you tell him his first officer is here and wants to see him immediately."

The orderly hesitated, but a second look at Jack and he did as commanded. A moment later Lord Hastings dashed out, closely followed by Frank.

"What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Nothing, only that we have been chased off the submarine," replied Jack quietly. "Davis headed a conspiracy to capture the vessel and I was unable to act quickly enough. Edwards and I escaped."

"And O'Brien and McDonald?" inquired Lord Hastings.

"Dead!"

"How about Davis and the others? Weren't you able to account for any of them?"

"A few, sir," returned Jack briefly, "but Davis --  -- "

"I think I got Davis, sir," Edwards interrupted quietly. "I took a shot at him just before I went over the side. He went down."

"I'm glad to hear that," returned Lord Hastings. "He is too dangerous a man to be at large. Besides, without him, the Germans will hardly get very far."

He turned to General Hamilton, who had followed him from his room, and added: "If you'll be so kind as to give me a detail of ten men, sir, I'll go and see about this matter. It may be that we can recapture the vessel."

General Hamilton acted quickly. He summoned an orderly and commanded that ten men be placed at Lord Hastings' disposal immediately. The men appeared on the run a moment later and Lord Hastings led them toward the river, where they all embarked in a small motorboat and headed for the spot where they had left the submarine.

But there was no submarine to be found. It had disappeared.

Lord Hastings uttered an exclamation of chagrin.

"They've gone," he said. "Edwards, I guess you didn't hurt Davis very bad. I don't suppose there was a sailor aboard who could navigate the vessel. Davis probably could."

"I'm sorry, sir," returned Edwards.

"So am I," returned his commander. "We'll have to catch that fellow, and it is likely to prove a hard job. However, the sooner we get after him the better."

"And what do you intend to do, sir?" asked Jack.

"We'll take another of these vessels and put to sea again," declared his commander. "We may come up with him sooner than we expect. But -- we'll take a British crew this time."

It was now after daylight and Lord Hastings set about his preparations with vigor. Before evening the lads found themselves aboard one of the German submarines that had been captured and brought to the surface. The vessel was manned with a full complement of British underwater sailors. Edwards was among them.

"We'll go down the river immediately," said Lord Hastings, after a tour of inspection of the vessel, "and when we are at sea we'll fly the German flag. None of our submarines looks anything like this craft, so if we come up with the enemy we will be taken for a German. You may steam at ten knots, Mr. Templeton."

Jack gave the order and the vessel moved down the river.

Shortly after nightfall the submarine, U-6, was proceeding into the North Sea, for it was there that Lord Hastings believed he would be more likely to encounter Davis and the U-16.

"Besides," he explained, "our usefulness is not at an end in the matter of obtaining information from the Germans. We may put into Ostend again if necessary."

All during the night, although Frank, Jack or Lord Hastings was continually on the bridge, they did not encounter anything that looked like an enemy ship, although the U-6 dived several times when it drew close to a British ship of war -- one of the blockading fleet Had the submarine approached too closely it would have drawn a shot from the battleship, whose commander could not possibly have known that the German submersible carried a British crew in the service of King George.

The following afternoon, having traveled far toward the east, they were to have an adventure.

Moving slowly along, and presenting the appearance, from a distance, of a little speck upon the surface of the sea, the U-6 continued toward the east. Frank had taken the bridge half an hour before and now was studying a faint smudge on the eastern horizon. A moment later and a second smudge appeared and then a third, to be followed almost immediately by a fourth.

"Strange!" he muttered. "Seems to be coming from the direction of Heligoland. Battleships all right, but the question is, British or German? Must be the latter, though how they figure to run the British blockade is more than I know. However, I haven't heard that any of our vessels are this close to Heligoland. It's too dangerous on account of the German mines."

He summoned Jack, who also gazed curiously at the smoke for some moments; but even while Jack gazed, the dim outline of a large battleship came into sight. Soon a second appeared and then a third.

"Must be German," said Jack. "Call Lord Hastings."

Frank did so and soon the commander of the U-6 appeared on deck.

Lord Hastings wasted no time in fixing the identity of the approaching vessels.

"Germans," he said briefly.

"Yes; but where are they going?" Jack wanted to know.

"Probably intend another raid on the British coast," returned Lord Hastings. "By the time they are in waters patrolled by our ships it will be dark, and they hope to pass them in the night. You haven't forgotten the raid on Scarborough and Hartlepool, have you?"

"No, I haven't," said Jack. "But I don't figure they would have the temerity to try another."

"They seem to have temerity enough to try anything," declared Frank. "However, I guess it's up to us to stop this raid."

"Right you are, Frank," said Lord Hastings quietly. "It's up to us."

"And how do you figure we are going to get all four of them?" demanded Jack.

"Well, with luck we might do it," replied his commander. "However, it would hardly be necessary for that. If we can sink two the others will turn and run."

"And shall we remain on the surface, sir?" asked Jack.

"No. We'll submerge until we are close to them. Then we can come up safely enough, for they'll believe us friends. We can sink one and get down again in time. Then, taking our calculations as to where they will be, we can come up again and have a try at another. We may as well submerge now."

Jack gave the order, and a few minutes later the U-6 was beneath the water, not even her periscope being allowed to show. Here she remained until Lord Hastings believed the German battleships had approached close enough to be in range of the submarine's torpedoes. Then she came to the surface again.

Lord Hastings had gauged the distance accurately. The German ships were now hard by and steaming swiftly forward. As the U-6 sprang up from beneath the water, there was some excitement aboard the German vessels, which soon quieted, however, as the Germans made out the lines of the vessel and caught the German flag with their glass.

"We're safe enough," declared Jack. "They take us for one of themselves."

"Much to their sorrow," said Frank.

"All ready below?" demanded Lord Hastings.

"All ready, sir," replied Jack.

"Good. Down with both of you then. I'll be down the moment the first torpedo has been fired, and we'll have to submerge as quickly as possible."

The lads obeyed Lord Hastings' command and took their positions.

"Ready with No. 1 torpedo," came Lord Hastings' command from above.

"Ready, sir," returned Jack, after a quick scrutiny.

"Ready with No. 3 torpedo," shouted Lord Hastings.

"Ready, sir," said Jack, and then exclaimed in an aside to Frank:

"By Jove! He's going to try and get two of them at once."

And such, indeed, was Lord Hastings' intention. The German battleships were so close together that Lord Hastings believed he could strike a double blow successfully and with perfect safety to his own vessel.

Signal flags now were displayed at the masthead of the foremost German battleship and Lord Hastings knew that some answer was expected from the submarine.

"Well, I can't decipher your signals," he muttered, "but I can give you some kind of a reply -- which I don't suppose will be much to your liking."

He turned and gave a command to Jack; and Jack, in turn, flashed it upon the electric signal board below with the pressure of a button beneath his finger.

"Attention!" came the command now, displayed in letters of fire.

Then a brief lapse of time, in which all was silence below.

Then another signal showed red on the board.

"No. 1 torpedo! Fire!"

Again came that faint metallic click to which the boys had grown so accustomed, and a terrible engine of destruction sped over the water toward the German ships.

A moment later a second command flashed on the board.

"No. 3 torpedo! Fire!"

Once more the click and then nothing but silence. A moment later Lord Hastings hurried below.

"Submerge!" he ordered.



Chapter XXII.

Toward Ostend Again.


Jack had been ready for this command and repeated Lord Hastings' words immediately. Not a second was lost, and a moment later the tanks began to fill and the submarine sank lower and lower in the water.

Jack, who had glued his eye to the periscope, gazed at the German battleships as long as it stayed above water. In the few moments that it took the craft to submerge, he saw that two of the enemy's craft had been struck and that the other two had trained their big guns upon the U-6. His heart beat fast, for he was afraid the submarine would be unable to put a thick enough blanket of water above it to withstand the German shell, should the first shot be gauged accurately.

Just before the periscope disappeared beneath the surface, cutting off the lad's view, he heard the faint sound of a gun. He braced himself for the shock that he expected; but none came. The first shell had gone wide and he breathed easier. Before the second shot came, the U-6 was safe in the depths.

"Pretty close," the lad muttered aloud.

"What was pretty close?" demanded Frank, who had not heard the sound of the shot. "Didn't we hit either one of them?"

"Oh, yes, we got them both," replied Jack. "I was talking about our own escape. The Germans fired one shell at us and they can't have missed very far. Fortunately, we came down before a second."

"Shape your course due east, Mr. Templeton," commanded Lord Hastings at this juncture. "We'll have a try at another of them."

Jack gave the command.

"Twenty knots!" ordered Lord Hastings.

The U-6 leaped forward beneath the water like a thing alive. For fifteen minutes she sped on and then rose until her periscope showed above the surface.

"As I expected," said Lord Hastings. "The enemy is making for home, but we have outrun them and are now between them and their goal." He gauged the range carefully and then ordered: "No. 2 torpedo!"

Again all was expectancy aboard the submarine as all eagerly awaited the next command. It was not long coming.

"Attention!" the signal board read.

And a moment later came the next command:

"Fire!"

A shell sped across the water straight for the third German battleship. Through the periscope Lord Hastings saw the German vessel give a great lurch, then leap almost clear from the water, where it seemed to hang suspended for a full minute, before it came down again. As it did so there was a blinding flash and a detonation that was heard in the submarine.

"Pierced her magazine!" said Lord Hastings quietly.

He stepped aside that Jack might have a look above.

The latter's eyes sought out the spot just in time to see the giant battleship split in twain and disappear beneath the sea. Farther back he saw the two others of the enemy listing badly to port, and knew that they had received their death blow.

The fourth and last vessel was still unharmed and was bearing down on them at full speed. Even as Jack looked there came a puff of smoke from one of her forward turrets and a great splash, less than a hundred yards ahead of the U-6, told that the submarine had been discovered.

"Submerge!" cried Jack.

Lord Hastings repeated the command immediately for he realized that the vessel must be in danger. Even as the periscope disappeared from sight, there was a second flash from the German and a shell glanced off the bow, sending the U-6 staggering and hurling the officers and crew to the floor.

The men picked themselves up quickly and all stood silent for a moment.

"Test the pumps quick!" was Lord Hastings' first command after he had regained his feet.

"No damage there, sir," came the cheering news a moment later.

"Signal the engine room! Something may have given way," ordered Lord Hastings.

This was done, but the engineer reported no damage.

Frank and Jack both breathed easier, as did Lord Hastings.

"A pretty narrow squeak," remarked Lord Hastings calmly.

"Rather, sir," agreed Jack dryly. "And now shall we go after the other one, sir?"

"I guess not," replied his commander. "After this day's work we can afford to let one escape. There is no use taking further chances. Besides, she'll be on the lookout for us and might cripple us the moment we showed ourselves. No; we'll head west again and won't come to the surface until we are well out of this. You may come about, Mr. Templeton, and proceed due west at ten knots."

This was done and the U-6 did not come to the surface again until her commander felt sure that he had no longer need to fear the single remaining German battleship. Then, upon the surface again, Lord Hastings, Frank and Jack ascended the bridge.

Through their glasses, far back, they could still see the German battleships, which, though wounded unto death, were still afloat, apparently battling desperately to resist the sea that was trying to draw them under. The water was still full of bobbing heads -- the German sailors who had leaped into the sea.

"Poor fellows," said Lord Hastings compassionately.

"Why didn't the other ship stop and pick them up?" demanded Jack.

"Didn't have time, I guess," returned Jack dryly. "Her commander was in too big a hurry to get away from there. He deserves the same fate for running away from them, if you ask me."

"He certainly does," agreed Lord Hastings. "However, there is nothing we can do for the poor sailors in the water; we have no room for them here. They will have to shift for themselves. It's the fortune of war."

"And now where to, sir?" asked Frank.

Lord Hastings looked at him amusedly.

"I guess that is the hundredth time you have asked me that question," he said. "However, I don't mind answering it, although you will find some day, should you chance to serve under another commander, that such questions are not received with very good grace. I believe we shall take another little run into Ostend."

"Good, sir!" said Jack. "We did very well on our last trip. Perhaps we shall be fortunate enough to learn something this time."

"Who knows?" said Frank, with a shrug of his shoulders. "However, the nearer the enemy we are, the more chance for action. The sooner we get started the better I shall be pleased."

"It's a short run from here," said Lord Hastings, "and I believe we shall be safe enough if we make the attempt in broad daylight. We'll take a chance."

He gave the command to go forward and the U-6 moved swiftly ahead.

As Lord Hastings had said, it was not a long run, and two hours later, standing on the bridge, the boys made out in the distance the lofty spires and steeples that they felt sure was the Belgian seaport. And they were right.

The U-6 was not molested, not even challenged, as she moved slowly into port, flying the German flag, her officers and crew all attired in German uniforms.

"Where are all the big German battleships?" asked Frank in surprise, after sweeping his eye over the water in all directions in a vain effort to locate one of them.

Jack smiled.

"You ought to know there are no German battleships here," he said.

"But --  -- " began Frank.

"The battleships are still safely bottled up in Heligoland," Jack explained. "While Ostend is called a German naval base, it is, strictly speaking, nothing but a submarine base. The under-sea boats have been able to run in here without much difficulty, but the larger vessels could hardly get by on the surface."

"I see," replied Frank. "I hadn't thought of that."

"But it seems to me we are getting in pretty easily," said Jack. "It's a wonder we are not challenged. I'm always suspicious of anything that is attained too easily. I wonder if we can be suspected?"

"Not likely," remarked Lord Hastings. "We've come pretty straight, in spite of our short stop. They could hardly have had word of the sinking of their vessels in the Thames as yet."

"Unless from Davis and his crew, sir," suggested Frank.

"I don't believe they have learned anything from Davis," Jack declared. "That bunch of vagabonds are probably prowling about seeking whom they may devour."

"And I have a faint hope that they may seek to devour us before long," said Frank with a smile.

"I've sort-o had that wish myself," Jack seconded his chum. "However, I feel certain that we shall come upon them sooner or later."

"And still," said Lord Hastings, "there really is no telling where they are likely to be. They can't wander too far from their base. They'll have to put in some place every so often, you know."

"They will live off their victims, providing they have any," said Frank. "To find them is like looking for a needle in a haystack. We might have to search the seven seas."

"And then not find them," Jack added.

"Well, if we do come up with them, I'd like to lay my hands on Davis," declared Frank.

Jack smiled.

"You laid hands on him last time, if I remember rightly," he said. "Also he laid hands on you, and a deal more roughly, too. He might not let you off so easily again."

"Think so, do you," said Frank, a little sulkily. "He was just lucky, that's all."

"It may have been a little luck," Jack admitted. "At the same time, you will have to give the fellow credit. He can use his hands. I guess if we encounter him again it will be up to me to handle him."

"You don't seem to have much confidence in yourself," remarked Frank sarcastically.

"Well, a fellow has to have confidence in this world," was his chum's reply. "It may be that he would be too much for me, too; but I've an idea I could take care of him."

"Well, you won't. He's my meat next time," declared Frank.

"We won't argue about it," smiled Jack. "We'll let events shape themselves when the time comes. Only, if he falls to my lot, I'll try to even up your score, too."

"And if he comes to me," grinned Frank, "I'll put in a few blows for you, seeing that you are so obliging."



Chapter XXIII.

An Unexpected Encounter.


"Now that we have so kindly been permitted to enter," said Lord Hastings, "I don't believe it would be half a bad idea for us to go ashore; or at least two of us."

"I speak to go with you, sir," exclaimed Frank.

"So do I, sir," said Jack.

"Well, all three of us can't go," Lord Hastings decided. "We'll draw straws to see who are the fortunate -- or unfortunate -- two. I'll draw with you. The one who gets the short one loses."

He drew three toothpicks from his pocket, and putting them behind his back, broke one. Then he held them out to Frank.

"Pick one," he said.

Frank did so, and glanced at it eagerly. It had not been broken.

"I go," he declared.

"It's between us now," said Lord Hastings to Jack. "Pick one, Jack."

He held up the remaining two toothpicks Jack gazed at them earnestly.

"I'll take this one," the lad said at length, and picked the one on the right.

"You win," said Lord Hastings quietly. "I'm the fellow that must remain behind."

Jack was equally as pleased as Frank, but he did not manifest the same enthusiasm.

"And what is it you expect us to learn, sir?" asked Jack. "I'm sure I haven't any idea."

"Nor I, sir," declared Frank.

Lord Hastings smiled.

"You see," he said, "it might have been better to let me go." Then he added after a brief pause: "I don't know that I had any particular plan in view. I was just going ashore and stroll about a bit. It is barely possible that one of you may overhear something. I wouldn't stay more than two hours at the most." He glanced at his watch. "Two o'clock now," he said. "I shall expect you back here at 4.30 at the latest."

The lads nodded.

"Will it be best for us to row ashore ourselves, sir?" asked Frank. "Or shall we have one of the men take us?"

"You would better go alone," replied Lord Hastings, after a moment's hesitation. "You can tie your boat up some place. I hardly think any one will bother it. A sailor might betray all of us unconsciously. In a game like this, the fewer the better is my motto."

"Come on, Jack; let's be moving," said Frank impatiently. "There is no use staying here all day. Hurry up."

"Now you just hold your horses," replied his chum. "We'll get there soon enough -- maybe a little too soon, so far as we know."

Nevertheless the lads wasted no further time in talk and five minutes later the two were rowing shoreward in a little boat.

As they rowed along, they saw several other under-the-sea craft at anchor and upon the bridges of one or two stood officers. These saluted as the boys passed, but none so much as hailed them.

"These German uniforms seem to be pretty good things," Frank remarked in a low voice. "Guess they carry the entree any place in the town."

"We'll see," returned Jack briefly.

Fifteen minutes later they reached a landing and climbed ashore. Then they tied the little boat up, against their return, and started down the first street.

"Pretty likely looking town, this," declared Jack, as his gaze roved about.

"Yes," Frank agreed, "but you can still see the marks of the German shells that struck during the siege."

They looked around with interest -- though not so curiously as to attract attention -- and continued along the street.

For an hour and more they strolled about gazing at the various sights of interest, but learning nothing of value. Several times they approached knots of German officers, attempting to overhear their conversation. But there was nothing in any of this street-corner talk which was worth hearing, being concerned chiefly with accounts of adventures and curious episodes.

The lads were saluted frequently as they passed along and they returned these salutes with customary German stiffness. No one spoke to them and for this they were duly thankful, although each spoke German like a native and ran little risk of detection on that score.

Frank glanced at his watch.

"Five minutes to four," he said. "Time to be moving back."

Jack nodded.

"May as well, I guess," he agreed. "If you ask me, this has been an afternoon wasted. I don't seem to have learned anything of importance and I don't believe you have either."

"You've been with me right along," replied Frank. "You know as much as I do."

They retraced their steps toward the water front.

And here, in the place they would have felt least likely to encounter a familiar face, that very thing happened. They were still a short distance from the water-front when a man brushed by them closely, walking rapidly. His head was lowered and his face was well muffled in spite of the fact that the day was not cold. There was something familiar about him, though neither lad could place him. After he had passed both lads turned and looked after him with one accord.

"There is something familiar about that fellow," Jack declared. "I've seen him some place before."

"And so have I," agreed Frank. "And I have a feeling that it was not under very favorable circumstances."

Each lad racked his brain for a brief moment; then Jack said:

"Well, I guess it doesn't make any difference. Let's go."

He turned about and took a step forward. Frank was about to do the same, when a sudden thought flashed into his head.

"Wait a minute," he called. "I think I've got him."

"Who?" demanded Jack.

"Davis!" said Frank quietly. I'll bet a pretty red apple that man is Davis."

"By Jove!" said Jack. "I wonder -- now what would he be doing here?"

"I don't know," replied Frank, "but I feel sure that's who it is. Come on. Let's go after him. We'll lose him in a minute."

Even as he spoke the man he felt sure was Davis turned a corner. Not waiting for Jack to agree, Frank hurried after him. Jack followed.

The man ahead was walking rapidly, but the two lads gained on him. After two blocks' walking they were less than fifty yards in the rear -- slouching along cautiously, with heads lowered, for they did not wish to be recognized if the man were really Davis.

Once the man turned and gazed at the two figures behind him; then, apparently satisfied that he was not being followed, he moved on again.

After two more blocks he doubled around a corner. Frank and Jack turned the corner a moment later, just in time to see Davis mount a short flight of steps, open a door and enter the house.

Frank and Jack walked by, taking careful note of the number of the house, however, and without glancing up again, continued down the street and turned the next corner.

There they halted as of one mind while Frank peeped around the corner, remarking:

"Don't want him to trick us. I don't think he knew he was being followed, but you never can tell."

The lads stood there for perhaps ten minutes; then Jack reached a decision.

"As long as we have come this far," he said, "we may as well finish this man hunt. We'll go and have a look for him."

"How do you figure we are going to get into the house?" demanded Frank. "Or do you just plan to ring the bell and ask for 'Mr. Davis'?"

"We'll have to get in some way," returned Jack, "or else admit that we are wrong."

"I won't admit I'm wrong," declared Frank grimly. "I feel positive the man is Davis."

"So do I," replied Jack; "else I wouldn't be so keen about getting into that house. We'll go back and skirmish around a bit, anyhow."

They retraced their steps slowly, and passing the house where the man had entered, took careful note of it.

It was a two-story building. Steps led to a porch, not high above the street, but still high enough to make the single window in front beyond reach from the street below. A narrow passage was between it and the house on the left. It was built flush against the house on the right.

At the corner the lads again turned and retraced their steps. "I'm going to try the door," said Jack. "You slink back in that dark alleyway until you hear from me."

Frank signified that he understood, and passing the house, did as Jack had instructed, the latter mounting the steps quietly and swiftly.

The lad laid a hand on the knob and turned it. Then he pushed on the door, but it held fast.

"Locked," he said, plainly disappointed.

There was no window in the little vestibule and the single front window was beyond reach from the porch. Neither was there a transom that could be forced.

"No means of getting in here," Jack told himself.

He descended the steps and joined Frank in the alleyway.

"Well?" Frank greeted him.

Jack shook his head.

"Can't get in that way," he said.

"Well," said Frank, "I have been doing a little exploring while you were up there and I have found a way."

"How?" asked Jack, a little surprised.

For answer, Frank motioned to a little aperture in the side of the house, close to the ground.

"Window into the basement," he explained. "It's open."

Jack wasted no time. He dropped to his hands and knees and, pushing the window open, shoved his feet through. Then he wriggled his body through the opening and dropped.

It was not a hard fall and he picked himself up unhurt. He called softly to Frank and the latter was beside him a moment later. Walking softly, Jack led the way up a little flight of stairs to a door which opened easily. He stepped inside.

Frank followed and Jack closed the door. It was perfectly dark.

But suddenly the darkness was lighted up. The astonished lads gazed into the muzzles of a pair of automatics and a well-known voice cried:

"Hands up!"



Chapter XXIV.

Another Unpleasant Surprise.


To say that the lads were astonished is putting it mildly. There they were, so they believed, sneaking upon an unsuspecting victim and now they found themselves absolutely in that victim's power, for it took but the first glance to assure them that the face that gazed so evilly and sardonically into theirs was the face of Davis.

Now Davis grinned at them.

"I was expecting you, gentlemen," he said with biting sarcasm. "I did not wish to seem discourteous, which is the reason I welcome you in person. But, also, knowing your kind, I surmised that you would not announce yourselves at the front door, as would most British gentlemen; therefore I receive you here. I assure you you are most welcome."

All this time he kept each lad covered with an ugly-looking automatic.

As neither Frank nor Jack replied, Davis continued.

"I would just like to add that if you desire to get ahead of me it will be necessary to arise very early in the morning. What kind of a spy do you think I am, anyway, not to know when I am being followed? I assure you, gentlemen, you have misjudged me. I was not born yesterday."

Still neither lad replied.

"And now," Davis went on, "I must ask you to be so kind as to precede me to the parlor, where I shall entertain you more comfortably."

He emphasized this statement with a slight gesture with one of his revolvers and there was naught for the lads to do but obey.

Davis followed them closely, still covering them with his two revolvers. In the parlor he motioned them to seats and took a chair across the room.

"Now," he said, "I would be pleased to have you tell me how you escaped from our enemies, the British."

"Well, I can see no harm in enlightening you," said Jack. "I would have supposed that, being so brilliant, you had guessed it by this time. We are British officers and not German."

"Would it surprise you," queried Davis, "if I should tell you I had surmised as much? And our good friend, Commander Bernstorff" -- and here Davis laughed -- "how is he?"

"Well," replied Jack calmly. "And now I wonder if you would explain a few things to me?"

"You are at liberty to ask," smiled Davis.

"Then, how did you get here -- why did you venture here -- and what of your little private expedition?"

"Those," said Davis, "are what I should call considerable questions. However, I can see no harm in answering them, particularly as you will never be able to repeat what you hear now. I came here in our submarine the U-16, which, by the way, I have rechristened The Vulture -- a suitable name, don't you think? -- and I came here because I had business here. Now, as to your other question. Our little privateering expedition is progressing famously. We have already sunk one British ship and secured a quantity of booty, which may have something to do with my presence in Ostend."

"I see," said Jack.

"And," continued Davis boastingly, "I came in right under the noses of the Germans. My submarine lies in the harbor at this moment. I came ashore in the guise of a German officer. I was not questioned, nor were you, I take it?"

His last words formed a question, and Frank answered.

"No, we were not questioned," he said.

"I thought not. Well, when I presently have finished my business -- which, by the way, has been increased since your arrival -- I shall make my way back to my vessel and put to sea again. I shall bother none of the Germans nor any ships of war unless they bother me -- my business is with ships of commerce, where there is booty to be had -- and when I have reaped enough I shall go to America, where I shall live the life a gentleman should."

"You'll make a fine gentleman," said Jack sarcastically.

"You think so?" said Davis, apparently unruffled. "So do I. But time presses. I am sorry I can entertain you no longer. You will please precede me from this room and upstairs."

He arose, and with one revolver, motioned the lads out the door. There was nothing for it but to comply; for both lads realized that while they might have jumped Davis, one of them probably would be shot down; nor was it for his own sake that each hesitated.

They preceded Davis up the stairs and into a large unfurnished room. As he entered, Jack looked toward the window. It was heavily barred and the walls of the room, he saw, were very thick. Once locked in that room, the lad realized, there was little hope of escape.

"Now," said Davis, "please cross the room and stand with your backs to me. I shall leave you here to amuse yourselves. You will have lots of time, for, I venture to say, the room will not be entered for months to come -- not until I return, which may not be for months. Then I shall give myself the pleasure of calling on you. Now, good-bye. Turn and face the wall, please."

Jack realized that it was now or never and he took a sudden decision.

"Face the wall, Frank," he commanded quietly. "It's no use."

Frank obeyed.

"You too, if you please," said Davis blandly, flourishing a revolver, while at the same time he returned the other to his pocket.

"Look here, Davis," said Jack quietly, "this thing has gone far enough. We have been highly amused with your entertainment, but now it is time to call a halt."

Davis looked at him expectantly.

"Well?" he queried.

"Just this," said Jack calmly. "Unless you drop that revolver this minute, I shall have to take it away from you."

He gazed at Davis steadily.

The latter's shifty eyes could not meet the steady gaze of the lad and he looked away, but kept Jack covered with his revolver.

"Oh, I guess not," he said.

"Oh, yes I shall," said Jack easily.

"Come," said Davis, pulling himself together and raising his revolver so it pointed between Jack's eyes. "Enough of this. Get back there now or I shall fire."

Instead, Jack took a step forward, still looking Davis squarely in the eyes.

"Put down that gun!" he commanded sharply.

His tone startled Davis, and for a brief moment he allowed the weapon to waver; and in that moment Jack leaped upon him.

Taken off his guard, Davis nevertheless still had time to raise the revolver and fire. Jack staggered back as he felt something like a red-hot iron pierce his right arm; and the member dropped limply to his side.

Again Davis fired, but Jack ducked even as he pulled the trigger and the bullet passed over his head.

There was a cry from behind him and Frank pitched forward to the floor. The bullet had struck him a glancing blow on the side of the head.

Jack's heart grew sick as he heard his chum's cry, for he realized in a flash what had happened; but he did not turn his head to look. Instead, stooping low, he leaped lightly forward and seized Davis' pistol arm even as the man fired again. Jack jerked the arm upward at the moment the weapon went off and the bullet passed him harmlessly. Then, with a vigorous wrench, the lad twisted the revolver from Davis' hand and kicked it to one side as it fell to the floor at his feet. Then he struck Davis sharply across the face with his left hand, and as the man staggered back, thrust his hand into the pocket where so recently Davis had placed his second revolver.

Davis grabbed at it but too late.

Jack stepped back and, walking across the room, picked up the other weapon. Then, opening the door, he tossed both weapons outside, closed the door and faced Davis.

"I've still got a couple of guns in my own pockets," he said quietly, "but I'm going to thrash you within an inch of your life without use of a weapon -- and with a bad arm besides. I may shoot you later, I haven't decided about that yet. It all depends upon how badly you have hurt my friend here."

He stepped forward and aimed a hard blow at Davis with his left fist. Davis stepped aside and the blow missed. At the same time Davis swung hard with right and left and the second blow caught Jack on the helpless right arm. Jack winced but said nothing. He was deadly cool, and he advanced upon Davis smiling.

"Now," he said, "I'll give you an imitation of how I treat a dog like you."

He backed Davis into a corner of the room by a series of single-arm feints and then struck out heavily. Davis put up both arms to block the blow but it did him no good. His guard was swept away as though it had been a feather and the heavy blow crashed through and caught him in the face.

Davis staggered back with arms covering his face protectingly and again Jack struck him heavily between the eyes. Davis fell to the floor in a heap, where he lay whining. Jack stood over him angrily.

"Get up!" he commanded quietly. "Get up and fight. I'm not through with you yet."

Davis grovelled upon the floor, seeking to clasp the lad's knees.

"Get up!" commanded Jack again.

Davis made no move to rise.

Jack stretched out his uninjured arm and jerked the man rudely to his feet.

"Put up your hands and fight," he ordered. "Don't show yourself the dog you are!"

Davis did as Jack commanded and aimed a blow at the lad's head.

Jack promptly knocked him down again.

A second and a third time this was repeated; but after the last fall Davis grovelled and moaned like a whipped child.

Jack gazed down at him in disgust.

"And I hadn't half begun," he said angrily. "However, I can't stand here and knock down a man who will make no attempt to defend himself. I am through with you now. You can go."

Slowly Davis raised himself to his feet and moved toward the door, looking furtively about as he did so. As he reached the door, he sprang suddenly outside with a loud cry. Jack sprang after him and seized his arm just in time to deflect a bullet he would have fired from a revolver he picked up without.

"I thought so," said Jack grimly. "I thought that was about your size. I had it all figured out, only when it came to a show down I couldn't do what I had intended. I had intended to let you pick up your gun, and when you tried to shoot me, to kill you. But I can't do it. Get out of here now before I change my mind."

Davis started to move along the hall, but at that moment there were heavy footsteps upon the stairs and a moment later a figure in the full uniform of a German battleship commander stood before them.

"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded in a harsh voice.

He glanced at the two quickly, and then realizing that he apparently was talking to a German naval officer, and his subordinate, he addressed Jack.

"You know his Imperial Majesty's orders in regard to fighting with civilians?" he asked.

Jack could do nothing but bow.

"Then," said the commander, "I shall have to place you under arrest!"



Chapter XXV.

Doomed To Die.


It was a bitter disappointment to Jack, but he felt he could do nothing but submit. True, he thought to himself, he could probably have attacked the German commander, and perhaps have overcome him; but there was Frank to be considered, and his own injured right arm. No, he felt he could do nothing but submit.

"Very well, sir," he answered the German, "but first you will please permit me to see to my friend."

He indicated Frank's prostrate form across the room. The German saw it then for the first time and nodded assent.

"Also," said Jack, "it would be well if you did not permit that man," indicating Davis, "to escape. He is a traitor."

"So?" exclaimed the officer.

He drew his revolver and mounted guard over Davis.

"There is really no use my guarding you," he said. "Half a dozen of my men are below, so you could hardly escape."

In the meantime Jack bent over Frank and raised his chum's head to his knee. Then he arose, asked permission of the German to leave the room for water. The permission was granted and Jack returned a moment later, his cap filled with water.

He sprinkled the water over Frank's face and soon perceived signs of returning consciousness. Frank drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. Then he pushed Jack aside and sat up.

"What's happened?" he asked in a faint voice.

In a few words Jack explained.

"I remember now," said Frank. "Help me up."

Jack did so and then for the first time Frank caught sight of the German naval commander.

"What's he doing here?" he asked of Jack.

"Oh, he's just arrested us; that's all," said Jack.

"Yes," said the German, "and I must ask you to accompany me now. You shall come aboard my ship until this matter has been investigated thoroughly. I'll take charge of you, rather than to turn you over to the military authorities; for after all you are naval officers and I shall help you if I can. Please precede me; and you too," this last to Davis in a gruffer tone.

All proceeded below, where eight or ten other men stood waiting. Then all marched away.

Reaching the water front all entered a small boat and were rowed toward a submarine, perhaps a quarter of a mile away.

As they passed, Jack noticed the U-6 a short distance away and made out Lord Hastings' figure on the bridge. He raised an arm and waved it. He was not sure that his signal had been seen, but he did not wish to draw further attention to his commander.

Aboard the submarine the German commander had them taken to his own cabin, where he insisted upon his own surgeon dressing Frank's wound and having a look at Jack's arm.

The surgeon pronounced both injuries slight and prescribed rest. Several times Frank caught the German commander looking at him curiously and it worried him somewhat, for there was something familiar about the man, though Frank could not seem to place him.

"I'm just trying to think," said the German to Frank, "where I have seen you before. I don't place your name."

"I can't remember you, sir," replied Frank.

Suddenly the German slapped his thigh. Frank's heart sank for some reason he was unable to explain to himself.

"I have it!" exclaimed the German. "You are the lad whom I captured from a British submarine in the Kiel Canal not so long ago. I remember you well now. You escaped. So you are a British spy, eh?"

"I -- I --  -- " began Frank.

The German raised a hand.

"It will do you no good to deny it," he said quietly. "I cannot be mistaken. Besides, I can plainly see now that you are no German; and this supposed-to-be German officer with you is also British. I can see it now. So is the other prisoner, though I cannot see what you should have been fighting about."

Neither Frank nor Jack replied. Each realized that there was no use in entering a denial.

"I'll take my oath I'm sorry for this," said the German. "Of course, you know there is but one thing I can do?"

Frank nodded understandingly.

"You were found within our lines in German uniforms," said the commander. "Therefore you are spies and must be treated as such. I myself shall call a court martial within the hour. You must be shot. The other man will be tried separately, but I have no doubt he will suffer the same fate. Orderly!"

A second officer entered the room.

"Have these prisoners closely guarded and bring them here an hour from now," he ordered. "Then summon the commanders of the other vessels in the harbor. They shall sit on a court martial here. Hurry."

Jack and Frank were led from the cabin and locked in another compartment at the far end of the ship where they sat in silence until they were conducted to the commander's cabin.

And as they gazed about the cabin the eyes of both opened wide in surprise, though they made no sound.

For there, sitting with five other German officers about the table, was none other than Lord Hastings, still wearing his German uniform. He was sitting on the trial board.

The German commander who had captured them presided.

"Bring in the other prisoner," he commanded.

A moment later Davis was led in. The lads saw a surprised expression flash over Lord Hastings' face as his eyes rested on Davis; but he sat still.

Then, suddenly appearing to take a close look at Frank and Jack for the first time, he jumped to his feet and approached them. After a careful scrutiny, he uttered a loud exclamation and turned to the other officers.

"Sirs," he said quietly, "you have indeed made an important capture. These men, although apparently young, are two of the most trusted of British spies. I know them, for I have come in close contact with them," and he glared at them angrily. "So, we have you at last, eh?" addressing the boys, who shrank back in well-feigned alarm.

As for Davis, he said nothing. He had been doing a lot of thinking and had come to the conclusion that it was better to postpone his fate by being rescued with Frank and Jack, if possible; for he had a pretty shrewd idea that Lord Hastings was there for some such purpose.

"So," continued Lord Hastings, eyeing the two lads angrily. "I have you, eh. I would like to put a hole through each of you myself." He half drew a revolver.

The German commander interfered.

"None of that, if you please, sir," he commanded sharply. "They shall have trial; and if they are convicted, as I have no doubt they will be, I shall bestow upon you the doubtful honor of performing the execution."

"And I shall be pleased indeed, sir," replied Lord Hastings with a leer.

The German commander turned from him in disgust.

"It is such men as you, who are a disgrace to the navy," he said quietly.

"Sir!" exclaimed Lord Hastings, facing the German in apparent wrath, though nothing could have pleased him better -- things were working out much better than he had dared hope.

"Tut! Tut!" exclaimed the German commander. "I have no time to quarrel with you now. But when the war is over, it will give me much pleasure to put an end to one of your ilk."

"I shall remember that!" exclaimed Lord Hastings. "You shall answer to me, sir."

"When the war is over, I shall be very much at your service," was the quiet rejoinder. "But now to business. Prisoners, you may all stand up together. Your name?" he demanded of Jack.

"Templeton, sir," replied the lad quietly.

"And yours, sir?" demanded the German of Frank.

"Chadwick, sir."

The German turned to Davis.

"Davis, sir," replied the man before the German could propound the question.

"Have any of you prisoners anything to say in extenuation of your actions?"

There was no reply.

"No reason why the death sentence should not be passed upon you?" continued the German.

Still there was no reply.

The German commander then explained what he knew of the three and called for a vote.

"Commander Derndorff?"

"Death!" was the response.

"Commander Hellwig?"

"Death!"

"Commander Berne?"

"Death!"

"Commander Blough?"

"Death!"

"Commander Bernstorff?"

Lord Hastings' response was louder than the rest and he smiled evilly as he cried:

"Death!"

The German commander who had captured the lads made a grimace but said nothing.

He paused a moment and then declared quietly:

"My verdict also is death!"

Lord Hastings, apparently, could restrain his impatience no longer.

"Good! Good!" he cried.

"The sentence of this court martial," continued the German commander unheeding Lord Hastings, "is that the prisoners all be shot at sunrise tomorrow. Commander Bernstorff, since you are so eager to perform the disagreeable duty, you may command the execution; and that your men may think the less of you, as president of this court martial, I order you to choose the firing squad from among your own crew."

Lord Hastings beamed on him.

"It shall be done with pleasure," he declared eagerly.

"And," continued the president of the court martial, "you shall take the prisoners aboard your own vessel and you shall be held responsible for them. I could almost hope they would escape, so that you should suffer," he added to himself.

"Good, sir. Good!" cried Lord Hastings. "I shall remove them at once, sir."

"One thing more," said the commander sharply. "They must not be ill-treated. Understand?"

Lord Hastings' face fell in well-feigned disappointment. He appeared to draw himself together, saluted and said with an apparent effort.

"You shall be obeyed, sir."

"Take them away, then."

Lord Hastings ordered the three marched to the side of the vessel, where they stepped aboard the little boat. Then they were rowed rapidly toward the U-6.

As they neared the submarine, where they knew lay safety, the spirits of the lads soared once more, in spite of their wounds. Frank expressed Jack's sentiments as well as his own when he leaned close to Lord Hastings and muttered:

"Close shave, sir!"



Chapter XXVI.

More Trouble.


"You can believe me or not, but it feels pretty good to be back here."

The speaker was Frank as he stood upon the bridge of the U-6.

"It does, indeed," returned Jack, who stood by his side. "To tell the truth, I was afraid we would never get away. I thought we were goners, sure. And see who we have with us, our old friend Davis."

For Davis at that moment came aboard from the small boat beside the submarine. He grinned at the two boys feebly.

"Well, I'm glad to be back along with you," he said.

"I don't imagine you'll be glad to be back very long," said Jack dryly. "It seems to me you might as well have stayed where you were. The result probably will be the same. Only this time you'll have to face a British court martial and they'll probably hang you."

"While there's life there's hope," Davis spoke sententiously. "Which is the reason I didn't say anything over there."

He waved his hand in the general direction of the German submarine they had so recently left.

"Well, I'm much obliged, I'm sure," said Frank. "If you had spoken when you recognized Lord Hastings, it would have been all off with all of us. However, I'm afraid I shall be unable to speak a word in your behalf."

Davis shrugged his shoulders and turned away as Lord Hastings approached.

"Below with you all, quick!" exclaimed the latter. "Don't you realize you are prisoners? What do you suppose some of these German officers would say if they saw you making so free of this vessel, eh? They'd probably come over to see what is wrong. Get below!"

Lord Hastings spoke gruffly, for he had risked much to assure their safety and he did not wish his plans to go for naught. Frank, Jack and Davis obeyed without a word.

"Now," said Lord Hastings when all were safely below, "we'll have to get away from here."

"There should be no trouble about that," said Frank. "All we have to do is submerge and move off."

"And I suppose these other fellows will remain idle and watch us go," exclaimed Lord Hastings sarcastically. "Don't you believe it. We are likely to have trouble. They'll probably have a shot or two at us and we'll be fortunate if one doesn't strike home. Besides which, if we do get down safely, they'll probably chase us."

"Well, they can't find us under the water," Frank stated.

"Perhaps not," agreed Lord Hastings, "but we'll have to come up some time and when we do they are likely to be waiting for us. However, there is no use hesitating now. Every minute makes our situation more precarious. You may submerge to five fathoms, Mr. Templeton."

Quickly Jack gave the command. Immediately the bridge wound into the little conning tower, which at once closed, and the submarine began to sink gradually.

Lord Hastings glued an eye to the periscope and watched developments above.

"Just as I feared," he exclaimed. "They have seen through our ruse. There is excitement aboard all the enemy. Twenty knots, Mr. Templeton, and shape your course due north."

The little craft leaped ahead as Jack gave the command; and at the same moment a torpedo, fired by the nearest enemy craft, flashed through the water where the U-6 had been a moment before. It was a narrow escape.

A second torpedo flashed above the submarine just as it finally disappeared beneath the water; and a third did likewise.

Lord Hastings drew a breath of relief as he moved from the periscope -- he could see no longer, the water having passed over the "eye" of the submarine.

"We're safe enough for the time being, at any rate," he declared. "Keep to your course, Mr. Templeton, until I give the command to alter it."

Jack saluted.

"Very well, sir," he said.

"And now," said Lord Hastings, gazing about, "the question remains as to what is to be done with Davis. Where is he?"

Frank looked about hurriedly.

"He was here a moment ago, sir," he replied. "He was right behind me."

"Well, he's not here now," said Lord Hastings. "There is no doubt about that. However, he can't have gone very far. We'll have a look for him."

Frank followed his commander aft.

They peered into every compartment in that end of the vessel. They searched the engine room and all other sections; but there was no sign of Davis; Lord Hastings scratched his chin in perplexity.

"Now what do you think of that?" he said slowly. "But he was on this vessel and he can't have got off. Therefore he must be here."

"There is one place we haven't looked, sir," said Frank.

"Where?" demanded Lord Hastings.

"Your cabin, sir."

"He would hardly have sought refuge there," said Lord Hastings.

"There is no telling, sir," replied Frank. "We may as well have a look."

"Yes, we may as well have a look," repeated Lord Hastings.

He led the way forward again and pulled up before the door of his cabin, which was closed.

"Now I could have sworn I left this door open," said Lord Hastings.

He laid a hand on the knob and turned it; but the door would not open.

"Hm-m-m," muttered Lord Hastings. "Somebody is in there all right. Guess it must be our friend Davis." He raised his voice and called: "Davis."

There was no reply and Lord Hastings repeated his call. Still there was no response.

Lord Hastings was beginning to grow angry.

"Davis!" he called a third time, and when there was no answer, he shouted: "You come out of there this minute or it will be the worse for you. There is no use pretending you do not hear me. Come out!"

This time Lord Hastings drew an answer.

"Thank you, sir, but I shall remain where I am," came back in Davis' voice. "It's very comfortable in here."

"By Jove! He's a pretty cool customer," muttered Lord Hastings to Frank.

"Yes, he's cool enough," responded the lad, "and cold-blooded, too. Shall we force the door, sir?"

"I don't like to do that," replied Lord Hastings, "but I am afraid it will be necessary. I want to get that fellow tied up safely." He raised his voice again. "Davis," he said, "if you don't open that door immediately, I'll break it down."

"I wouldn't try it," was Davis' response. "I have appropriated a pair of your revolvers here and I'll have a shot at the first head that I see."

This reply threw Lord Hastings into some consternation. He turned to Frank.

"There is no use any one getting hurt on the fellow's account," he said. "He's safe enough in there. Guess we may as well leave him."

"We'll have to get him some time, sir," said Frank. "We might as well do it now and have it over with. Two of us should land him without any trouble."

"You mean one and a half," replied Lord Hastings, smiling. "Don't forget you are hardly whole with that wound on your head."

"I think I can prove a little better than a half, anyhow," Frank smiled back. "Shall we break the door in, sir?"

"I have a better plan than that," replied Lord Hastings. "I'll blow the lock off. Stand back out of range of fire from the door. Davis is likely to shoot through it."

Frank did as commanded, and drawing his revolver, Lord Hastings placed the muzzle against the lock.

There was a flash, a loud report and Lord Hastings leaped quickly backward. And it was well that he did so; for a second later there came a second report and a bullet sped through the thin door and imbedded itself in the wall beyond.

Standing well to one side, Lord Hastings thrust out a foot and kicked the door open.

"Better come out, Davis," he said quietly.

"No, thanks," was the reply. "I'll get the first man who shows his head in the doorway."

Lord Hastings considered this point carefully. Then he said to Frank:

"Well, we've got the door open, but I don't see that we are any better off. We can't go after him. Now what, eh?"

An idea struck Frank.

"You stand guard until I come back, sir," he said, and made his way aft.

Lord Hastings stood his ground.

Frank was back in a moment and again took his stand on the opposite side of the door from Lord Hastings. He held something in his hand, and a long snake-like object seemed to wiggle along behind him.

"What have you there?" demanded Lord Hastings in some surprise.

"Hose, sir," replied Frank calmly.

"And what are you going to do with it?"

"Rout Davis out, sir."

Lord Hastings chuckled.

"I am afraid you won't have much success," he replied. "It's a poor Englishman who can't stand a little cold water."

"Maybe he won't like hot water, though, sir," replied Frank.

Again Lord Hastings looked surprised.

"Oho," he said at length. "Now I see what you are about. Going to scald him a little, eh?"

"That's the idea, sir. I have the engineer's word that this hose will throw a pretty strong stream. Once it hits Davis he'll be glad to come out."

"All right," said Lord Hastings. "Turn it on."

Still standing out of the line of fire, Frank, taking the hose well back from the nozzle, thrust it through the door and turned it on.

A thin vapor rose and the hose grew hot to Frank's touch.

"Pretty hot," said Lord Hastings. "Now if you can just locate him with it, you --  -- "

A cry of pain interrupted him and there was the sound of hurried footsteps within.

"Got him," cried Frank gleefully.

He stepped into the open doorway, and as he did so, Davis raised a revolver and his finger tightened on the trigger. But even as he would have fired, Frank turned the scalding water on him. With a howl of pain he dropped the revolver.



Chapter XXVII.

The Pirates Reappear.


"You got him, Frank!" cried Lord Hastings excitedly, hopping up and down like a boy. "Keep it on him!"

"You bet I've got him," Frank shouted back. "Slip inside, sir, and get him from behind when I turn the water off."

Lord Hastings did as Frank suggested, and keeping to one side of the stream of hot water, entered the room and drew his revolver.

"All right," he called. "Turn it off. I've got him covered."

Frank shut off the hose and also sprang into the room.

But there was no need for force. Davis had had all the fight taken out of him, for the time being, at least. He lay upon the floor and was writhing about apparently in great pain and moaning feebly. It was plain that the hot water had done its work well.

"I give up," he muttered as Lord Hastings and Frank approached him.

The two leaned down and picked the man up. Lord Hastings looked him over carefully.

"Why, you're not hurt," he said contemptuously. He turned to Frank. "That water can't have been very hot," he said.

"Just hot enough, I should say," the lad returned. "I didn't want it too hot, sir. It would have spoiled his looks, and I want him looking fit when he faces a court martial."

"Very thoughtful of you," said Lord Hastings dryly. "I don't believe he is hurt a bit. But I guess we had better tie him up before he does any more mischief."

"Right you are, sir," replied Jack. "Got any rope?"

"Yes; you'll find a good strong piece in the drawer of my desk there. Get it."

Frank opened the drawer and produced a long, strong rope; and as he would have turned to Lord Hastings he was startled by a sudden commotion, followed by the sound of a fall.

Davis had sprung suddenly to his feet, upsetting Lord Hastings as he did so, and dashed out the door. Frank, dashing forward to intercept him, collided with Lord Hastings, who arose at that moment, and the latter went to the floor again, with Frank on top of him.

By the time they had untangled themselves Davis had disappeared aft.

"After him!" shouted Frank, and dashed down the passage. Lord Hastings followed closely.

Davis made straight for the engine room, why, he could not have told. The man was greatly excited and hardly knew what he was doing. As he crossed the threshold, he collided with Simpson, the engineer, and both rolled to the floor.

"I say! What's the matter here?" demanded Simpson angrily. "What are you jumping on me for?"

"I didn't mean to do it," replied Davis, sitting up; and then getting to his feet.

"And what are you doing in here, anyhow?" demanded the engineer. "No one is allowed in this room."

"I didn't know where I was going," responded Davis.

He leaped suddenly forward, and seizing a heavy iron poker, brought it down heavily on Simpson's head. The man crumpled up on the floor. Quickly Davis whirled about and locked the door, even as Lord Hastings and Jack threw their weight against it. Then Davis laughed aloud.

"Stand back there!" he cried. "Stand back, or I'll smash this machinery so none of us will ever reach the surface."

Frank was for smashing in the door regardless of this threat, but Lord Hastings seized his arm.

"Hold on!" he exclaimed. "The man is crazy enough to do it. We shall have to seek some other method of overcoming him."

"And how are we to get him, unless we go after him, I'd like to know?" the lad demanded angrily.

"There must be some way," was the reply. "We'll wait."

He took Frank by the arm and led him away.

Lord Hastings immediately made his way to Jack's side.

"Shape your course east now, Mr. Templeton," he instructed, "and give the command to rise to the surface."

Jack asked no questions and did as instructed.

"We'll have to take a chance on being clear of the enemy when we go up," Lord Hastings explained. "But we've got to get Davis out of that engine room the first thing we do."

"And how do you figure to do that, sir?" asked Frank.

"By giving him a clear path to the bridge," replied Lord Hastings. "I have no doubt that when he finds we are upon the surface he will leave his retreat and go on deck; then, if there is land in sight, he probably will leap overboard and swim for it."

"But you will not permit him to get away, sir?"

"Not if I can help it. However, I would rather have him escape than let him send us to the bottom; and I have no doubt he will reason along that line. Now, when we reach the surface, we will go to my cabin and remain there until we hear him pass my door."

A few moments later the U-6 emerged from the depths and the three immediately went to Lord Hastings' cabin and closed the door behind them. Lord Hastings gave an exclamation of dismay as he gazed about.

"You certainly did a good job with that hose," he said to Frank. "There is not a nook nor cranny of this cabin you didn't touch. Look at it, it won't dry out in a month."

"Hardly that long, sir," said Jack with a grin. "But tell me what all this is about, anyhow."

Frank explained. Then all grew silent, awaiting the sound of footsteps that they felt sure would herald Davis' flight. And a few moments later they came, creeping along silently.

Frank took a step forward, but Lord Hastings stayed him with a gesture.

"Let him alone," he commanded. "We don't want him to find another hole. We have had trouble enough with him."

A few moments later footsteps sounded on deck.

"Well, he's up there," said Frank. "Now what?"

"Guess we can go up after him now," replied Lord Hastings.

He led the way.

"Careful, sir, when you go up," warned Jack. "He's likely to be waiting for one of us to show a head."

Lord Hastings paid no heed to this command, but sprang quickly up. He gazed around rapidly. There was not another soul on deck.

"Come on," he cried to Frank and Jack.

The latter also sprang up and looked about.

"Where is he, sir?" asked Frank.

"Gone," replied Lord Hastings. "Must have jumped overboard."

He swept the sea with his eyes, as did the others.

"What's that over there, sir?" asked Jack suddenly.

Lord Hastings and Frank gazed in the direction indicated. There a little object could be seen in the water. It had the appearance of a small stick and beside it there appeared a black piece of cloth whipping in the breeze.

"Looks like the periscope of a submarine," commented Frank.

"And it is," declared Lord Hastings. "Below quick!"

Jack sprang down the companionway, closely followed by Frank and Lord Hastings. The conning tower closed behind them.

"Submerge to the tip of the periscope," ordered Lord Hastings, and put his eye to the instrument as Jack repeated the command.

At that moment the other craft bobbed to the surface and Lord Hastings made out that the black cloth that fluttered in the breeze was nothing more nor less than a black flag.

"Pirates!" he muttered. "What! at this age of the world?" and then a sudden thought flashed through his mind.

"I'll wager a farm it's Davis' own crew," he muttered.

"What's that, sir?" asked Jack, who had caught his commander's last words.

"Nothing much; only that Davis has found his own gang," replied Lord Hastings quietly. "Here, have a look."

He stepped aside and Jack took his place at the periscope. The lad uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"By Jove! he has, sir," he ejaculated. "I can see him swimming toward the submarine; and there is a man on the bridge waiting for him. Can't we launch a torpedo at her, sir?"

"I guess we can," replied Lord Hastings. "What do you make the range?"

"Hundred yards, sir," replied Jack. "Number three torpedo, sir!"

Lord Hastings touched a button and the signal board glowed. But even as Jack would have given the command to fire, a new object suddenly rose to the surface of the water and he stayed his hand.

It was a third submarine, and Jack, instead of giving the command to fire, for which the men were eagerly waiting, cried:

"Another submarine, sir! Looks like a German. She's moving toward the pirate, sir!"

Lord Hastings stepped to the periscope, pushing Jack firmly aside.

"We'll move off and let them fight it out," he said. "Full speed ahead, Mr. Templeton!"



Chapter XXVIII.

The Battle And The Attack On The U-6.


Another few hundred yards from the two other submarines, Lord Hastings ordered the U-6 brought to a stop.

"We'll stop here a bit and watch the battle," he said.

The U-6 rose to the surface and the three officers ascended to the bridge. The pirate craft, The Vulture, was still upon the surface and they were able to see that Davis at that moment had climbed over the side. Together with the man who was already on the bridge he hurried below.

"Now they will submerge," said Lord Hastings.

He was right, for a moment later The Vulture began to sink lower in the water. At this moment the German craft fired her first torpedo. It struck a hundred yards to the right of The Vulture.

"Poor shooting," declared Jack.

The others nodded.

"She'll do better next time," said Frank.

The lad proved a good prophet for the second torpedo skimmed over the water missing The Vulture by inches. At the same time The Vulture launched a torpedo and the three aboard the U-6 gasped as it seemed that the missile would surely strike home.

But the German submersible swerved just a trifle and the torpedo missed by a narrow margin. At the same moment the German submarine began to submerge. She escaped the fire of the pirate until her periscope also was all that was visible.

Then the pirate rose; a moment later the German craft came from below and both vessels launched torpedoes simultaneously.

Lord Hastings uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"Of all the remarkable things I ever saw!" he ejaculated.

Frank and Jack were equally astonished; and the reason was this: both torpedoes had gone true and the periscope of each vessel fell away.

"There'll be no more diving," said Lord Hastings quietly.

Now the fighting submarines, both upon the surface, launched torpedo after torpedo at each other. A shot from the pirate struck her adversary a glancing blow on the bow and the head of the little craft ducked a trifle. But she bobbed up serenely again a moment later and returned the fire.

This time her aim had been true and the torpedo grazed the top of the conning tower. The Vulture also ducked, but came up again.

"It all depends upon who gets in the first square shot," said Lord Hastings, and at that moment the square shot struck.

The Vulture, swerving suddenly, barely escaped a torpedo from her foe, while the pirate's next torpedo struck the enemy squarely upon the bridge. There was an explosion and the German craft seemed to leap from the water. A moment later she came down in pieces, blown to atoms.

"It's all over," said Lord Hastings quietly. "Now it is time for us to put an end to that troublesome craft."

He led the way below and gave the order to submerge.

But it appeared that Davis, instead of fleeing as Lord Hastings and the two lads had expected him to do, had determined to square accounts with his British enemies. The Vulture headed toward the U-6.

Before Lord Hastings could give the command to launch the first torpedo, a missile from the enemy carried away the periscope of the U-6.

Lord Hastings gave an exclamation of dismay.

"We'll have to fight it out on the surface," he said quietly.

Now the U-6 launched her first torpedo and missed. A missile from The Vulture struck close to port. Again the U-6 missed and swerved just in time to escape another torpedo from the enemy.

Then suddenly Lord Hastings gave the command to submerge.

The command was obeyed quickly and he explained to the lads.

"We'll try and run closer to him while we're below. They'll be expecting us to go the other way, and if we are not seen the moment we come up we'll take them at a disadvantage. Of course, it's a long chance, but we must do something."

Ten minutes later he gave the order to rise again. There was no response. Again Lord Hastings gave the signal and still the U-6 failed to rise.

"What's the matter?" demanded Lord Hastings quickly.

"Something wrong with the tanks, sir," replied Jack hurrying up at that moment. "I've just had Simpson out and he says he can fix the damage without going to the surface."

"All right," said Lord Hastings. "Then we shall remain stationary until Simpson reports O.K."

Fifteen minutes later Simpson completed his work and again Lord Hastings gave the signal to rise. Slowly the U-6 moved upward.

Suddenly there was a shock that threw all on board to the deck, and the U-6 staggered. For a moment her upward progress was stayed, but for a moment only; then she continued upward and suddenly flashed upon the surface.

Quickly Lord Hastings jumped to his feet, and unmindful of any danger he might encounter, dashed to the bridge. Jack and Frank followed close upon his heels. And there a peculiar sight met their gaze.

To leeward, not half a dozen rods away, lay The Vulture almost upon her side. Half a dozen men were floating in the water and one still clung to the tilting vessel.

Frank uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"So that's what was wrong," he ejaculated. "We came up directly beneath her, sir."

Lord Hastings nodded.

"And it seems to me we did a pretty good job," he declared. "Now --  -- "

The appearance of one of the crew on deck cut short his sentence. The man approached and saluted.

"Well, sir?" questioned Lord Hastings.

"Boat leaking, sir," was the reply. "Two feet of water in the hold now, sir. We can't stop it. We shall have to take to the boats, sir."

Lord Hastings looked at the man in dismay for the space of several moments. Then he said quietly:

"All right, Jackson. Get out the boats and order the men on deck."

Again the man took the time to salute and then disappeared below. A few moments later the full crew of the U-6 appeared on deck and the boats were quickly gotten out.

"Rifles and revolvers for each man," ordered Lord Hastings.

The men already had armed themselves; so Lord Hastings gave the word to take to the boats. This was done, and pulling away from the rapidly settling submarine, all turned their eyes again to The Vulture.

To their surprise The Vulture was not settling as fast as was the U-6 and several figures could still be seen struggling about on board.

"They are launching the boats, sir," said Frank.

"So they are," replied Lord Hastings. "And they are arming themselves. I guess we shall have to fight this thing out yet. How's your arm, Jack?" he called to the lad, who was in another boat.

"Feels pretty good, sir," was the reply. "Why?"

"And your head, Frank?" demanded Lord Hastings, paying no heed to Jack's question.

"First rate, sir, doesn't hurt a bit."

"All right. Rifles ready, men. We'll swoop down on those fellows before they are prepared to hold us off."

But already they had delayed too long to surround the pirates without a fight. The Vulture's boats were afloat now and were manned by the crew; and from the distance the British could see they were all armed.

Lord Hastings gave his commands quickly.

"Mr. Templeton, make a short detour to the right," he commanded. "Take them from the flank." He motioned to Edwards, who was steering the boat next to his own. Edwards approached. "Climb in there and take command, Frank," said Lord Hastings.

Frank did so quickly.

"Now make a detour to the left," Lord Hastings commanded. "I'll try and hold them off here until you reach a proper position. Then we can bear down on them from all sides."

The first shot of the battle came from the pirates and was fired by Davis himself. A man in the bow of Lord Hastings' boat muttered an imprecation and wrung his hand. The bullet had struck his left little finger and carried the tip of it away.

"Hurt much, Price?" asked Lord Hastings.

"Not much, sir," was the quiet response. "May interfere with my shooting a little though, sir."

"Fire when ready," Lord Hastings commanded his men.

He threw his rifle to his shoulder and it cracked viciously. A man in the foremost pirate boat threw up his arms, sprang to his feet and pitched into the sea head first.

"One less," Lord Hastings muttered to himself.

In the meantime, while Lord Hastings engaged the enemy, Frank and Jack were nearing their respective positions. Jack came into action first, sweeping down upon the enemy from the right.

The forces were about evenly divided, three boats to a side, but it appeared that in men the pirates slightly outnumbered the British.

A man dropped in Jack's boat now, fatally wounded. The others did not even pause, but returned the fire steadily. Another man in Jack's boat dropped his rifle and fell back gasping. A pirate bullet found two victims in Frank's boat and Lord Hastings now suffered the loss of another.

But the enemy was paying for these victims. In the center pirate boat three men were no longer able to handle a rifle, while in the craft to the right two had been wounded. The boat to the left also had suffered.

And all this time the boats had been nearing each other and the crack of the rifles mingled with the hoarse shouting of the German sailors. The British, for the most part, fought coolly and silently, only the groans of the wounded breaking the stillness from their part of the water.

Frank, now that the boats were close enough together not to call for instructions to his men, left them to do their own fighting and opened with his revolver.

Now Frank was a crack shot, as he had proved on more than one occasion, and this time his aim was deadly. He found himself opposite the boat in which Davis stood erect and he picked off the men about the British traitor with ease.

At last there remained but Davis. Frank trained his weapon on him carefully, but at the moment he would have pulled the trigger a bullet struck one of the British sailors in Frank's boat a mortal wound. The man jumped and fell sidewise. The boat tipped over and Frank was flung into the water.

Frank's mouth was open as he went under, and when he came up gasping there was no boat near him. Ahead he could see Davis still standing erect. The latter discovered the lad at the same time, levelled his revolver, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger.

But there was no report. The chamber of the weapon was empty.



Chapter XXIX.

The End Of A Traitor.


Frank smiled grimly to himself as he floated in the water.

"No more bullets, eh?" he muttered.

He struck out vigorously, but instead of making for the nearest British boat, he swam directly toward the craft in which Davis remained standing.

"I'll get you this time, Mr. Davis," the lad muttered through his teeth.

Davis saw him coming and something must have told him that this time the lad would overcome him. He stooped over and picked up a second revolver. This, too, he levelled directly at the lad and pulled the trigger. But this weapon also was empty.

Now fear suddenly took possession of Davis. He dropped to the thwart, seized a pair of oars and began to row.

But he had delayed too long; for at that moment Frank's left hand grasped the gunwale. Quickly Davis raised himself in the boat, and, brandishing an oar aloft, brought it down in an effort to crush the lad's head. Frank saw the blow coming and dived just in time. Davis again sat down and began to row.

A minute later Frank came up by the side of the boat and seized it in both hands. In vain Davis tried to steady the craft. Frank's effort was too powerful to resist and the little craft capsized, hurling Davis into the water.

Frank, treading water -- now that he had his enemy on even terms -- smiled as he waited for the traitor to come up; but what was his surprise when he felt himself suddenly seized by the legs and drawn beneath the surface. So sudden and unexpected was this movement that the lad did not have time to catch a breath before his head went under.

He kicked out desperately with his left foot and felt it strike something soft; and at that moment the hold upon his legs relaxed. The lad rose rapidly to the surface, where he inhaled great draughts of fresh air. Then he swam away a few strokes and waited for Davis to rise, for he knew he could not remain under water much longer.

A head bobbed up close to him, and, swimming quickly forward, Frank struck out heavily with his left fist. The fist came in contact with a face and Frank grinned as he realized that the blow had gone home. Again he waited for Davis to come to the surface.

The latter did so a moment later, but succeeded in dodging the heavy blow that the lad aimed at him. He disappeared again almost immediately and a second time the lad felt himself seized in a tight embrace which drew him under.

Immediately he felt the hold upon his legs relax and a hand seized him by the throat.

This time Frank had taken a breath before being pulled under, for the lad was not to be caught napping twice in the same way, and he felt that he could remain beneath the water as long as his opponent.

But the grasp on his throat was strangling him and the lad realized that desperate measures were necessary to free himself.

He swung his right arm low in the water, at the same moment seizing the hand that grasped his throat with his left. His right hand found its mark and at the same moment the lad gave a quick jerk with his left hand. The grip upon his throat weakened, and, as Frank struck a second time, was released altogether.

Almost immediately, however, a pair of arms closed about his legs again, holding him tight and carrying him down. With his two hands Frank felt about him blindly, and at last encountered a head. He reached farther down and then gripped Davis by the throat with both hands and pressed them together.

Davis was threshing about in the water in an effort to release this desperate clutch without altogether loosening his hold upon the lad. Frank's lungs seemed about to burst now and he struggled desperately to push Davis away from him, at the same time maintaining his grip. Things grew blacker than ever beneath the dark water; and then, suddenly, the lad lost consciousness.

When Frank opened his eyes again he found himself in a small boat, with nothing in sight but blue water and the sun beating down upon him, shielded slightly from his face by what he took to to be a coat. The lad rubbed his eyes and attempted to sit up; then fell back with a faint moan.

This sound brought a second figure to his side and Frank felt a hand upon his head as a well-known voice said:

"How do you feel, old man?"

Frank recognized the voice instantly. The speaker was Jack. Things came back to Frank immediately and with an effort he sat up.

"How did I get here?" he demanded. "The last I seem to remember is tipping Davis out of a boat. Then what happened?"

"Then you don't remember a struggle beneath the water?" asked Jack.

Frank racked his brain and a moment later it came back to him.

"Yes, I do," he replied. "I remember he seized me by the legs and I went under. Then I grabbed him by the neck and tried to push him away, but he clung and clung -- and clung -- and clung -- and that's all I can remember."

"And no wonder," declared Jack. "You were under water for five minutes before I could get to you. I got you as you were going down for the last time. I didn't arrive a minute too soon."

"And where are we now?" asked Frank.

"In one of the small boats, making for shore."

"What shore?"

"Any shore. Belgium, most likely. But a storm Is brewing and --  -- "

A sudden shout interrupted him.

"Vessel approaching off the port bow, sir!" came the cry.

Jack stood up hurriedly and looked across the sea. Sure enough, just appearing over the horizon, a faint speck had become visible. Jack waved his hand to Lord Hastings, who was in a second boat not far behind.

"Safe now, I guess, sir," he called.

"Unless it happens to be a German," returned his commander.

"Hardly, in this part of the sea," declared Jack.

The heads of the small boats were turned and they made directly for the approaching vessel, which loomed larger and larger in the distance.

Jack returned to Frank's side.

"Ship, eh?" asked Frank feebly.

"Yes," replied Jack.

"British?"

"Haven't been able to make her out yet. Probably is, though. I hope so, for I want to get you to bed where you can be looked after."

"Don't mind me. Say, how many men did we lose?"

"Ten," said Jack slowly.

"Ten," repeated Frank. "It was a costly battle, wasn't it? But what has happened to --  -- "

"Don't you think you had better not talk any more now?" said Jack, raising a silencing hand. "You're pretty weak. Don't exert yourself."

"But wasn't that Lord Hastings' voice I heard just now?"

"Yes, it was."

"By George! I'm glad he came through safely," declared Frank feebly.

"All right. You try and go to sleep now."

Frank opened his lips to protest, but he was too weary to do so. Several times a question struggled to his lips, but the effort to speak was too great and directly he fell asleep.

It was almost an hour later that the vessel, which those in the little boats some time before had made out to be a British merchantman, sighted them. Immediately small boats were lowered over the side and made toward the shipwrecked sailors.

The latter were quickly transferred to the merchantman's boats and were rowed back toward the steamship. There the wounded were lifted gently over the side and sent immediately to the sick bay, where their wounds were dressed.

The captain of the vessel led Lord Hastings and Jack to his cabin, where he insisted upon an account of their adventures. He was greatly interested and commended Jack highly when Lord Hastings had concluded his recital.

"I must also congratulate your second officer when he has recovered," he said.

"But tell me, captain," said Lord Hastings. "Where are you bound?"

"London," was the reply.

"So? But you were headed in the other direction."

"So I was; but that was merely to avoid the German submarines. I am doubling back now, having changed my course no sooner than I picked you up."

"That is indeed fortunate for us," declared Lord Hastings. "We shall all be glad to get back to London."

"And you shall be there shortly, unless we are unfortunate enough to encounter one of these under-sea murderers," replied the captain.

Lord Hastings and Jack now excused themselves and the latter immediately made his way to the sick bay, where he asked permission to see his chum. This was readily granted.

Frank had not awakened while being transferred from the small boat to the steamship, and again he was filled with curiosity. Jack explained the transfer, and then asked:

"How do you feel now, old man?"

"Better," returned Frank briefly; "and by the way, how's that injured arm of yours?"

"First rate," laughed Jack. "To tell the truth I had almost forgotten I had it, although in the battle it did interfere with my shooting somewhat -- and you know I'm not the best shot in the world, anyhow."

"Say," said Frank, "I've got something on my mind that I want to ask you and I can't think what it is."

"Don't worry about it now, old man," said Jack. "Get a little more rest and then it will come to you."

Frank chafed as he struggled with his thoughts.

"No use," he said. "I can't think of it."

"Well, you go to sleep," said Jack. "I'll come back after a while."

He turned and moved toward the door; and as he would have passed out, Frank hailed him.

"Hold on there!" he called. "I've got it."

"Got what?" demanded Jack.

"The question I want to ask you."

"Well, let's have it."

"What happened to Davis?"

"Dead," said Jack quietly. "You proved the better man."

He turned and left the room while Frank lay still, thinking.

And so we shall leave them for a brief time. Their further adventures will be found in a succeeding volume, entitled:

"THE BOY ALLIES IN THE BALTIC; or, Through the Ice to Aid the Czar."

<eob>

The Outdoor Chums At Cabin Point

Or

The Golden Cup Mystery

By

Quincy Allen



Chapter I

On The Way To Camp


"We're going into the woods light this time, it seems, boys."

"Remember, Bluff, we sent along most of our stuff, such as blankets and grub, as also the cooking outfit, in charge of old Anthony, the stage driver."

"That's a fact, Will, and he was to leave it at the abandoned mine shaft, from which point we expect to make pack horses of ourselves."

"True for you, Jerry! And unless Frank here has made a mistake in his reckoning we're due to reach that hole in the ground before another hour."

"How about that, Frank?"

"We'll fetch up there in less time than that I reckon, fellows. To tell you the truth, it can't be more than a mile away from here."

"Bully for that! And after we get over the peak of this rocky ridge we ought to be on the down-grade most of the way."

When Jerry Wallington gave expression to his gratitude after this fashion, two of his companions waved their hats as though he voiced their sentiments. One of these boys was Will Milton, and while he did not seem to be quite as vigorous as his chums, still his active life during the last two years had done much to build up his strength. As for Bluff Masters, any one could see from his looks that he had a constitution of iron, while his face told of determination bordering on obstinacy. The fourth member of the little party tramping along this road leading over the ridge was Frank Langdon. He was a boy of many parts, able to take the lead in most matters, and looked up to by his comrades.

All of them lived in the town of Centerville, where, on account of their love for the open and for camp life, they had become known as the "Outdoor Chums." Fortune had indeed been kind to these four boys, and allowed them to enjoy opportunities for real sport that come the way of few lads.

They had first called themselves the "Rod, Gun and Camera Club," because their activities in the woods partook of the nature of these several branches of sport. Will was an ardent photographer, and his work had received high praise. Indeed, it was only recently that he had captured a cash prize offered by a prominent newspaper for the best collection of flashlight pictures of wild animals in their native haunts.

This had been accomplished only after the most persistent and laborious efforts. It was carried out during a delightful trip, taken by the boys to the Maine country, where they met with some exceedingly interesting adventures, all of which were set down in the seventh volume of this series, under the title of "The Outdoor Chums in the Big Woods; Or, The Rival Hunters of Lumber Run."

Those readers who have followed the fortunes of Frank and his three wide-awake comrades in previous stories have of course come to look on them as old friends, and need no further introduction. As there may be some, however, who are now making their acquaintance for the first time it may be well to mention a few things connected with their past, as well as to explain why they were now bound for a new camping ground in a region they had never before visited.

Naturally, they knew every foot of country for many miles around Centerville. They had roamed over Oak Ridge and the Sunset Mountains, camped on Wildcat Island, situated in Camelot Lake, and scoured the region roundabout.

More than this, wonderful opportunities had come to these boys to visit distant parts of the States. On one occasion they had taken a trip South, going to the Gulf of Mexico. Another time it had been a visit to the Rocky Mountains where they hunted big game. Then, on a houseboat belonging to an eccentric uncle of Will's, they voyaged down the great Mississippi River to New Orleans, meeting with numerous adventures on the way.

When they returned home after their first year at college, of course the regular question came up immediately: "Where shall we go for the next outing? because we must get into the woods somehow, and live close to Nature for a spell, to fish, and take pictures, and just forget all our troubles."

Many ideas were suggested, but it remained for Bluff Masters to bring up the most catching plan. By some means he had heard of a place a good many miles away from their home town where the big lake lay for many miles between the hills.

Here he had been told by one who knew that they would be apt to find the seclusion they sought, since few people lived in that section of country. Small game was plentiful enough to give Will all the fun he wanted in laying his traps, in order that raccoons and opossums and foxes might be coaxed to snap off their own pictures.

Fishing ought to be good in the waters of the inland sea, and all of them professed to be ardent disciples of the hook and line. In fact, Bluff laid out such an alluring programme that he actually carried the others by storm.

Accordingly, preparations were made to go to the distant lake. Frank, as was his habit, did everything in his power to pick up information concerning the lay of the land. He even made up a sort of map, based on what he was able to learn, although frankly admitting that it might prove faulty in many places. It was going to be one of his personal tasks to rectify these mistakes, and bring back an accurate chart of the whole district.

Besides being an ardent photographer, Will had taken up the study of medicine, as he anticipated some day being a physician. The boys were in the habit of calling him "Doctor Will" at times; and whenever there arose an occasion that called for his aid he was only too willing to apply his knowledge of the healing art.

Bluff Masters had perhaps been well named by his boy friends for he was not only a frank sort of boy, but there were many times when just out of a desire to tease he would try to "bluff" those with whom he chanced to be arguing.

At the same time Bluff was a hearty boy, with plenty of good nature, and was a favorite with his companions. He and Jerry were both apt to be a little boisterous, and to express their dislikes rather forcibly, but the others knew their little failings and paid small attention to them as a rule.

As they mentioned in their chatter while they tramped along the rough up-hill road, they had found a chance to send most of their camp outfit ahead of them by the stage. It was to be left at the shaft of the old abandoned mine, which they had heard so much about, though of course had never seen.

After reaching that point they expected to leave the road and plunge directly into the woods, taking a short-cut for the big lake. Here they had planned to search for an old cabin situated on a point that stretched out into the beautiful bay, and which Frank believed might serve them in lieu of a tent; indeed, trusting to the information they had received, they had not bothered to carry any canvas along with them on the trip.

"What if that old cabin proves to be a myth after all, Frank?" Bluff was asking as they toiled along, with a wall of rock on one hand and a dizzy precipice close on the other side.

"Perhaps we'll be sorry about leaving out that fine waterproof tent of ours," suggested Will, who did not like to "rough it" quite so much as did the others.

"Shucks!" ejaculated Jerry, with fine scorn, "what's the matter with our building a shelter of logs, bark and driftwood on the shore of the lake, if the worst strikes us? It wouldn't be the first time we'd done such a thing either, eh, Frank?"

"I reckon we could do it without straining a point," the other observed quietly. "But don't borrow trouble, Bluff. Time enough to cross your bridges when you get to them. That old cabin stood there last summer, I was told, and likely to hold out for a good many more seasons unless some one should deliberately burn it down."

"Who would be apt to do such a silly thing as that, tell me?" demanded Bluff.

"I don't think any one would," Frank hastened to reply; "but I've been told there's a peculiar old hermit living on an estate not a great way distant from Cabin Point. He is said to be a rich man, but seems to want to keep away from his fellows, and has built a house up here on his property."

"You mean Aaron Dennison, of course, Frank," said Will. "I was interested in what we were told about him. He seems to be a regular bear, and refuses to make friends with anybody drifting up here."

"The loggers over at Edmundson Cove tell queer yarns of the things he has done," Frank continued, with a faint smile; "and to own up to the truth, I'm rather hoping we run across old Aaron. He must be quite a character from all we've heard, and somehow I've grown curious about him."

"And if I get half a chance," observed Will, whose mind usually ran in the one channel, which of course covered his hobby, "I mean to snap off a picture of him. I've got a lot of freaks in my collection, but nary a hermit nor a crank."

"All I hope for," said Jerry, "is that he doesn't try to make it unpleasant for us up here. For one, I expect to give him a wide berth. These hermits are not much to my fancy. You never know what to expect from the lot. But, Frank, after all, we're not the only fellows traveling along this mountain road. Look up ahead and you'll see a chap hurrying this way."

"He's not much older than any of us, it seems," remarked Bluff, as all of them immediately focussed their gaze on the figure that had turned a bend in the rough road, and was hurriedly advancing in a somewhat careless fashion.

"He's carrying a bag just like my new one," remarked Will, patting the article in question affectionately, as though it contained something which he valued very much.

"I shouldn't be surprised if he were heading for that railroad station we struck a mile back," suggested Frank. "It was only a flag station, but trains stop there on signal most likely."

"But where on earth could that natty young fellow come from, do you think?" Will asked. "I hope there isn't a camp of city boys up here anywhere, because if that turned out to be the case there'd be small chance for me to get the pictures of game I'm hoping to strike."

"He sees us now," remarked Jerry, "but is coming along faster than ever. Perhaps he's running away from something, for he looked back just then over his shoulder."

"Yes, and came near taking a nasty fall in the bargain," commented Will, who had started with sudden fear; "it strikes me he's a pretty careless sort of fellow. On a dangerous road like this it pays to watch your step, as a fall might mean a broken leg, or even worse. Oh! look there, boys, he's stumbled again, and gone over the edge of the precipice!"

All of them stared in awe, for what Will called out was only too true. The advancing figure was no longer in sight, for upon making that false step he had fallen to his knees, made a violent effort to keep from slipping over the edge, and then disappeared.



Chapter II

A Cool Customer


"Come on everybody!" shouted Jerry, starting to run up the grade in his customary impetuous way.

The other three were close at his heels. All were inspired by an eager desire to find out whether the stranger had actually fallen all the way down the face of that steep declivity, or had managed to catch hold of some friendly projection.

If the chums had felt tired before that thrilling moment they quite forgot the circumstance in their wild anxiety to learn what had happened to the strange boy. Fortunately the spot where they had last seen the other vanish was not far away, and they soon came to the place.

Jerry was already flat on his stomach and peering over the edge when the other boys arrived. Even before they could see for themselves his shout announced that he had made an important discovery.

"He's hanging to a point of rock down there, as sure as anything, Frank! Oh! how are we going to get to him before his arms give way? See how he's throwing his feet up, trying to ease the strain, but there's nothing doing. Shall I go down there after him, Frank?"

"Don't you think of it, Jerry!" cried the alarmed Will; "let Frank make up a plan. You'd only tumble yourself, don't you know?"

Frank Langdon had an exceedingly active mind. He seemed to be able to grasp a situation instantly, and to decide quickly the best thing to do in an emergency.

Even while running to the spot he had used his eyes to advantage.

"Wait for me!" was what he snapped as he flung himself around.

Bluff, twisting his head backwards, saw that Frank was making for a tree that had been blown down at some previous time. It chanced to be close at hand, and in a dozen seconds the running boy had gained the spot.

Then Bluff gave a cry of mingled delight and admiration.

"It certainly takes Frank to hatch up a clever scheme on the spur of the moment! He's dragging that old wild grave-vine out from the wreck of the tree!" was what Bluff exclaimed in an ecstasy of satisfaction. "Oh! why didn't he tell me to go along with him? What if he can't manage it alone?"

Bluff was in the act of clambering to his feet when Jerry halted him.

"It's all right, Bluff, for he's got it loose now, and is whooping it up this way like everything. If only that fellow can hold on a little longer we'll pull him up O. K. Hey, down there, take a fresh grip and stick fast! We've got a vine rope coming on the jump! Steady now, old chap; we're standing by you!"

"Hurry!" they heard the other gasp. Undoubtedly after all his exertions he must have been short of breath, though the face he turned up toward them did not appear to be stamped with any great degree of fright.

Just then Frank arrived on the spot, and instantly started to lower the section of wild grape-vine he had secured from the fallen tree. It was at least a dozen or fifteen feet in length, and any one acquainted with the amazing strength of such a parasite did not need to be assured that it would easily bear the weight of several persons the weight of one who was in such peril on the rock below.

"Can you change your hold to the vine?" called Frank, when presently he could see that the lower end of his substitute rope dangled close alongside the other.

It required more or less agility and reserve strength to carry such a proceeding through successfully. The stranger, however, appeared to possess these necessary qualifications, Frank was pleased to see.

Will felt as though his heart was up in his throat as he watched the other hang on to the spur of rock with one hand, and seize the dangling object with the other. Frank had lowered the larger end of the vine. He had also sent it below the jutting rock, so that the one they meant to rescue could clasp his legs about it, and thus secure a much better grip.

When they saw he had really accomplished the difficult feat of transferring his weight to the vine the boys, whose heads projected beyond the ledge above, uttered encouraging shouts.

"Well done, old top!" called out Bluff, carried away by his enthusiasm, and acting as though he had known the other a long time. "Now just give us a little time and we'll run you up here in great shape. Here you come, then! Heave-oh, boys!"

It required their united strength to raise the boy who dangled at the end of the grape-vine. This was on account of the fact that their make-believe rope refused to bend very well, thus making its hauling up a clumsy business.

Still every foot helped, and all the while some of them kept calling out encouragingly to the boy below. In the end his head appeared in view, upon which he was seized by the arms by Frank and Bluff, and dragged over the edge.

Somewhat to the surprise of the boys, he immediately started to brushing himself off, as though the dust on his clothes bothered him more than any slight bruises he may have received in his ugly fall. Frank made up his mind when he saw this that the other was certainly nonchalant, or, as Frank himself expressed it, "a cool customer."

"I hope you're not hurt by your tumble?" Frank asked, at which the other shook his head, and continued dusting his coat as he replied:

"Don't think I got even a scratch, which is about my ordinary luck. But only for your coming I'd have dropped the rest of the way down to the bottom of the hole, and that might have changed things some. Thank you very much for helping. And that scheme of the wild grave-vine was a corker, too. I'd never have thought of such a thing, I'm positive."

"Oh! trust Frank for hitting the right nail on the head every time," boasted Will, who never lost a chance to magnify the deeds of the one he admired above any among all his friends.

The other now took occasion to look them over curiously, as though he had begun to wonder who they were, and what brought four boys up into this region. Frank guessed this much, for he immediately introduced himself and his chums.

"We're from Centerville, a town that's a good way off from here. My name's Frank Langdon, this is Will Milton, the one next to him is Bluff Masters, and the other fellow, Jerry Wallington. We have always been mighty fond of camping, and just now mean to put in a few weeks on the shore of the big lake at a place called Cabin Point. Our stuff has gone ahead of us on the stage that came along here yesterday."

Somehow Frank thought the other started a little and looked keenly at him when this announcement was made. He could not understand, though, why it should interest any one to know that they intended to camp at any particular spot on the lake shore, since there were many miles to choose from.

"Oh! my name is Gilbert Dennison. I've been at college, and mean to spend my vacation playing golf. You see they do say I'm runner-up among the amateurs on the green links. Sent my clubs and luggage off yesterday, and was on the way to the train to-day when the horse smashed a wheel of the rig. I had to put out afoot, for, you see, I wouldn't miss making that train for a good deal, because of the match."

He took out his watch and held it in a hand that hardly trembled in the least, which Frank thought rather remarkable, seeing what a strain had been upon him lately. Altogether, Frank considered him the coolest person he had ever met. If he could control his nerves in this fashion when playing in a match it was no wonder he was looked upon as a coming wonder on the golf links, where such a gift counts heavily.

"You must excuse me for rushing off in such a beastly hurry, fellows!" Gilbert exclaimed, as he looked around for his bag, which, fortunately, had not fallen over the precipice at the time he stumbled; "some other time perhaps I'll run in on you at your camp, and be able to thank you in a more decent way for giving me a lift. I think I can make that train in half an hour."

Bluff and Jerry had not a word to say. They stood and stared at the other, astonished beyond measure. Really in all their experiences far and wide they had never met with such a self-possessed young person as this.

He picked up his bag, waved them a flippant good-bye, and then actually started to run down the slope. Bluff scratched his head and grinned, while Jerry exclaimed in disgust.

"Gee whiz! if that wasn't the queerest thing ever! You'd think he'd just stubbed his toe, and we happened along in time to help him rub the same. He sure is a cool customer, believe me, fellows!"

"Such base ingratitude I never ran across," ventured Will, indignantly. "Why, only for Frank's fetching that grape-vine along, and our pulling him up so neatly, he'd have had to let go his hold before now. And say, it was all of thirty feet down to the bottom of the hole from the rock he held on to; an ugly fall, I'd call it."

"Oh! well," observed Frank, more amused than otherwise by the singular circumstance, "when a fellow pursues any fad as he does golf he seems to chase it just as we've all done one of those jack-o'-lanterns in the marsh. When the fever is on him he can't think of anything else. That match on the links is, in his mind, the greatest event under the sun. We've all been there, boys, remember."

"But where did he come from, do you think?" asked Will.

"There's a village, I recollect, over the hills that way," Frank explained; "and it's just barely possible his folks live there. Being off the railroad, you see they have to make a little journey of some miles every time they want to go to the city. We may run on to the broken-down buggy further on."

"He's still running right along," remarked Jerry.

"And hasn't bothered to look back once," added Will, as though he could not understand why the other should so easily forget about the service they had done him.

"Well, looking back caused him his other stumble, and it's taught him a lesson, I reckon," laughed Frank, always ready to offer excuses for others' failings, but never for his own.

"We might as well be going on our way then, boys," suggested Bluff, as he gave his knapsack a fling that caused it to land squarely on his back.

The others picked up their scanty possessions for, as has been said before, the main part of their belongings had been sent on in advance by the stage.

"For one," observed Will with a little sigh, "I own up I'll be glad when we get to the lake. Seems to me this bag keeps on growing heavier all the time; and yet when I started out this morning I thought it as light as a feather."

"It's always that way," he was told by Frank, consolingly; "even your feet often begin to drag as though weighted down with lead, when once you find yourself growing tired. But, Will, say the word and I'll tote your bag for you."

"Not much you will, Frank! though it's certainly kind of you to offer to do it. I'd be a nice Outdoor Chum, wouldn't I now, if I let some other fellow shoulder my burdens? If I were sick or lame it might be a different thing; but that doesn't happen to fit the case now. I'll get along all right, so don't worry."

Accordingly they pushed on up the road, and presently arrived at the crest of the ridge. The trees prevented an extended view, however, much to the disappointment of Will, who wanted to make use of his camera.

They saw no signs of the wrecked vehicle mentioned by the young college chap who had given them his name as Gilbert Dennison, and hence concluded it must be further along the road.

A short time afterwards Frank announced that they were near the abandoned mine, which his informants had told him lay close to the border of the road they had followed over the rocky ridge.



Chapter III

Taking Possession


Frank had learned that many years back there had been a company organized to mine the iron that was known to exist in certain sections of the hills in that region.

Considerable work had been done, and some ore even shipped away, when, for some reason or other, the scheme had been given up after a shaft had been sunk for fifty feet or more, and workings started.

The entrance to the abandoned mine had been visited by curious people coming to that locality. It was even marked on the old map which Frank had used in making the outlines of his own little chart.

"Here it is, boys!" cried Jerry, who had pushed to the front; "Frank was correct when he said he could see where the wheels of the stage had run in off the road just back there. I hope our stuff is all right."

"So do I!" echoed Will, anxiously, "because I've got most of my new rolls of films, as well as my flashlight apparatus, in my big pack. I'm only carrying a lot of precious developed films in this bag, with other things I need. You see I'm meaning to put in quite a bunch of time while up here experimenting and that's why I carried them along."

They had their fears quickly relieved, for their property lay just inside the old shaft leading into the abandoned iron mine.

"It all seems to be here, and in decent shape," remarked Frank. "That stage driver kept his word when he said he'd take good care of our stuff. And now to divide it up so every one has a share."

"No funny business, Frank," Bluff reminded him; "every one of us expects to get an equal tote load."

"That's what I say, too," echoed Will, who suspected he might be treated too generously by his chums, and given less than his proper proportion to carry, for Will was over-sensitive concerning his lack of physical strength.

In the end they managed to distribute the blankets, food, and other things in a fashion that was fairly equitable, and then resumed their journey. At this point they expected to leave the road, and follow a trail that if stuck to would take them to the shore of the big lake around Cabin Point, their intended destination.

"Our course should be almost due northwest from here on," the guide informed his three companions as they set forth. "I'm telling you that for a purpose, you understand."

"You mean in case we lose the pesky trail that seems so faint, we can keep going in the right direction all the same; is that it, Frank?" asked Jerry.

"You've struck the right nail on the head, Jerry, for that was what I meant. But by keeping our eyes on the trail we ought to have little trouble following this old path."

"It strikes me the trail hasn't been worked much for some time," Bluff observed.

"That's true enough," said the pilot of the expedition, "but once a trail has been well worn you can find it years and years afterward if you look the right way. It's easy to notice heaps of signs that tell the story, where the earth was worn away by passing feet. When you're in doubt just push back the grass and there it lies as plain as day."

Frank always prided himself more or less on his ability to follow tracks where others might give up the task in despair. Nothing pleased him half so much as to run across a puzzle along these lines that required his best work in order to find the answer.

After they had gone on for some time a rest was called.

"That's a good idea, Frank," Jerry declared when he heard the order given to drop their burdens and lie around for ten minutes or so. "Not that I'm feeling played out you understand; but I've always been told it was poor policy to whip a willing nag."

"It's certainly a pretty rough path, all right!" Will admitted.

"But we must be about half-way across by now," added Bluff.

"How about that, Frank? Let's take a look at your map again," said Jerry.

Upon examination it was found to be about as Bluff had thought; the shore of the big water could not be more than half a mile further on. Cheered by this information, even Will expressed himself as willing to start again.

"When you've got anything unpleasant to do," he told them, "I believe in getting it over with as soon as you can, and off your mind."

"Huh! that pleases me a heap to hear you say so, Will," chuckled Bluff; "because you know there's that dicker I wanted to make with you for that new hunting knife I took such a fancy to. I offered you my old one and something to boot in the bargain. Now I understood from the way you acted the deal wasn't pleasant to you; so please get it over with as soon as possible."

"I'll see you in Guinea, Bluff, before I trade that splendid blade," retorted the other, "but I told you where I got it, and any time you feel like it you can send for one just like mine. Let it go at that then."

There came another hard pull. Sometimes the way was so rough that all of them panted more or less. Will showed real grit by keeping up with the others, though he had to shut his teeth hard together, and take himself mentally to task when he felt his legs tremble under him with weakness.

All at once Jerry, always the first to discover things, gave vent to a yell.

"Hey there, fellows! I see water ahead through the trees! Yep, it's the big lake as sure as anything! We've got there at last!"

"Good!" muttered Will in an undertone, as though he did not wish the others to hear him; to tell the truth, he felt as though he could not stagger on much further over that rough trail, and carry the heavy pack in the bargain, as well as the new bag containing his precious films.

The sight of the splendid sheet of water seemed to inspire them all with new energy, for they perceptibly quickened their pace until impatient Jerry was almost running in his eagerness to get to his destination.

After a while they found themselves standing on the shore of the inland sea, where the waters were lapping the shore with a murmuring sound that was sweet music in the ears of Frank Langdon.

"Well, one thing's settled anyhow," remarked Will, presently, as he heaved a sigh of relief; "we didn't get lost, did we, fellows?"

"Shucks! that was the last thing to bother me," declared Bluff with a fine appearance of scorn. "For one, I've passed the novice stage in woodcraft, and reckon myself able to get along with the next chap."

"All the same," he was told by Frank, "I've known the time when you did manage to lose your bearings and run up against a whole bunch of trouble in consequence."

"But that's past history," remonstrated the other; "and times have changed since then, Frank. I should hope I've learned my lesson by now."

"Now where do you think this Cabin Point lies, that we're going to hunt up, with the idea of making our home there during our stay?" Jerry demanded.

"Just look to the left and I think you'll see a wooded cape that reaches out into the lake like a tongue or a finger," the pilot explained, pointing as he spoke.

"Frank, you're all to the good there, that must be our goal," Bluff hastened to assert; for indeed since there was no other similar projection of the shore in sight, it seemed reasonable to believe Cabin Point was before their eyes.

"We'll soon settle that matter," observed Frank, once more making a start.

They did not have far to go, for the half-concealed and wholly overgrown trail reached the lake close to the wooded cape. Perhaps long before, when loggers had a camp in that region while felling the virgin growth of forest, the point of land was a favorite camp with them. That would account for the trail, and why it had grown up in recent years.

Once on the ground, they began to look earnestly for signs of the abandoned cabin which it was hoped would afford them shelter during their outing. For some little time this search bore no fruit, and Will was beginning to feel quite disconsolate.

"Looks to me as if it was going to be our job to start a brush shanty that will give us shelter for a couple of nights till we can put up a more substantial affair," he told Bluff, who happened to be close to him, looking to the right and to the left in a vain attempt to be the first one to make a pleasant discovery.

Will had hardly spoken when they heard a call from Jerry.

"I might have known it was no good trying to beat his sharp eyes out," grumbled Bluff, as though really disappointed because he had failed to locate the cabin.

"What difference does it make who turns the trick?" ventured Will, looking happy again; "so long as it's done. The end and not the means is what counts. Hello! Jerry, have you struck pay dirt?"

"Here it is!" came the triumphant answer, and the others hurried forward, to discover the log structure partly concealed from view by branches of trees, vines, moss, and every sort of green growth.

"No wonder we couldn't see it easily," expostulated Bluff; "everybody doesn't happen to have microscopic eyes like Jerry here. I warrant you now I passed within thirty feet of this spot several times, and never tumbled to what was so close by."

"One of the first things we'll do, fellows," suggested Frank, "will be to get busy and cut down a lot of this stuff that keeps us from having a fine outlook over the bay and the big lake beyond."

"How about the cabin itself?" asked Will. "Seems to me the chimney is sort of dilapidated on top."

"That can be soon remedied, and I'll take care of it," Frank assured him. "Then this door is hanging on one rusty hinge; we'll find a way to stand it up again. Let's step inside and look around a bit; I'm more anxious about the roof than almost anything else, for that's apt to leak like a sieve until we fix it."

"Go a little slow," Will warned them, "for I've known of wild cats or other wild beasts taking up their quarters in an abandoned cabin." This remark caused Bluff and Jerry to laugh, for they could themselves look back to a ludicrous experience of the kind.

It turned out that the cabin had no ferocious occupant and upon investigation they found that the roof was not very bad after all.

"In one corner only it looks as if the rain had come in," said Frank finally; "or water when the snow melted, which tries a roof more than anything else. Why, given half a day and we shall have a weather-proof top all over. Take note of that big yawning fireplace, will you? I can see what jolly times we'll have sitting around there on cool nights; and up here we're apt to have many such."

"We can make bunks against this wall where you can see the remains of two right now," Bluff intimated.

"Until then we'll spread our blankets on the floor and rough it, which suits me all right," Jerry announced.

Will had lowered his burdens to the floor. He seemed anxious to get settled after some fashion. First of all he opened the new bag. The other boys were still looking curiously around, finding a number of interesting features connected with the lone cabin on the point, when they heard Will give a cry of utter astonishment. Turning quickly they saw him staring down into the bag he had opened, with a look of consternation on his face.



Chapter IV

As Busy As Beavers


"What under the sun ails Will?" demanded Bluff.

"It's his bag, don't you understand?" added Jerry. "Something's happened to upset him terribly. He looks as if he'd seen a ghost. Ten chances to one now he forgot to put the films in."

"What is it, Will?" called out Frank, who, being busy just then, had only turned his head when the cry bubbled from the other's lips.

"Oh! Frank, they're gone!" gasped Will.

"What's that? Do you mean your films?" demanded the other.

"Yes, oh yes, gone, worse luck! I don't understand it at all. Seems as though I must be dreaming, Frank!" and Will began to rub his eyes vigorously, as though by that means he hoped to get his proper sight back; after which he stared again at the open bag on the floor.

"You're dead sure you put them in the bag, are you, Will?" questioned the skeptical Jerry.

"Of course I am!" he was indignantly told. "But I can't understand where these silly things came from. They don't belong to me, that's sure."

"Hello! here's a mystery all right," said Bluff, scrambling to his feet and hurrying over to the other; in which action he was immediately imitated by the other two.

"Well, I declare that's queer!" burst out Jerry; "a lot of golf balls, a white sweater, and a pair of rubber-soled shoes! Why, Will, what has happened?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said the bewildered one, shaking his head sadly. "Here I pack my films and a few other little things in this new bag, and start out. Then when I open it, see what I get! Who's been playing a trick on me, I'd like to know?"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Frank, just when the injured one was beginning to frown and look suspiciously at Bluff and Jerry; "nobody here has had a hand in the thing, Will; but I think I know what happened."

"Then for goodness' sake, Frank, hurry up and tell us!" cried Bluff; "for Will here is beginning to have awful thoughts, and looks at me as if he could eat me."

"Yes, please explain the mystery, Frank, if you can," pleaded Will.

"To my mind it's as simple as anything could well be," began the other, soberly.

"You remember our meeting on the road with the young chap calling himself Gilbert something or other? Well, I happened to notice that the bag he carried was as near like your new one as two peas could be. When he hurried away to catch his train in his excitement he must have unconsciously picked up the wrong bag!"

"Then this one belongs to him, does it?" asked Jerry.

"Don't you remember," remarked Frank, "his saying something about his being runner-up in the amateur class of golfers, and that he was going to a tournament right then, which accounted for his haste?"

Will uttered a deep groan. He was evidently very much dejected over the unfortunate accident that had befallen him so early in their outing.

"What tough luck I've struck!" he said, as he stared down at the golf balls, as useless to him as so many stones. "I do hope that chap won't be so mad when he finds out what he's done as to destroy my precious films. What if he went and put a match to them? You know they'd flame up something fierce, and it'd be good-bye to all my hard work up in Maine."

"Oh! the chances are small that he'd be so venomous as all that," returned Frank, "especially when he must know it was all his own fault."

"But what do you think he'll do about it?" questioned Bluff.

"If I were Gilbert," suggested Jerry, drily, "my first job would be to hire some caddy with a heavy foot to kick me good and hard. Then I'd set out to get a new sweater and another supply of golf balls. Later on I'd make it a point to head back this way and hunt you up, to apologize humbly and to hand over your bag intact."

"Well said, Jerry," was Frank's hearty commendation.

Will picked up a little hope at that. Perhaps after all matters might not be quite so bad as they looked at first glance. Even if he did lose a week of time, there were plenty of other things he could be doing, since he had his camera and flashlight apparatus intact.

"Thanks, Jerry. I guess you are right," he told the other. "Every cloud has a silver lining, they say, if only you look for it. I'll try to hope for the best after this. My precious films may come back to me again undamaged. I hope so, anyway; but you know there's no telling what a fellow may do when in a sudden rage."

"Think again, Will," said Frank. "We all agreed that this Gilbert fellow was as cool a customer as we'd ever met. Now the chances are he'll grasp the situation at a glance, laugh at his blunder, put your bag safely away, and hustle to remedy the mistake so as not to be left out of the tournament. Believe that, Will, for your own peace of mind."

So the forlorn chum finally fastened the bag and hung it on a peg.

"I hope to see it give way to my own bag by the time a week or so has passed," he forced himself to say.

As the afternoon was getting well along the boys busied themselves with what appeared to be the most urgent duties. Such things as roof mending and the like could wait for another time, since there did not seem to be any possibility of a storm coming up, on that night at least.

"But we must surely pay attention to that roof the first thing to-morrow," Frank told them, as they began to make preparations for the cooking fire.

"Yes, that's right," Jerry added; "because we mustn't be like the Irishman in the old story who never did mend the hole in his roof, although always going to do so; and when they asked why he kept putting it off explained by saying: 'Whin it rains I can't mind it, and whin it's dry and fair, be jabers! phy should I bother?'"

Of course things were in something of a turmoil that evening, though the boys were beginning to plan just how they meant to store their possessions away so as to have their customary system about the cabin camp.

When the odors of supper began to fill the interior of the cabin the boys discovered that their camp appetites were already beginning to manifest themselves. They certainly appreciated that first meal in the open. It brought back to memory many other camps they had enjoyed together.

And later on while sitting around in front of the blazing fire it was only natural that the talk should be of those earlier events, which have been set down in such an interesting way between the covers of previous volumes of this series.

Having no cots or bunks as yet, they spread their blankets on the hard floor, and after this crude fashion settled down for the first night. None of them expected to obtain a good rest, because the first night out is always a wakeful one on account of strange surroundings. But in due time all this would wear away and in the end it might even prove to be a difficult task to arouse some of the heavy sleepers at sunrise.

After breakfast the next morning all of them set to work. Even Will was not allowed to begin with his beloved photography until some semblance of order had been brought about.

They had brought a few tools along with them, Frank resting under the belief that a hand-saw, a hammer, and some nails would not come in amiss when they meant to start housekeeping in an old cabin that might need considerable repairing to make it habitable.

It was this habit of looking ahead possessed by Frank Langdon that so often made things much easier for himself and his chums than they might otherwise have been.

So while Frank busied himself at the roof, he had one of the others mending the door, and the remainder of the party searching for wood that could be utilized in making their rude bunks along the wall.

It was found that they could take down some boards that were really not needed, and saw them into the necessary strips required. So during the entire morning there was more or less hammering and sawing going on that must have greatly astonished the timid little woods folk dwelling in that vicinity, so long given over to solitude and quiet.

At noon-time things began to look a little shipshape. To begin with, the roof had been repaired, and Frank believed it would turn water in any storm short of a cloud-burst. Then the door also was swinging on two hinges, one of stout leather, also carried in Frank's pack for an emergency.

The four bunks were coming along nicely, and the amateur carpenters who worked on them promised a complete job before nightfall.

"And now," said Frank, as they munched a cold lunch at noon, having decided not to go to the bother of doing any cooking at that time, "I want Will to come with me to make a little search for that old boat we were told could be found hidden under a shelving rock near the shore. It hasn't been used for some years, and is apt to be in poor shape, but I've got some oakum and a calking tool. With those, I hope to put it in condition, so with frequent baling we can use it on the lake."

They made a systematic search all along the shore, but it was not until nearly an hour had passed that they discovered the spot where, under a shelf of rock, the old craft lay.

After making an examination, Frank declared he could mend the rowboat so that it would afford them more or less pleasure. Its planks had survived many a winter, thanks to the protection afforded by the shelf of rock.

Since the gaps in the open seams were so large that it would leak like a sieve, he realized his work would have to be done at the spot where the boat was found. This meant only a tramp of a quarter of a mile at most, going and coming.

"I'll get busy the first thing in the morning," Frank told Will. "Altogether, the job oughtn't to take me more than a day. Then we can all get together and drag the boat down to the water, and one of us can paddle around to Cabin Point, where there's a splendid cove to tie up in."

"The oars are good enough for our use, though splintered some," suggested the other.

"That will save us a hard job," Frank admitted, "because I don't think I ever shaped an oar in my life, and it's no little task, believe me!"

In their wanderings the boys had discovered a stream that emptied into the lake. Frank promised himself the pleasure of following it up some day, and finding what the country looked like in that direction.

"I've got a notion," he told Will, "that this stream runs through the property of that old hermit, Aaron Dennison; at least that's what one man told me. Perhaps he'll take it badly when he learns that a parcel of boys have squatted down for a month's stay so close to his place."

"I hope we do run across the queer old man some of these fine days," ventured Will; "and that I'm carrying my camera along with me, because I'd like to snap off the picture of a real hermit. I've got some odd people in my collection, but nothing so queer as that. I surely would like to get him."

On arriving at the cabin they found the other pair had been exceedingly industrious during their absence. The sleeping quarters were beginning to look shipshape, and promised more or less comfort when completed.

"Now if you fellows would only turn in and give us a helping hand," suggested Jerry, "we could get through in a couple of hours."

"Just what I was going to propose on my own account," Frank told him. "Many hands make light work, you know. So tell us what you want done, and we'll get busy."

All of them being handy with tools, they made a good job of the bunks. Indeed, considering what poor material they had to work with, the result did them great credit.

"Now who's going to be the first to pick his bunk?" laughed Will, when it was decided there could be nothing more done to make the sleeping quarters comfortable.

"No, you don't!" exclaimed Frank, when unconsciously all faces were turned toward him. "Every fellow is going to have a square show. Here, I'll hold four splinters of wood in my hand, all of different lengths. Each one draw, and the longest has first choice."

"That's a fair bargain," agreed Bluff, "though for my part one bunk is pretty much like another."

It turned out that Will was given first choice, and he took a lower berth, for they had been arranged in sections of two, on account of limited room. Frank, having second pick, took the one above, and the others then divided the remaining two between them.

After they had arranged their warm blankets, the place began to take on quite a cheery appearance.

"We'll get at that cranky table next, and steady it," said Frank; "then we need another bench, because as it is we have to use blocks of wood for seats. In fact, I can already see a dozen things to be done, with more to follow."

Jerry in passing across the cabin tripped, and uttered a grunt as though he had stubbed his toe.

"That makes three times that loose plank has caught me," he muttered, "and the old motto says 'three times and out.' So I'll just yank that plank up and settle it down afresh. A few of those big spikes you brought along ought to do the trick, Frank."

Accordingly the determined boy set about carrying this little plan into execution. Prying up one end of the plank, he managed to get a grip of it, and then raised it completely. It came up much more easily than Jerry had anticipated.

"Why, hello!" the others heard him say, "here's an old rat's nest made years ago, I should think; and look what's lying beside it, will you?"



Chapter V

A Call For Help


Jerry was holding something up when he said this, which he had just picked out of the cavity under the loose plank.

"Why, it looks as though it had once been a baby's shoe, I should say," suggested Frank.

"Just what it is, but as old as the hills," remarked Jerry. "I wonder now, did it slip down here, or was it carried by the old mother rat when this nest was made?"

He fumbled among the scraps of paper and such stuff that had gone to form the nest of the rodent. One piece seemed to be a part of an envelope. The writing was fairly visible, though age had yellowed the paper.

"What do you think of this, fellows?" Jerry demanded, as though interested. "I can make out part of a name here, and whose do you reckon it is?"

"Oh, tell, and don't keep a fellow guessing!" urged Bluff impatiently.

"The word Aaron is as plain as anything," pursued Jerry, "and then there's part of the next one Denni -- so you see it really looks as if away back, twenty years ago or perhaps even much longer, the rich old hermit used to actually live here in this log cabin. In those days he was land poor, mebbe; and say, the shoe -- why, he must have had a wife, and a baby, too!"

All of them looked at the poor little memento of the dim past which had been discovered under such singular conditions. Then Jerry commenced smoothing the earth level under the plank so that it would set more evenly. In the midst of this he uttered another exclamation.

"All sorts of queer things are coming my way, I tell you!" he called out. "See what I've dug up now!"

"Looks like a half dollar," remarked Bluff decidedly interested. "And see here, if you've struck a miser's hoard, remember we're all chums, Jerry; it's share alike, I hope."

A vigorous hunt failed to disclose any mate of the coin, and in the end they were compelled to believe it must be only a lone specimen.

"Perhaps old Aaron was a money grabber in those days," Bluff ventured, "and laid the foundation for his fortune while living here in this cabin. And this hole under the loose plank -- wouldn't it be just the jolliest hiding-place for a miser to stow his valuables in?"

"Either that," added Frank thoughtfully, "or else the half dollar managed to slip down through a crack. Have you examined it to see the date, Jerry? Because if it happens to be one that was coined within the last half-dozen years we'd know it couldn't have been left here long ago."

"I can make it out easily enough, Frank; and it's away back in eighteen-eighty. So that allows plenty of leeway, you see."

The little incident gave them considerable food for exchanging opinions. They even tried to picture what the cabin on the Point may have looked like many years ago, when a woman's hands took care of the home, and the prattle of a child sounded among those great trees overhead.

Still, none of the boys dreamed that the cavity under the floor would play a part in the future happenings that were destined to come their way, though such proved to be the case.

The second night things began to shape themselves much more comfortably. All of the boys declared they had enjoyed a sound sleep when dawn once more found them stirring, and ready to take up the new duties of the day.

One thing after another was finished, and it gave them considerable satisfaction to find how much of an improvement this sort of work made in the cabin and surroundings.

Frank himself cut away much of the thick growth of bushes and branches that interfered with their view of the big water. When he had completed his task it was possible to look from the open door and see for miles out over the lake. They believed they would never tire of watching the play of the waves that at times could be heard so plainly breaking on the shore near by.

There was seldom a time during daylight when some fish-hawk could not be seen sailing serenely over the water, looking for a fish for his young fledglings. On several occasions the boys also discovered a bald-headed eagle wheeling far up in the blue space overhead.

"We must keep on the watch to learn how the bold robber taxes the hard-working and honest fish-hawks for his meal," Frank remarked. "It's too much bother for the eagle to plunge down and hook a fish for himself, so he waits until an osprey gets one, then follows him up into the air and makes him drop his prize."

Will, of course, was deeply interested. Everything that pertained to animal nature appealed irresistibly to him these days, since he had taken to securing pictures of wild birds and animals in their native haunts.

"I've read about such things, but never had the good luck to see it done," he hastened to remark. "I hope I can make use of my camera if it happens to come along at the right time. Already I think I know where a pair of those big ospreys have their nest, and that ought to make a dandy picture, with one of the parent birds feeding the youngsters."

"I'd go a little slow about it if I were you," Frank cautioned him. "They make their homes up in pretty tall trees, you know. And besides, some of them are savage fighters when they think their nests are going to be disturbed or robbed."

The others forgot about the fish-hawks after that, but not Will. When he had anything on his mind he was very persistent. This was particularly true of such matters as were connected with his hobby along the line of photography.

Several days passed, and the other boys were enjoying themselves greatly. For that matter, so was Will, though his activities ran along a single groove. Let those who cared to fish sit out there on the lake all they wished; or troll along, using minnows for bait, which had been taken in a little net made of mosquito bar stuff; Will preferred to roam the adjacent woods seeking signs of minks, raccoons, opossums and foxes, and planning just how he would arrange his traps so that at night time the animals would set off his flashlight, and have their pictures taken unawares in so doing.

All the little chores had been completed around the cabin, which looked quite like another place now. It was kept as neat as wax, for Frank had even manufactured an odd but effective broom out of twigs, such as he had seen used by immigrants from abroad.

Frank was contemplating the taking of a little tramp up the stream on the following day. He had not forgotten what one of his informants had told him concerning the hermit's place, and was more than curious to meet Aaron Dennison.

Will had not ceased to remember his loss. He brooded over it at times, and even broke out into occasional lamentations. His greatest fear seemed to be that Gilbert might destroy the films in his sudden disgust on discovering what a wretched blunder he had committed in his haste.

Will had wandered forth after lunch on this day. From the fact that he carried his camera along with him, the rest of the boys judged he meant to secure some view that had appealed to him as especially fine.

It was some hours later that Frank noticed that he had not returned. Will was a fair woodsman by now, and there did not seem to be much chance of his allowing himself to become lost. Still Frank found himself wondering just where the boy had gone, and why Will had not taken any of them into his confidence.

When it was but an hour from sunset he mentioned the matter to the rest.

"Does anybody happen to know where Will set out for?" was his question.

No one did, for both Bluff and Jerry shook their heads in the negative, while the last named remarked:

"He was busy working at something or other this morning. I didn't get on to it, and meant to ask him, but forgot all about it. I saw him fasten a piece of rope around him and enclose a tree out there. It made me laugh at the time, and only that Bluff called me just then I would have joshed him about trying to play Indian, and tying himself face on to a tree."

Frank chuckled at hearing that.

"You've given me a clue already, Jerry," he observed. "I remember that Will seemed set on getting a picture of that osprey nest he had discovered. You know the old trick some South Sea islanders practice when climbing cocoanut trees is to have a loop around the trunk and their own body, then barefooted hoist themselves bit by bit, always raising the loop as they go."

"Whew! and so Will thought he could do the same thing, did he, and get up to the first limb high above his head. But say, Frank, what if something has happened to him?"

Jerry looked uneasy when he said this, and Bluff, too, picked up his hat as though ready to set out in search of Will.

"We must look into this, that's a fact, boys!" declared Frank; whereupon they hurried out of doors.

"Listen!" cried Frank almost immediately. "Seems to me I heard a call some distance away and along the shore. Yes, there it is again, and I reckon that's our chum giving tongue. He must be in difficulty and he needs help, so come on," at which the three of them started to run at full speed eastward.



Chapter VI

The Home Of The Osprey


"Coming, Will!" shouted Bluff as he ran back of Frank.

"This way, along the shore!" they plainly heard a voice call from some distance away.

Of course anxious thoughts chased through the minds of the three boys as they hurried along. Will was evidently in trouble. Bluff, remembering the ospreys, pictured him lying at the foot of a tall tree with perhaps one of his legs broken. That would be an awkward condition of affairs to be sure, with their camp so far removed from real civilization.

Jerry, too, was imagining something of the sort, and wondering if they would have to make a litter in order to carry poor Will back to the cabin. He even went further and considered the question as to how they could take him to a doctor; or else force the old hermit of the Dennison estate to let them carry their injured comrade there.

Not so Frank. He had already made the discovery that the voice came from up in the air, and hence had quite settled in his mind what had happened.

"He got up all right, you see, fellows," was the way Frank explained it to the others, "but it wasn't so easy to creep down again. Perhaps he dropped the rope he had used, and couldn't clasp the trunk of the tree because it was so large."

"We'll soon know," ventured Jerry, "because I can see one of the fish-hawks flying over that tall tree, and I guess the nest must be in that."

"Here he is over here, you see," observed Frank. "He figured out that with the sun heading into the west he ought to get on that side of the nest in order to make a fine picture. So he climbed up and settled himself, waiting until the mother bird came with a fish for the fledglings, which may have taken hours."

"I see him!" cried Bluff. "There, he's waving to us now! And I'm glad to know our chum hasn't gone and broken a leg; for besides the pain to him it would upset all our fine plans for a good time up here."

Will was sitting astride the lowermost limb of an enormous tree standing about forty or fifty feet to the west of the one in which the nest of the ospreys could be plainly seen, close to the top.

Will grinned sheepishly as his chums came underneath. He was some thirty feet from the ground as his legs dangled over the lowermost limb. And Frank, remembering his theory, on looking at the base of the tree discovered that the rope loop did lie there. Will had inadvertently allowed it to slip from his grasp after reaching the lower branch and clambering up on to it.

He had removed his shoes and socks in order to make good use of his toes in climbing, just as do the blacks of the cocoanut islands. But later on, after getting his long delayed pictures of the old osprey feeding its fledglings, when the ardent photographer attempted to descend the big tree he found it an impossible task.

The trunk was far too thick for him to clasp with arms and legs. Will was not an athlete, though able to climb an ordinary tree if pushed. He always claimed that he could go up any kind if a bull were after him; but evidently here was a tree he could not descend, at least.

Just how long he had sat there on that lower limb trying to conjure up some possible plan that would take him in safety to the ground, they never knew. Will felt a little ashamed to be found in such a plight, and kept putting off his call for assistance as long as he dared.

When, however, he found that night was only an hour or so off, and realized that unless he pocketed his pride, he stood a chance of spending many gloomy hours aloft with only the osprey family for neighbors, he started to shout.

"If only I had that loop up here I could get down easily enough, I think, Frank," he called out as the three boys lined up below him.

"Perhaps you could, and again there's some doubt whether you'd be able to get inside the loop," Frank told him. "The easiest way to do is for one of us to run back to the cabin and fetch our rope. With a few trials I can toss the end into your hands or over the limb, then you can lower yourself."

Both Jerry and Bluff agreed that this was a good plan. The former even offered to act as messenger and get the article needed for the rescue work. He was gone only a short time, during which Frank asked a few questions, and learned that Will believed he had secured a number of "cracking good" pictures of the osprey group that would make a fine addition to his collection.

Frank made several casts upward before he was able to send the end of the rope over the limb, and within reach of the straddling boy. It proved to be just long enough, doubled, to reach within five feet of the ground.

"First I want to make sure of my camera," Will told them, and as they knew he would positively refuse to budge an inch unless his treasured black box were taken care of, Jerry told him to lower away.

After that had been done Will prepared to trust himself on the doubled rope.

"Have a care," said Frank, "and make sure of each grip as you go. There, you're all right now, I guess, so come along down."

"Take it slow if you don't want to burn your hands, Will!" Bluff cautioned him.

Without accident, Will managed to reach the ground. His first act was to snatch up his camera and look it over, sighing with satisfaction when he found it had received no injury.

"Get on your shoes and come along back home," Frank advised him, and the exciting little incident was closed.

Later on Will told them how patiently he had sat there, perched in the top of the tall tree next to the one containing the fish-hawks' nest, and waiting for a good chance to take the picture he wanted.

"The wind blew at first, and the treetop rocked so that it almost made me sea-sick," he went on to say, with a sigh; "but after an hour or so this let up. Then came one of the ospreys with a big fish in its claws, and I began to get busy. I snapped off every bit of the film as I saw fine group pictures come up; and I do hope they all turn out well."

As he had a daylight developing tank with him he wasted little time in ascertaining this fact. His exuberant shouts announced later on that his success was all the heart of any ambitious amateur photographer could wish for. And indeed, when the exposed films were passed around after they had sufficiently dried it was seen that Will had done himself justice, for they were perfectly clear.

Frank himself could easily understand just how this fad was able to grip any one who took it up. He believed that it was much more interesting and profitable than hunting with a gun. In the one case all the result consisted of game that was soon eaten and forgotten; but those instructive pictures of timid animals and wild birds would give pleasure for an unlimited time.

"There's one thing I think we ought to get busy about, fellows," Frank remarked that evening as they sat around the rough table enjoying the supper Jerry had prepared; "and that is see what can be done about laying in a fresh stock of butter and eggs."

"Our supply of both is about down to the limit, for a fact," admitted Bluff, who was unusually fond of eggs, "fried, boiled, scrambled, and, in fact, any old way," as he himself always declared.

"Have you any plan by which we can get a new lot, and perhaps some fresh milk in the bargain?" Will sought to learn.

"So far as we know, there's only one house within several miles of this place," explained Frank, "and that belongs to the man they call a hermit because he keeps to himself, and never goes to town -- Aaron Dennison."

"A likely chance we'd have of getting any supplies from him, I should say!" grumbled Jerry; but Bluff was quick to make a proposal.

"If you are thinking of going up that creek, and paying a visit to Aaron, I hope you will choose me to go along. Remember, I spoke first!" he called out.

Will looked disappointed. He had hoped that if ever they decided to call on the crabbed owner of the Dennison estate he might be along with his camera. And seeing this disappointed expression cross his face, Frank easily understood what it signified.

"Another time you can come, Will," he explained. "Just now we don't even know whether there really is a house inside of five miles. It's only hearsay with us, you remember. If we should manage to get friendly with Aaron, why, we'll be apt to wander up there many times, and you may come across your chance before a great while."

With that, Will had to rest content. In fact, he had another little plan of his own in mind, which he meant to work out on the following day. Frank suspected as much, though he really hoped it would not be of the same risky nature as getting the snapshots of the ospreys.

In the morning the two who had planned to follow up the stream and learn if it passed through the estate of Aaron Dennison waved their hands to Jerry and Will, after which they started along the shore.

After they reached the creek at the point where it emptied into the bay, they turned their backs on the big water, and plunged into the thick growth.

"How about this thing, Frank; do you really and truly mean this expedition to be a foraging one, with fresh eggs and butter in view; or is it that you just hope to get in touch with old Aaron Dennison, and see what a genuine hermit looks like?"

Bluff put this direct question after they had been making their way along the tortuous bank of the winding creek for nearly half an hour. Such difficulties as crossed their path had been easily overcome, for both boys were pretty good woodsmen, and accustomed to getting around in the wilderness.

"Take my word for it," he was assured by his chum, "I'm out for the grub above all things; though of course I admit to having a little curiosity about this mysterious Mr. Dennison. I've heard a lot of queer things about his doings. He has a pretty fine place away up here, but keeps it surrounded by a high fence, and they even say it has a strand or two of terrible barbed wire on top of the fence, to discourage any one from climbing over."

"Gee whiz! I hope he doesn't own a pack of wolf dogs that would make a jump for stray boys that chanced to get in the grounds."

"I asked particularly about that," said Frank, who somehow seemed to think of nearly everything, "and no one could remember ever seeing any around. So just as like as not the old man doesn't fancy dogs."

"Yes, there are people who shiver every time they meet a collie or a mastiff," admitted Bluff, "though for my part I've always liked all breeds. I believe a dog is man's best friend, as faithful as life itself."

"Well, here we are," remarked Frank, with a ring of satisfaction in his voice.

"It's a high fence, sure enough," said Bluff, "with barbed wire strung across where the creek comes out under it, so even a fox would find it hard to get through. How shall we manage it, Frank?"

"First of all, we'll move along the fence. There may happen to be a board loose where we can slip through. That would be better than trying the gate, to be turned down flat-footed."

They had not gone fifty feet before Bluff discovered the loose board they sought. It required only a small amount of agility to pass through the opening, after which they walked along through the woods on the other side of the high fence.

Presently they came in sight of a long, low house, which was half hidden amidst dense foliage, and looked, as Bluff called it, "spooky."

Straight up to the door of this building the two boys strode, and Frank without hesitation rapped loudly with his knuckles.



Chapter VII

The Chained Door


It seemed to the two boys that Frank's knock sounded weirdly through the house, though it did not bring any immediate result. Accordingly, he again brought his knuckles against the door panel, this time with even greater force than before.

"That fetched them, Frank," muttered Bluff. "I can hear somebody shuffling along the hall and heading this way."

Presently they heard a bolt withdrawn, a rather ponderous affair it seemed; and somehow this struck Frank as rather queer. Why should any one living so far away from town, and off the beaten track of travel, take such pains to secure his door?

"Gee whiz! I shouldn't think they'd ever be bothered with hoboes or sneak thieves away up in this part of the country," whispered Bluff, who always had a mind of his own and was hard to repress.

The door was slowly and cautiously opened. Frank saw that it was still held by a stout chain, so that no one outside could enter against the will of the inmates. It made him think of one of the old feudal castles he had lately been reading about in Sir Walter Scott's romances, where they had draw-bridges, moats, and a port-cullis to protect them against assault.

A face was seen in the narrow opening. It was an old face, wrinkled, so that at first Frank imagined it might belong to Aaron himself. Then he discovered his mistake, for the white hair belonged to a woman, evidently the housekeeper of the hermit.

She looked more or less frightened at first, and no wonder, because such a resounding knock as Frank had given might have seemed backed by authority. When she discovered just two friendly looking boys standing there astonishment crept over the features of the woman.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" she asked a little sharply, as though annoyed because they had given her such a sudden start.

"My name is Frank Langdon, and this is my chum, Bluff Masters. We are camping for our holidays down in the old cabin on the Point. We ran out of butter and eggs, and came up here hoping we might be able to buy some."

Frank made it as simple as he could. He did not even mention the fact that they had ever heard there was such a singular person as Aaron Dennison in all the wide world. It was his intention to appear as though he looked upon this place as an ordinary farmhouse, where hospitality might be supposed to abide, and a friendly call on the part of decent boys would not be taken amiss.

The woman looked a little more keenly at Frank, but at the same time she shook her head in the negative. Bluff grunted to himself. He took that as a bad sign, and immediately concluded that they would have to go back to camp with as empty hands as they had come.

"Nothing doing," was what Bluff was saying to himself just then, while the old housekeeper hesitated; "she's got her orders. Old Aaron doesn't fancy boys, I guess. We'll be mighty lucky if he doesn't see fit to order us out of that cabin we've gone to all the trouble to fix bang-up."

Then the housekeeper spoke.

"I'm sorry, but you mustn't expect to get anything here. This place belongs to Mr. Aaron Dennison. No doubt you have heard of him. He has lived here almost alone for many years now, and will brook no intrusion. That is why the fence has been built around the estate, with the wire on top, and locked gates. How did you get inside?"

"We came to a loose board and passed through, not meaning any harm," replied Frank, who imagined the old housekeeper was inclined to be human, but having her strict orders from her employer dared not act in a friendly manner toward them.

"I shall have to report your being here to Mr. Dennison, and I am afraid that he will be very much annoyed. He would never brook intruders, and has a violent temper when aroused. I hope you will go away at once, and come no more."

"Then you can't let us have any supplies, I suppose?" asked Bluff, bent on squeezing the orange dry, and not throwing the skin away as long as there remained a single chance for extracting a drop of juice.

"I would not dare to do it, though if I had my own way -- but no matter, you must not stay here a minute longer. Even now he may have heard the knock, and come to investigate. It is most unusual; we have not had a visitor for years. I wish I could oblige you, but it is impossible. Good-bye!"

With that she closed the door in the faces of the astonished, as well as amused, campers, and Bluff burst into a series of low chuckles.

"Wow! but doesn't that beat the Dutch?" he exclaimed, as though overpowered by the humorous aspect of the adventure. "Listen to her pushing that monster bolt into its socket. Gee whiz! I never knew before I looked so dangerous. I'll have to cultivate a new sort of grin, because the one I practice now didn't have any effect on the old lady."

"Let's move along, Bluff. There's no use in our staying here any longer after having the door slammed in our faces," said the amazed Frank.

Together they started slowly away from the house, glancing back curiously over their shoulders several times, for they wished to remember what the mysterious building looked like.

"Will must manage to get up here some time," Bluff was saying, "because I'd just like to have him get a picture of the place as we see it now. Then if ever we happen to hear anybody speak of old Dennison and his hide-out we can flash that view before them."

They had almost reached the place where the loose board had afforded them ingress to the enclosed grounds belonging to the estate when a strange sound came stealing to their ears. Both boys instantly stopped and listened to learn if it was repeated, but such did not come to pass.

"What in the dickens do you suppose that was, Frank?" demanded Bluff, turning his face, marked by a commingling of wonder and awe, on his comrade.

"Tell me what you think first," the other replied.

"I'll be switched if I know, Frank! It just went through me like a knife, it was so queer. If this were the middle of the night now I might mention ghosts, because if there were such things I'd imagine them making just about that sort of a sound."

Frank laughed at that.

"Well, since this is broad daylight," he observed, "and ghosts are said never to walk except around twelve at night, we'll have to look somewhere else for our explanation. Now I've known a chained dog to make a noise like that, a sort of half bay, half growl that would give you a start until you found out the cause."

"But we've understood they keep no dog up here," urged Bluff. "And if they did have one wouldn't he have scented us, and started barking long ago?"

"What you say sounds reasonable enough, Bluff," Frank admitted. "It couldn't have been a donkey braying either, because we know how they drag it out. Besides unless I'm mistaken the sound came straight from the direction of the house itself."

"Sure it did," said Bluff, as they started to pass through the gap that could be made by swinging the loose board aside. "I wonder if old Aaron learned of our being there, and gave that yawp to show his anger. I'm almost sorry now we didn't meet the gentleman face to face."

"Perhaps it's just as well, from what the housekeeper said," replied Frank, although secretly he was even more disappointed than his chum.

"Then of course you wouldn't dream of going back to look around in hopes of finding out what that queer noise, almost like a shriek, meant?" pursued Bluff, in a wheedling tone.

"I guess not this time," decided the other; "it's really none of our business, you know, and our errand at the Dennison place has ended in smoke. We'll have to settle on trying at that village we can see miles away along the lake shore. Perhaps to-morrow you and Jerry can take the boat and row over there."

"Oh! Barkis is willing, all right, because we just can't keep house without our fresh eggs and butter, you know."

So it was settled. Bluff, always desiring action, was satisfied with this half plan made for the future. In his active mind he began immediately to picture all sorts of exciting things happening on the contemplated cruise along the lake shore to the distant village in search of the needed supplies.

Frank happened to come upon what looked like an old path leading toward the lake, and decided to follow it instead of keeping down the stream with its zigzag course. Sure enough it took them directly to Cabin Point, although in many places the bushes had sadly overgrown the trail, and walking was not easy.

"Still, you must notice," Frank remarked, "that some one has come along this way every once in a while, because there are footprints, and the twigs have been bent down."

"Mebbe one of the men employed on the Dennison place comes down for a swim, or to look after some night line he's set here for trout," suggested Bluff.

On their arrival at the camp, the two boys had to give an account of their little adventure in detail, for the benefit of those who had stayed behind. Will in particular asked many eager questions.

"If you ever go up there again, Frank," he told the other seriously, "I do hope I shall be along."

"And I think I can promise you that, Will," replied the other smilingly, as if even then entertaining some thought of a second trip to the place, though evidently he did not care to go deeper into the subject.

Bluff soon started to talk of the trip he and Jerry were to make to the distant village on the next day. Whenever he had a thing on his mind Bluff was apt to chatter about it unendingly.

"We've just got to have those supplies, you understand, Jerry," he told the other, "and since there was nothing doing up at the Dennison ranch, why, our next job is to see if we can make that settlement we glimpse off yonder."

"How far away do you reckon it is?" asked the interested Jerry.

"If you look in my pack, boys," Frank spoke up just then, "you'll find a pair of small but powerful glasses. They may help you figure it out, and may give some idea how the shore lies between Cabin Point and the village."

Bluff went hurriedly for the glasses, and when he returned he and Jerry amused themselves for a long time.

They decided that the village lay all of eight miles off in a straight line, and concluded it would be a pretty long row in case they chanced to meet contrary wind. In that case the waves would bother them not a little.

Bluff presently proposed that they try to equip the old boat with some sort of sail. Then should they be favored with a wind setting in the right quarter this would save them much hard labor.

Jerry seized the idea eagerly, and before long they were hard at work trying to rig up a makeshift mast and sail out of such material as they could find. It was hardly likely to pass muster so far as looks went, but both boys believed they could make it useful, given half a chance.

That night around the table the talk was largely of the events of the day, and what the morrow was apt to bring forth. Jerry and Bluff entertained high hopes that they were bound to be successful in their foraging expedition; and already counted on an abundance of supplies.



Chapter VIII

When The Flashlight Trap Worked


"Frank, I'm going to ask you to give me a little help in setting my flashlight trap before we go to bed to-night," remarked Will, when they were sitting in front of the fire.

The evening air was nearly always cool, even after a warm day, and it seemed so "jolly," as Jerry called it, to have a small fire crackling on the hearth while they sat around engaged in various tasks and in chatting.

"Then you must have settled on a place from tracks you have found?" inquired Frank.

"Why, yes, and pretty close to the cabin in the bargain," answered the other, whose one hobby had become this method of securing strange pictures of small wild animals caught while in the act of taking the bait in their native haunts.

"What species are you after this time?" asked Frank.

"Somehow I never get an absolutely perfect snapshot of a 'coon. It seems as if every one has some kind of a blemish; and I told myself that while we were up here at Cabin Point that fault must be remedied if I tried a dozen times. And judging from the tracks of this fellow I think he must be a dandy. I only hope his barred tail shows plainly in his picture."

"That's so," spoke up Bluff, "because his shrewd face and his striped tail make up the main part of any raccoon."

"Why, if the job has to be done, Will, I'd just as soon go with you now. I'll carry my little hand torch, which ought to give us all the light needed, since you say it's close at hand."

Accordingly Will jumped up eagerly to get the necessary things, including the stout cord which was to be used to start the trigger of the trap into action, and set the flashlight going.

"I'm ready Frank, if you are," he soon announced; and together they went forth on their errand, Will just as excited as any hunter could be when creeping up on some coveted game.

Frank immediately noticed one thing, which was that his companion led him along in the direction he and Bluff had taken when coming from the Dennison place. Indeed when the other finally decided that they had arrived at the spot where he had discovered the marks made by the big raccoon in passing to and from the water's edge, Frank saw evidences of the identical path he and Bluff had followed all the way down. He did not give the fact another thought just then; there was no reason for doing so, since in his mind it was merely a little coincidence.

Having had considerable experience in arranging these clever little traps by which roving night prowlers were made to be their own photographers, Will knew just how to go about it. He fixed his camera in an immovable position, and focussed it in such a fashion that it would catch any object chancing to be within a certain radius at the second the cartridge was fired by means of the cord, pulled by the animal at the bait.

"That seems to be as fine as silk," announced Will, after bending down several times in order to change the camera a trifle, "and if only Mr. 'Coon comes tripping along here to-night he will get his sitting. If you happen to find yourself waked up by a dazzling flash, Frank, please poke me out, because I'd like to come and get my camera. It might rain later in the night, you see, and ruin it for me."

Frank, knowing how much store his comrade set by that little black box, readily gave the desired promise. He entered into all these delightful schemes engineered by Will with his whole heart. Will had always been different from Bluff and Jerry. Even on their big hunt out in the Rocky Mountains he had never cared as much for getting prize game as the others, his disposition being more gentle.

Later on the boys concluded it was time to go to bed, since the day had been a busy one for all. Besides, the two who were to row the boat sixteen miles, more or less, on the following day expected to have their hands full.

Some time later all of them were suddenly awakened. It was Bluff who gave the loud exclamation that aroused the others. He afterwards explained that he chanced to be lying awake at the time when a sudden blinding glare dazzled him, which at first he thought to be lightning, though puzzled because no thunder accompanied the flash.

"What is it?" shrilled Jerry, bumping his head as he tried to sit up in such great haste; for the three had opened their eyes in time to catch a part of the fierce glare.

Will was already tumbling out of his bunk, and could be heard chuckling to himself as he started to put on some clothes in the darkness.

"Frank, he did it, all right, you see!" was what Will exclaimed in tones that fairly trembled with eagerness.

"Oh! Great Jehoshaphat! all this row about a measly old 'coon sitting for his picture!" grumbled Jerry, falling back again, and apparently meaning to seek once more relief in slumber, if the bump on his forehead did not hurt too much.

"Better take my hand torch along with you, Will," advised Frank, not thinking it worth while to accompany the other.

"Thank you, I guess I will, Frank, because it's pretty dark out there. I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Whoop it up if the cats tackle you, Will," called out Bluff, but even if the other heard this vague intimation of peril he was too filled with enthusiasm to pay any heed to it, for he kept straight on.

A short time afterwards Frank heard him returning. Then the light came into the cabin, and Will set down his camera.

"The trap was sprung then, was it?" asked Frank sleepily, upon noting this action on the other's part.

"Just what it was! and I certainly hope I got a cracking good picture that time. Old Br'er 'Coon didn't run away with the bait, though, I noticed. It was still there, as good as ever."

"Must have been too badly scared to think of eating," remarked Frank, and as the torch was extinguished just then, and Will tumbled into his bunk, no more was said.

The rest of the night passed in perfect peace. By now the boys had grown used to hearing the squirrels or other small animals running over the top of the cabin, and paid little attention to the sounds at any time, night or day. So long as they did not drop down the chimney and destroy some of the food, Frank and his chums did not mean to do anything to disturb the merry little creatures as they played hide-and-seek over the roof.

Another day found them all up betimes. Those who cared to do so took a plunge in the cold waters of the lake and rubbed down afterwards, feeling all the better for the experience. Will, however, wanted to discover what luck he had had with his first flashlight exposure of the season; and so he started preparations looking to the development of that particular film, which he could easily do after breakfast was over.

It devolved on Frank to get breakfast that morning. Bluff and Jerry, having hit upon a better way in which to use the sail they had fashioned with so much care on the previous afternoon, were already busily engaged in making changes, just as though for once they were not thinking of the eternal food question, except so far as new supplies went.

But then Frank could fry the sliced ham as well as any one, and he soon had the coffee, the toast, the fried potatoes, and the meat on the table, after which he called the others.

"Take notice that this is the last of our butter, fellows," remarked the cook as he helped each one in turn to a generous portion of what had just been taken, piping hot, off the red coals on the hearth.

"Oh! that's all right, Frank," said Bluff carelessly, "we expect to have plenty more here before sunset, don't we, Jerry?"

"Simply got to," replied his ally, "if we find it necessary to raid some farmer's hen-coop, gather up the eggs, wring the necks of two pullets, clean out his dairy, and leave the ready cash on the windowsill to settle the bill."

"We're glad to hear you talk that way," laughed Will. "For one I'm going to make up my mouth for fried eggs to-night, unless it's chicken on the half shell."

"No danger of that up here in the country; all the eggs are guaranteed fresh by the farmer tribe, you know," asserted Bluff.

"That guarantee doesn't always go with me," Jerry observed. "It's generally the smart farmer who finds a hen trying to sit under the barn floor, and gathers up the seventeen eggs to ship with what he has in stock. They're as bad as the next one when it comes to deceiving the poor public."

"You'll just have to excuse me now, because I've had all I want; and to tell you the truth I'm just wild to see what my Br'er 'Coon looks like. If he doesn't show up, tail and all, I'll have to try for him again, that's all."

With that remark Will hurried off, just as Frank expected he would, for he had noticed how the other hastened with his breakfast. Bluff and Jerry took longer, because both of them realized they might be hours on the journey. The village was possibly further away than they thought; and it was just as well that they "laid in a good foundation to start with," as Jerry sensibly observed.

"Make the start whenever you get ready, fellows," remarked Frank. "I'll look after the dishes, and the bunks too, when the blankets are aired. It seems as if you might have a smooth sea to begin with."

"Yes, but you see we've been banking on some wind from the right quarter," observed Bluff, "in order to make good use of our sail. I'm fond of lying back at my ease in a boat, and letting the breeze do all the work. There's nothing like it, eh, Jerry?"

"Oh, well, if you notice the way the clouds are moving slowly, and then watch the tiny ripple on the bay, you'll reckon that when the wind does come up it's going to favor us. We may even get too much of a good thing before we're done."

"Remember, fellows," Frank cautioned them, "that old boat isn't to be wholly depended on. I calked the seams the best way I could, but the wood's a bit rotten, and there's always danger that the oakum may work loose. Then the water would come in through the open seams in bucketfuls. So my advice to you is, keep fairly close to the shore all the time, even when cutting off coves."

"That is, you mean keep within swimming distance," added Jerry, "which we'll be sure to do, Frank, make your mind easy. A fellow that's fated to be hanged doesn't want to go and cheat things by being just simply drowned, you know."

"Hello! there's Will broken loose!" exclaimed Bluff.

"Just hear him whoop it up, will you?" added Jerry. "And here he comes on the run right now. He's holding a film he's developed, and from the look on his face I'd say he must have gotten a corker that shot."

Indeed Frank could see that the approaching boy was very much excited; and it was also evident that what he was carrying so carefully before him had everything to do with his condition.

"Frank, here's something that will make you sit up and take notice!" he was calling out. "I started to take the picture of a boss 'coon, and see what I got, will you?"

Will held the still wet film up so they could have it between them and the light. All of the boys were accustomed to looking at negatives, and figuring out the high lights and the shadows in their proper proportion.

What they saw there plainly and clearly delineated on the film gave them such a sense of surprise that for several seconds none of them uttered a single word.



Chapter IX

The Foraging Party


"A 'coon on two legs, as sure as you're born, Will!" ejaculated Bluff presently.

"It's a man!" cried Jerry. "A man with a white beard in the bargain!"

"Frank, it's going to turn out a pretty fair picture, don't you think?" demanded the proud artist, thinking first of all of the success that had crowned his efforts.

"Seems like it, Will," replied the other; "but you've certainly given us a big surprise when you sprung this on the crowd. He must have run across the cord you had connected with the trigger of your flashlight apparatus, and it went off while he was in the act of falling forward."

"His face doesn't show as well as I'd like," continued Will, reflectively; "but even as it stands the chances are we'll find a look of astonishment there when I come to get a print."

"Well," remarked Bluff, "who wouldn't look staggered if, when he was walking along through the woods, all of a sudden he caught his toe in a cord that was stretched across the path, and then had what seemed to be a flash of lightning strike him in the face?"

"I never happened to go through the experience," confessed Frank; "but I'm pretty sure it would give me a fierce jolt."

"But who can the sneaker be, Frank; some darky chicken thief prowling around in hopes of picking up some of our camp duffle?" asked Jerry.

Will turned on him with the scorn an expert photographer always displays when he meets crass ignorance.

"Why, can't you see from the dark shade of his face in the negative, Jerry, that he's a white man?" he demanded. "If it were a negro you'd see his face almost white here. That point is settled without any question."

"All right, Will, I acknowledge the corn," Jerry hastened to say; "but that doesn't bring us any nearer a solution of the mystery. Why should a white man, and one with a white beard at that, be wandering around our camp in the night?"

They looked at Frank. It was an old habit with the three chums. Whenever an unusually knotty point arose that needed attention, and their powers seemed baffled, Frank was always depended on to supply the needed answer.

"So far as I'm concerned, fellows," he told them, "I can think of only one old man around this vicinity, and that happens to be Aaron Dennison."

"Ginger! why didn't I guess him right away?" grumbled Bluff. "Seems as if my wits go wool gathering nearly every time there's some sudden necessity for thinking up an answer. Course it's Aaron, and nobody else!"

"Yes," Jerry went on to say, as though not wholly convinced; "but what under the sun would Aaron be doing here, tell me, and acting suspiciously like a thief in the night?"

"Of course we can't say what tempted him to come out," Frank observed; "we've never met the gentleman face to face, but we have heard that he's a queer one. Besides, if you stop to think, you'll remember a little circumstance that seemed to connect old Aaron with this cabin on the Point many years ago."

"It takes you to piece out these things, Frank," admitted Bluff candidly. "Sure! We figured that out by finding a part of an old envelope in the deserted rat's nest under the floor board."

"Just as like as not," added Jerry, "the old chap owns all the ground along the lake shore, including this cabin; and if that's so he'd have a perfect right to walk out this way whenever he chose, at midnight or noon, as the notion struck him."

"Oh, well," remarked Will with a sigh, "he spoiled my little game with Br'er 'Coon, though I mean to make another try along that line. When this film dries, which may be around noon, I'll strike off a proof, and then we can see what the old hermit looks like."

"One thing goes without saying," chuckled Bluff.

"What might that be?" Jerry asked him.

"Our night visitor didn't wait to find out what had blinded him on the trail, but must have turned and made lickety-split for home."

"Can you blame him?" demanded Will, demurely. "Stop and think how you'd feel if all of a sudden you got such a shock. Bluff, you said you were awake at the time, and heard some sort of a sound, didn't you?"

"Why yes, I'm dead certain I did; and now that we know it was a man who got the scare I reckon he gave a little screech. I thought it was a yelp from some wild animal at the time, but it could have been an exclamation just as well."

They continued to talk about the incident for some little time, but although several suggestions were advanced, in the end they were really no closer to an explanation of the mystery than when they started.

All they knew was that some man, probably Aaron Dennison himself, had been walking along the old trail leading to the cabin from above when his foot caused the concealed trap to be sprung.

He must have turned hastily and retreated after the flash. What he thought the sudden dazzling illumination was caused by, the boys had no means of knowing.

Jerry and Bluff were now getting ready to start on their mission in search of supplies. They both expressed the hope that these could all be procured, once they reached the distant village on the lake shore, many miles off.

It promised to be an interesting trip, for they would pass along a shore neither of them had ever examined at close range before. To those who love outdoor life there is always a novelty about exploration. With new and interesting scenes opening up constantly before the eyes the senses are kept on the alert.

Bluff even had the temerity to suggest that Will loan them his camera for the occasion.

"We might run across some dandy pictures that would be worth while snapping off, you know, Will," he went on to say in a wheedling tone of voice, which Bluff knew so well how to use.

Will, however, shook his head. Usually he was of a most accommodating nature; and on numerous occasions had willingly entrusted his highly valued camera into the keeping of the other boys, who knew how to use it almost as well as did the owner himself.

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you, Bluff," he remarked slowly.

"Oh! well, just as you say," declared the other, shrugging his broad shoulders as though it did not matter much after all, and as if taking care of the camera might possibly prove a task rather than a pleasure; "I reckon you're thinking about the chances of my dropping it overboard; or our running into a storm where the little old black box might get soaked and ruined."

"Not so much that, Bluff, as that I want to do some work on the camera," explained Will. "There's a little matter that really needs adjusting, and I told myself I'd fix it this morning sure. Then again I've laid out a scheme for to-day that if it works will call for the use of the camera."

"That's all right, Will," remarked the other, briskly; "it doesn't matter a pin to me, only I thought you mightn't ever be going all the way to that village; and something fine could be run across between here and there."

He dropped the subject and began to talk with Frank about other things. Will looked a little uncomfortable. He disliked being thought selfish, and seemed almost on the point of changing his mind. Then on second thoughts he determined to carry out his original plan.

Frank looked over the old boat that had been patched up as well as the conditions allowed.

"It seems to hold pretty well," he told the two who expected to make use of it during the day. "Of course if the lake gets very rough so that you pitch about considerably, keep on the watch for a sudden inflow of water. The planks will hold, but I'm not so sure about the oakum I pounded into the open seams."

"But you did a good job, Frank," objected Jerry, "and so far none of it seems to have started to loosen."

"That's because we haven't had a chance to subject it to any big strain," Frank explained. "When a boat tosses up and down on the waves it gets a terrible wrench with each jerk. I've known seams to open at a time like that when they were believed to be closed as tight as a clam."

"Oh, well, we mean to follow your advice, Frank, and keep fairly close to the shore," Bluff promised.

"And if there is any trouble both of us are good swimmers, you remember," added Jerry confidently. "All I hope is that we get those precious eggs packed in a way that they won't be scrambled on the journey home. It'd be rough now if after all our hard work we had that happen. I prefer my eggs boiled or fried every time."

None of the four chums as they joked in this fashion dreamed of what Fate had in store for them before the sun went down behind the western horizon. How could they suspect when just then the heavens looked so fair and inviting?

"What's that you've got there with you, Jerry?" asked Bluff, who had been fixing a phantom minnow on a troll, in the expectation of picking up a fish or two while they rowed.

"Oh! a little cold snack in the shape of grub," explained the other, who on all occasions possessed a voracious appetite.

"But don't you remember we planned to be in the village long before noon, and expected to get dinner there?" protested Bluff.

"All right, that strikes me as a good scheme," came the ready reply; "but with my customary caution I'm only insuring against starvation. How do we know but what we'll be shipwrecked half-way there, and find ourselves up against it? For one I don't propose to go hungry when there's a chance to save myself."

Bluff laughed on hearing this explanation.

"Trust you to look out for that, Jerry!" he declared. "And I suppose that in case we do get dinner at the village tavern or a farmhouse, you'll be ready to make way with your snack on the voyage back?"

"I might be influenced by strong pressure," chuckled the other.

"How about the weather, Frank; see any sign of a storm in the offing?" asked Bluff, turning to the leader of the camp.

"Nothing in sight right now," he was told; "the chances are you'll have clear weather going, though there may be some wind behind you. What's going to happen in the afternoon is another matter. I'm not a weather sharp, and so I throw up my hands when you ask me to lift the veil."

All being ready, the boys launched their boat. Bluff was to use the oars for the first shift. When he began to tire he was to call on his chum to change places, unless in the meantime the breeze had freshened enough for them to make use of their sail.

"Good-bye, fellows!" called out Will; "see you later, and take mighty good care of those eggs, remember!"

"Listen to him, would you?" jeered Jerry. "So long as the hen fruit gets here unbroken Will doesn't seem to care what happens to his chums. But that's all right, and we hope to turn up safe and sound before sunset." And under the steady influence of the oars the boat glided on until the voices of the boys died away in the distance.



Chapter X

Trespassers


The two guardians of the camp at Cabin Point, being left to their own devices, set about carrying out certain tasks they had in mind.

Frank always found plenty to occupy his attention. He could discover numerous ways of bettering the conditions of affairs, and took keen delight in making changes calculated to lessen the friction of camp life.

On his part Will pottered with his camera for fully an hour. When in the end he laid it aside in working order he was satisfied with what he had done.

"I've got it in splendid condition now, Frank," he announced, "and from this time on there'll be no danger of a slip when the trap is sprung. That's been bothering me a whole lot for some time now, and I'm tickled to know the ghost is laid."

Every little while he examined the negative he had drying, as though anxious to get a proof from it when it was in proper condition.

About eleven o'clock he came to Frank holding a browned bit of paper on which the sun had printed a very clear picture as taken when the flashlight cartridge burned.

"The face shows fairly well," he announced. "I'd easily enough recognize the man if ever I ran across him, and that's something."

Frank looked long and earnestly at the proof.

"So that's our hermit, is it?" he remarked; "the old man they say acts so queerly, and has kept to himself up there on his estate for years, living the life of a recluse among his books and papers. There must be some good reason for his acting that way. He's met with some sort of terrible disappointment in life it may be; but then that's no business of ours."

"But Frank, I was meaning to suggest something to you to-day," began Will, looking uncertain, as though he did not know just how the other might take the proposition he had on the tip of his tongue.

"Oh! so that's the way the wind blows, does it?" remarked Frank, raising his eyebrows as he looked at his chum. "Somehow when you declined to let Bluff take the camera along with him I had an idea you were figuring on some scheme. You look like a regular conspirator, Will. Out with it before you choke."

"Listen then, Frank; I was hoping I might coax you to go up there again to-day when I could be along."

Frank whistled upon hearing this suggestion.

"I reckon you mean go to the hermit's place, Will?" he remarked inquiringly.

"Yes, that's just it, Frank, and please, now, don't shut down on me too quickly. Say you'll think it over, and let me know at noon."

Frank scratched his head as though considering. The fact of the matter was he himself had a peculiar yearning to make that trip again. There is a sort of subtle fascination about prowling around forbidden territory. Then the mystery connected with the hermit had aroused his curiosity. That strange cry, too, lingered in his memory even more than Frank cared to confess to Bluff.

"But what excuse can we give for trespassing if we run across old Aaron, his housekeeper, or any man connected with the place?" he asked Will.

At that the other smiled calmly.

"Well, you know an amateur photographer never wants for a reason when he gets caught intruding on private grounds," he explained; "his enthusiasm is supposed to tempt him to take any risks. And Frank, if we run across any trouble don't hesitate to pile all the blame on me. I'm willing to stand for it."

"Is it the house you're aiming to take a picture of, Will?"

"Partly that," the other confessed. "You and Bluff described it as a strange looking building, and worth seeing, so I'm fairly wild to snap it off. And then, if we just happened to come on Aaron himself, why I might manage to get him in focus and click my camera without his knowing it. I hope you'll go this time, Frank. Somehow I've got my heart set on it."

"Well, perhaps I may, Will. Let the thing drop till we're eating our lunch, and then I'll tell you what I'll do."

"Good for you, Frank!" exclaimed Will, beaming on his chum, for somehow he must have guessed that the chances of their going were pretty fair.

When noon arrived and they sat down to enjoy what had been prepared Will's face looked so much like one big interrogation point that Frank did not have the heart to keep him longer in suspense.

"I see no good reason why we shouldn't wander up that way if we feel like it," he went on to say, at which the other looked greatly pleased. "Of course," Frank continued, "it isn't exactly the right thing for us to crawl through that opening in the fence again, especially after we've been warned off by the housekeeper; but since you say you must get a snapshot of the house, why, we'll risk it."

"That's kind of you to agree, Frank."

"Oh! I rather guess it's six for you and half a dozen for myself," chuckled the other lad; "because I own up there's something about Aaron's place up there that draws me more than I ought to allow. But after all we mean no harm, and besides we may not meet any one on our trip."

"Remember," added Will, with a grin, "it's only returning the old gentleman's visit of last night, you know. We want to be neighborly, of course."

There was no hurry, since they had the whole afternoon ahead of them. Will, however, urged a start because he had hopes that they might return by a long, roundabout course, and possibly pick up some interesting views on the way.

"There are some clouds passing overhead," remarked Frank, "and we may get a little thunder shower while away; so we'd better fix things here shipshape."

This was easily done, though of course they did not think to fasten the door in any way. The other two boys might get back before they did, and it would be foolish to bar them out of the cabin. Besides, what reason had they to fear any invasion from tramps up in this lonely section of country?

Once started, Will seemed very happy. Frank on his part had no great difficulty in following the dimly seen trail. From time to time he would show his companion the marks of footprints both going and coming, and which were other than those left by himself and Bluff on the preceding day.

"That proves we guessed right when we said it was old Aaron who ran against the string of your flashlight trap," Frank explained; "and I'd give a cooky to know why he was making for the cabin at the time."

"You told the housekeeper, didn't you, Frank, that we had bunked in the cabin on the point jutting out into the bay?"

"Yes, and she may have informed him," Frank mused. "Even if he's kept himself up here away from everybody for so long, buried in his books, old Aaron might have enough curiosity to walk down over this trail that he knows so well, just to take a look at us."

"If he's half as gruff as they say," suggested Will, "he may have meant to order us to vacate the ranch. Then that awful flash came and frightened it all out of him."

Other things cropping up caused them to change the subject. And in due course of time they sighted the high board fence with which the strange hermit had surrounded his estate, thus warning strollers to keep out.

Will was interested in everything connected with the isolated home of the rich and mysterious recluse.

"Of course," he remarked, reflectively, "we could climb over that fence if we went to a lot of trouble, even if it has got a barbed wire strand along the top; but it would take more or less time. And you said there was an opening we could use, didn't you, Frank?"

"It's just ahead a little way, if some one hasn't found the loose board and fastened it up securely," replied the pilot of the expedition.

They were pleased to discover that this had not happened. The loose board still hung in position, and could be easily moved to one side, allowing them a ready entry to the enclosed grounds.

Neither of them spoke above a whisper as they advanced. Frank followed the tracks he and Bluff had made when leaving, since these marked the shortest route to the building. And it was not long before they caught their first glimpse of the house.

The sun happened to be just about right for a good picture of the front; Will hoped those drifting clouds would not come along in an exasperating way, as so often happens in the experience of every amateur photographer, and obscure the light.

"It's going to make a cracker-jack of a picture, Frank!" said Will, eagerly, and in the lowest of tones, as though he feared that something might still happen to keep him from accomplishing his cherished purpose.

"Just what I thought," replied the other, in an equally cautious voice; "which was one reason I agreed to bring you up here. Get busy now, Will."

The boy with the camera glanced about him, looking for the proper spot from which to snap off his picture. Taking into consideration the situation of the sun at that particular minute, together with the direction the long, low building faced, Will saw that he could get in the entire front and the western side.

He moved a little to the left and gauged matters with his practiced eye. Being quite a skillful operator with the lens and the shutter, Will could judge these things much better than any of his chums. In a case of this kind at least he had no occasion to ask the advice of Frank.

The latter in the meanwhile was looking from window to window of the two-story building. It must have many rooms, he judged, from the number of these openings. He was also wondering whether that old and vigilant housekeeper would chance to discover the intruders in front of the house, and hasten out to warn them away, lest they get in trouble with her master.

Then, too, Frank was letting his curiosity have free rein again; he remembered the weird cry that had come floating to the ears of himself and Bluff, giving them such a queer feeling.

Nothing happened to spoil Will's chance of getting a good picture. The clouds kept away from the sun in the most accommodating way, and no gruff keeper of the grounds came along with an angry demand that he desist in his undertaking, as the owner of the estate did not wish the public to see what manner of home he had built for himself there behind that towering fence.

When Frank heard a slight "click" he knew that Will had made at least one exposure, though like a cautious photographer he might decide to shift his location a trifle and try again, so as to make sure of his work.

Their excursion, then, promised to meet with success. If only the eccentric owner of the place himself should come along and give Will a chance to snap his picture off it would be doubly satisfactory.

That was what Frank was saying to himself as he stood and waited for Will to complete his work. Once he fancied he heard some slight sound, like the rustling of bushes, and wondered whether, after all, there could be a dog at large within the enclosed grounds.

Frank realized that they were intruders, and as such could not give any good excuse for being there. He decided that they had better linger no longer; and was really in the act of turning to wave his hand to Will, some twenty feet or more away, when something happened that stopped his plan.

A voice that was trembling with anger came to his ears, and gave him a rude shock.

"How dare you trespass on this private property, and even have the assurance to take a picture of my house, you young rascals?" was what this furious voice said, and turning quickly Frank saw the speaker not five feet away from him.



Chapter XI

In The Big Timber


Of course it was Mr. Dennison himself. Frank could easily have guessed as much from the manner in which the other behaved, even had he not spoken of the building as "my house."

The first thing Frank settled in his mind was that their visitor of the preceding night had been Aaron Dennison. The white, close-cropped beard told him that. Then he saw that the old gentleman held a stout cane in his hand, which he had half raised as though sorely tempted to make strenuous use of it upon the backs of these two ambitious amateur photographers.

Frank knew how to talk, and use soothing language. His chums always said he would make a good lawyer. Apparently he might go a long time before running across a better opportunity for smoothing the "ruffled feathers" of an angry man than was now offered to him.

"I hope you'll excuse us, Mr. Dennison, for entering your grounds to take a picture of your house," he started to say. "We didn't mean any harm, and will go away at once, sir."

The man looked sternly at Frank, but the boy noticed with a feeling of relief that the half upraised stick was slowly lowered. Apparently something influenced Aaron Dennison to decide not to take the law into his own hands, and use that heavy cane on these rash intruders.

"How did you get in here?" he demanded abruptly.

"There is a board loose on the fence, sir, and we couldn't resist the temptation to come through. My chum here is making a hobby of taking pictures, and he wanted one of your house, because it was so peculiar in its build. I hope you won't think too badly of us for intruding."

Aaron Dennison did not take any notice of this last remark; but apparently he caught some meaning back of Frank's words.

"How did you know my house differed from any other one; have you been in here before this?"

Evidently the discreet old housekeeper had decided not to tell of the former visit of the boys, and it was Frank himself who had given the secret away. He determined not to evade the issue, but continue to be frank with the irate gentleman.

"Yes, sir," he said, steadily. "I wandered up this way yesterday, and saw the house. It was because I was so enthusiastic in my description that Will here wanted to come and get a picture of it."

"So as to tell every one, I suppose, that it is the secluded home of the eccentric old hermit, as I believe they call me in the towns where my men trade," the other continued with a half sneer. "But what are you boys doing up in this section of the country? It is the first time for a long while that I have seen a stranger about here."

"We are camping, sir, on the lake shore, and having a good time for a few weeks, fishing, taking pictures, and all that. In our home town of Centerville they call us the Outdoor Chums, because we love to camp out."

"On the lake shore, you say?" repeated the other, looking keenly at Frank. "Tell me, is your camp anywhere near Cabin Point?"

"Yes, we've gone to work, Mr. Dennison, and fixed the old cabin all up; and it's there we're staying," Frank told him.

"I wonder -- " began the other, frowning, "if you had anything to do with startling me last night, when I was taking a walk down to the lake, as I sometimes do when the spirit moves me. Do you know anything about that frightful blinding flash that gave me such a shock I had to hurry home?"

"I am afraid we are to blame for that, sir, though I give you my word of honor we had no idea any human being would spring the trap. You see, my chum here is devoted to getting flashlight pictures of wild animals and birds in their native haunts. To do that he has to place his camera at night, and with a bait coax the little creature to set the trap off. And it happened, sir, that you ran across the cord connected with the trigger of the flashlight gun."

"Is this the truth you are telling me, boy?" demanded the puzzled hermit.

"Will, do you happen to have that proof with you?" called out Frank. Upon hearing this, the other hastened up, though there was a satisfied smirk on his face, as though he had accomplished something daring.

As Frank believed he had heard a soft click just before this, he could give a pretty good guess as to what the other had been up to.

Upon the proof being produced Frank stepped forward and held it out to the old gentleman, who took it eagerly. He even smiled faintly as he saw himself in the act of falling, and with all the elements of sudden surprise and alarm connected with his action.

"At least this satisfies me that you had no intention of giving me such a bad fright. I can forgive you in part, because I, too, am interested in photography, which is indeed my only recreation nowadays besides reading. But you must not come here again. I do not allow intruders, and if you had chanced to be seen by one of my men the consequences might have been unpleasant for you."

"Then we will go away at once, sir," said Frank; "though we'll always be glad we met you, Mr. Dennison."

The recluse frowned again as though he remembered that he had a reason for not wishing to hold intercourse with others. And seeing he did not mean to continue the conversation any further Frank nodded to Will, after which they walked away.

When they looked back a minute later Mr. Dennison was still standing there as though in a deep study. Somehow he interested Frank very much indeed, for the boy realized that there must be some very good reason for his shunning his kind.

They had almost reached the hole in the fence, when, just as had happened on the preceding day, there came that strange cry. Will thought it might be the screech of a peacock, though he could not remember having seen such a fowl strutting about the lawn.

"It may be what you say," admitted Frank, "but when you hear a queer sound under such conditions as these it seems different from anything you ever ran up against. Bluff thought it was a dog chained up; you say a peacock; and for my part I hardly know what to believe."

"Anyhow, Frank, I got him all right," chuckled Will.

"Meaning the old hermit, of course," said the other. "I thought I heard your shutter click. It will be worth something to say you took his picture as well as that you got one of his peculiarly built house, which I reckon few people have ever so much as seen."

"But after all's said and done, Frank, old Aaron isn't just the kind of man I always thought a real hermit must be. Why, he's a gentleman, and not a bit careless of his appearance, the way most of them are described to be. He dotes on books, they say. And oh, Frank! did you hear him admit he was fond of dabbling in amateur photography himself?"

"Yes, that was what he said, Will."

"I wish I could make a good impression on old Aaron, then, because like as not he'd have some dandy pictures to show. He's got rafts of money, you know, and must have traveled a heap in his time."

Frank laughed at hearing this.

"Now I wouldn't be surprised," he remarked, "if you tried to get thick with our hermit before we shut up shop at Cabin Point!"

"I own I'd like to, though I don't think I'll have much of a chance, Frank, because you see he's shut down on us, and forbidden us to ever look in on him after this. Now what do you reckon ails the man, and why should he act in that way? He must have just soured on the world for some reason or other."

They passed outside, and allowed the loose board to fall back into its place again. Unless one were looking for a break in the fence it would be possible to pass by without noticing anything wrong there.

"But now since he knows some of us were in his grounds twice," lamented Will, "old Aaron may give his men orders to search all around till they find the break. If they had any sense at all they could follow our tracks and come to it. But, Frank, how about taking a swing around on the way home?"

"You spoke of that before, Will, and as we have plenty of time I don't know any reason we shouldn't make something of a circuit. I'm as curious as you can be to see something of the country."

"Likely none of us will ever be up this way again," remarked Will, "and so we'd better make the most of our opportunities. Besides, there's no telling what cracker-jack chances we may strike for pictures. I'm always on the lookout for anything like that, you remember."

Frank of course knew next to nothing about the lay of the ground, but he could give a pretty good guess, for he had kept his eyes about him all of the time. Accordingly he laid out the course they would take.

"Unless we strike something tougher than we figure on," he explained to Will, "we ought to make the round and be back in camp long before sundown."

"What if the other fellows do arrive before us," remarked the photographer of the expedition, "they can start in to get supper if they're half starving. I just feel like making hay while the sun shines. This seems to be one of my lucky days, because I've already snapped off some pictures that ought to be worth while. When we start to talking about hermits and such things we'll have something to show for it."

Starting off, they were speedily in the heart of what seemed to be a dense wood. Will expressed himself as well pleased with the surroundings, and soon discovered some remarkable sights that called for the use of his camera.

They pushed on for more than an hour, and by that time had covered considerable distance. When Frank hinted that perhaps they had better turn back Will begged him not to give up just then.

"You see we've still plenty of time to make the cabin long before dark," he urged, "and I'm sure we'll find it worth our while to keep on the way we're going. It seems to me the country keeps getting rougher the further we push ahead. Already I'm just tickled to death with what I've seen."

"It's a fact that we've run across as wild a section as I've ever met with," admitted Frank. "I never would have believed there could be such a primitive stretch of land within a hundred miles of Centerville. Right now you can look around in every direction, and there isn't a sign to show that you're not out at the foot of the Rockies, just as we found it at the time we had our big hunt."

"At that time, you know, Frank, I hadn't caught on to this wild animal photography business. What wonderful pictures I could have taken then if only I'd known the racket. It keeps growing on me all the while, too. Right now I expect I get more of a thrill when I'm snapping off the picture of a bull moose bellowing his defiance to the guide's call, than you would with your rifle at your shoulder ready for a shot."

"I reckon you do, Will, for I can understand what you feel. I really believe that if you hadn't gone in for the game I'd have picked it up myself. But one photographic crank in the party is enough; some of us have to stick to the gun in order to supply the meat for the camp when the season is on."

Frank had been persuaded by Will's logic, and he continued to push on, though constantly keeping track of conditions. He did not wish to have to confess sooner or later that he was lost, which would not be so impossible a thing to happen in that dense wood.

It was while they were making their way along in this fashion toward the middle of the afternoon, that, without the slightest warning, there came a loud and angry crash of thunder; and looking up in a startled way they saw inky black clouds gathering overhead.



Chapter XII

Caught In The Storm


"Why Frank! What does this mean?" exclaimed the astonished Will, as he stared first at his chum, and then up past the lofty tops of the forest trees to where those inky thunder-caps were thrusting their ugly noses into sight.

"Simply that we've been caught napping for once," replied the other, with an expression of mingled amusement and disgust on his face; for such a thing did not happen very often in the experience of a wide-awake fellow like Frank Langdon.

"It's going to storm like fun," continued Will, with growing apprehension.

"And the first thing we've got to do," his companion told him, "is to look for shelter. Under these big trees we might find a place to keep dry, for there's one that's hollow right now; but the danger of its being struck by lightning is too great for me to risk."

"Whew! We're in for it, I expect!" cried Will, who apparently had received quite a severe shock upon making this sudden discovery, when up to the time that loud thunder clap startled them neither of the boys had suspected anything.

Frank began to look hastily about him. He knew what he wanted to find above all things, and fortunately the country around that section was capable of producing such a safe shelter.

"Hurry along this way, Will!" he called out. "If I remember rightly I noticed some outcropping ledges back a little bit. We may be lucky enough to find shelter under a shelf of rock."

"That's a good idea, Frank," admitted Will, as he tried to keep close on the heels of his hurrying comrade.

"If the rain will only hold off ten minutes, even less, we ought to get to that rocky section, unless I miss my guess," Frank threw back over his shoulder.

They pushed on with all their vim. Meanwhile it grew very dark and forbidding. Will could not remember ever to have seen the day swallowed up in the gathering shades of night so quickly before. It appalled the boy, for he did not possess the same unconquerable nature as Frank.

One crash of thunder followed another in rapid succession. The very earth under their flying feet seemed to quiver with the concussions. Lightning shot downward with such vivid flashes that it fairly blinded them; so that Will's soul was filled with awe.

"Frank, oh, Frank!" cried the boy in the rear.

"All right, Will, what is it?" replied the other, who kept glancing back at very brief intervals to make sure his chum still ran at his heels, for he feared that should they ever be separated in that gathering gloom it would be impossible for them to come together again.

"Do you think we can make it?" demanded the other, with a touch of despair in his voice, for the situation looked frightfully appalling to Will.

"Sure we will!" he was immediately assured in Frank's most cheery fashion. "Right now I can see the first of the rocks. Given two more minutes at the most and we'll be able to crawl under a shelf, and lie there as snug as two bugs in a rug."

Frank did not feel any too sanguine himself, but he would not let Will know of any fears he possessed regarding the possibility of their not finding the shelter among the rocks after all.

A terrific peal of thunder drowned their conversation for a brief interval, but they were pushing resolutely forward all the while. Frank was straining those keen eyes of his to some purpose. He knew they were at the border of the rough, rocky section now. If only they could run upon the friendly outcropping shelf which he remembered to have seen at the time they passed before, they would find shelter.

All would have been easy enough had they been given ordinary daylight so as to look around them. The gathering gloom made it very difficult to see twenty feet away with any degree of certainty. Frank was being guided partly by instinct, and the knowledge that he had taken his right bearings to start with.

"Frank, I felt the first drop of rain!" shrilled Will, filled with a new fear, for he was afraid that his pet camera would be ruined should they be soaked to the skin, which was a calamity terrible enough to break his heart.

Frank did not need to be told of the falling rain, for he, too, had discovered the ominous fact even before his chum announced it. There was nothing to be done but set their teeth grimly and bear it. The rocks were now all around them. If only they could discover that friendly ledge!

"Yes, it's beginning to come down now, because I can hear it in the treetops over that way, can't you, Frank?"

"What you hear is mostly the wind, Will; but that sounds bad enough, I own up. There, I remember that broken tree making a bow above the path we followed. And the ledges were close by it, I'm dead certain. Come this way, Will; chances are we'll run on them right off."

This cheery talk buoyed up the despondent spirits of the other, and he set his teeth grimly, determined to hold out to the end. Another flash that almost blinded them, quickly followed by a resounding bellow of thunder, announced that the downpour of rain must be very close indeed; doubtless it would descend upon them with that furious gale of wind.

"Hurrah! here they are, Will! Brace up, old fellow, for it's going to be all right!"

So dense had the darkness become that Frank found himself relying almost wholly on the electric flashes for his illumination. The last brilliant charge had disclosed the fact of the near presence of the ledges which he had kept in mind so long.

Fortune favored them in that Frank was able to discover the largest ledge close at hand. It stood out far enough to allow of their crawling well underneath, where the rain, no matter how it was driven by the furious wind, could not reach them.

Even as the two fugitives dropped down on their hands and knees, and started to creep under the flat rocks, the rain began to fall heavily. In fact it seemed to Will that hardly had his feet been drawn under the accommodating shelter than the heavens opened, and the floods descended.

The two boys pushed well in and made themselves as comfortable as their condition allowed. This of course was not saying much, for they were sitting on hard rock, with their heads touching the shelf that hung above.

It was utterly impossible for them to exchange a single word just then, owing to the riot of sound that came from beyond. The thunder bellowed, the wind roared, trees could be heard at intervals crashing to the ground, and the rain beat a terrible tattoo on the rock that sheltered them.

So fast did the lightning play that they were glad to close their eyes lest in staring into that dazzling glare they should find themselves blinded.

Will managed to push up close to his chum. Somehow it seemed to give him more confidence just to feel the contact. Thus he knew he was not alone in the midst of that hurricane, really the worst he had ever experienced in all his life.

The time wore on. Once the dreadful storm seemed to have passed, and it even grew considerably lighter. Will plucked up fresh hope, believing the end had come, and that they could soon be on their way to camp, to reach there at dusk perhaps.

Frank, however, began to see things in a different light. He noted that there were signs telling of a return of the gale. The second spell might be as bad as the first; and if it kept them confined there under the rocks until night came on it would be utterly out of the question to think of setting forth.

So Frank, foreseeing fresh trouble ahead, braced himself to meet it. They would have to make a virtue of necessity, and stay there all night. That was not a pleasant outlook, but then things might be a lot worse, Frank told himself.

Sure enough the gloom once more descended, and again the thunder took up the old rumble and crash. Perhaps the wind was not as furious as was the first rush, and the rain may have been less in quantity, but the second part of the storm was severe and terrifying enough.

"If it wasn't that we've had an even worse spell," Will managed to call out, "I'd think this was the worst ever. Frank, what's the answer to all this? How are we going to get back to camp?"

"Walk, of course," replied the other; "it's the only way."

"But even now the afternoon must be pretty well gone," objected Will.

"It certainly is," he was told.

"We don't know the exact way to camp," continued Will, "the night is coming on in a hurry, the trees are dripping with water, and in lots of places they have been thrown down every-which-way by that hurricane. We never can make camp to-night, that's sure!"

"I'm glad you understand that, Will, because I was just going to break it to you. No, it would be foolish for us to try such a thing. We've been pretty lucky as it is to escape getting wet jackets. We'll have to put in a long night here the best we can."

"Whew! it will be a terribly long one, too," declared Will, listening to the retreating growl of the thunder. "And the worst of it is the weather usually turns cold after one of these storms. We'll get to shivering to beat the band. I wish we could make a fire some way or other."

"I'm afraid that's going to be out of the question," Frank told him. "Of course we have matches in plenty, but we couldn't get dry wood after that deluge. You see we had no chance to look around us for a dead tree, and we have no camp hatchet along with us to do any chopping."

"Oh, well, I guess we can stand it, Frank. Morning is bound to get here sooner or later. We've gone through as bad times as this more than once, haven't we?"

"I should say we had," Frank immediately replied, anxious to buoy up the spirits of his companion as much as possible. "And for one thing, that wind isn't going to reach in under here to any extent."

"You're right about that," admitted Will; "it comes from back of the ledge, now that it's shifted into the west. Surely we have lots to be thankful for. But of course we'll feel pretty hungry, because neither of us is used to going without supper, you see."

At that Frank laughed.

"I thought I'd do it for a joke, first of all," he remarked; "you see I'd been reading about the way the Indians make their pemmican by drying venison, and how they carry a handful in their pouches when they have a day's journey afoot to make, munching on it once in a while."

"But what has that to do with us, Frank; we have no pemmican in camp, have we?"

"No, but that piece of dried beef made me think of it, and for fun I carved off a small hunk, intending to spring it on you as a joke if you happened to say you felt hungry, I've got it here in the pocket of my coat."

"Well! of all the luck, that takes the cake!" exclaimed Will. "We can grind our teeth on that once in a while, and make believe we're enjoying the most magnificent camp dinner going, eh, Frank?"

"It's apt to make us thirsty, of course, but just now it happens that pools of water can be found for the looking, so that needn't bother us any. So we're fixed in the line of grub; and there's no danger of starving to death yet awhile."

By the time the last of the storm died away in the distance it was almost night; in fact Will discovered the first star peeping through a rent in the clouds overhead. Therefore the two chums started to make themselves as comfortable as the hard conditions of their shelter allowed, thankful that they had been spared being caught in the open by that fearful summer storm.



Chapter XIII

Taking A Bee-Line For Camp


Frank and Will were not apt soon to forget that night. They were compelled to remain under the shelf of rock, because outside everything was soaking wet; and besides, the night wind blew unusually cold for that time of year. Without a fire to cheer them it would have been unbearable to try to stay in the open.

Of course the rocks proved very hard. Every little while the boys would change their positions in the endeavor to relieve their aching limbs. Many times did Will find himself sighing for his blanket, which had never seemed half so precious as now, when it was far away.

Frank managed to divide the piece of hard dried beef with his knife, and give the larger portion to Will, who, of course, knew nothing of the sacrifice. They munched away from time to time, taking minute bites, and grinding the tough meat between their teeth as long as possible before swallowing it.

This served in some measure to keep their thoughts away from their unhappy condition, which was one object Frank had in mind.

At times they talked of the two comrades who had gone off, aboard the boat, bent on reaching the far distant village on the lake shore. Will worried about them. Frank professed to have the utmost confidence in the ability of the chums to look after themselves.

"Stop and figure it all out, Will," he told the other. "If they made as good time as we expected, they must have reached the village long before noon came. In fact, we felt pretty sure they were in port at the time we ate our own lunch in camp."

"Yes, that's what we agreed," admitted the other, briskly.

"Well, let's try to guess what they'd be apt to do," continued Frank.

"I know what Jerry would have in his mind first of all, if it happened to be anywhere around noon," said Will. "Jerry never forgets when it's meal time; and the chances are ten to one he'd try to make sure they were going to get dinner somewhere."

"All right," agreed Frank; "that might bring them to nearly one o'clock. Afterward they'd want to get a hustle on them trying to gather up a supply of butter and fresh eggs, according to their orders. Now if they had to go outside the place to get the supplies it would be long after two before they'd be in shape even to think of starting back to camp."

"I see what you're hitting at, Frank; you mean they'd likely enough notice how the inky black clouds were moving up in the sky about that time, because being so close to the big lake they could see all this; while the woods hid it from us."

"Just so," Frank continued, his one desire being to convince the anxious chum that Bluff and Jerry could be in no real peril. "And the people of the village, you see, would urge them to hold over, telling them it was too risky to try to row an old leaky boat all those miles with such a storm coming up."

"Then you believe they are still there in the village, do you, Frank?"

"I really and truly do," came the steady answer; "and, even at the worst, if the boys were foolish enough to make the start you can depend on it they'd hurry to get ashore long before the storm broke."

"Well," concluded Will, "nothing could have tempted me to stay out on the lake a minute, once that thunder started to crash, and I knew the wind must soon come tearing along. I guess Jerry wouldn't take too many chances, even if Bluff wanted to keep rowing on."

"Another thing you've got reason to be satisfied about is your camera," suggested Frank, knowing what store his comrade set by his treasured instrument.

"Yes, for it hasn't been wet even a little bit!" Will declared. "I've always been pretty lucky that way. In fact the only streak of misfortune that ever struck me was the loss of those Maine films. I even dream about them, Frank; and I certainly do hope that Gilbert brings them back, if he comes this way."

"He may turn up any time now," Frank assured him. "The golf tournament must have been played before this, and if Gilbert lives around this part of the country you'll see him coming after those golf balls of his. They look extra fine to me."

"And my films would be worth next door to nothing to him; just as I look on his silly old golf balls. Queer how one man's food is another man's poison, isn't it?"

A dozen times Frank had to scratch a match at the request of his mate in order to take a glance at his watch. The time seemed actually to drag along.

"I've read about the minutes passing on leaden wings," said Will, with a long-drawn sigh, "but now I know just what that means. Eleven o'clock you said, didn't you, Frank? That means six more to bring us to five in the morning; and I suppose we couldn't think of making a start any earlier than that."

"As soon as it's broad daylight we'll get a move on us," promised the other. "We only want to make sure we can see how to avoid pitfalls and fallen trees."

"How far are we from camp, do you reckon, Frank?"

Will asked this last question rather drowsily; for in spite of his pains he was beginning to get sleepy.

"Only a few miles as the crow flies," he was assured.

"Of course you've got the direction down all -- er, what you call it, pat, I suppose?"

Frank told him he felt sure he could take a bee-line for camp; and a minute afterwards, there being no further questions, only the regular breathing of a tired lad, he knew that Will had dropped off.

Neither of them managed to secure any great amount of sleep. Their hard resting-place prevented such a thing. After a nap of possibly half an hour Frank would awaken to find one of his legs numb under him, while his muscles fairly ached with the severe strain to which they were quite unaccustomed.

Twice both boys felt so numb with the cold that acting on Frank's advice they crawled out from under the sheltering rock, and for a short time went through with exercises devised to send the blood leaping through their veins.

It was by all odds the longest night either of the lads had ever experienced, in so far as their feelings were concerned. Twice the eager and impatient Will gave a false alarm, under the impression that he had glimpsed the dawn stealing in upon them. The first time Frank showed him by his watch how impossible this was, for it had hardly reached two o'clock.

But all things must come to an end, bad as well as good; and finally Frank himself detected the coming of dawn. It was not by sight that he knew this but through the twittering of birds in neighboring trees, where the poor things had hidden to escape the terrible storm.

"I guess that's meant for a tune of thanksgiving and praise on account of having escaped death in all that wind and rain," Frank told himself as he listened to the faint songs taking form around him.

He did not awaken his chum, because there was no need. They could not start at once, and the boy needed what sleep he could get after such a wretched night.

It was broad day when Will awoke.

"Why! what's this, Frank?" he exclaimed, reproachfully, "how could you let me waste time sleeping when we might have been on our way?"

"Oh! no hurry," he was told; "and you seemed to be getting forty winks after such a tough night. But now that you've waked up, let's crawl out of here."

Neither of them felt any sorrow at leaving their hard beds, though that did not mean they could ever be anything but grateful for the welcome shelter of that nook under the rocky shelf.

Frank had no hesitancy about pointing toward the quarter where he believed the camp must lie.

"We'll take our bearings, Will, and then head straight. In the course of two hours at the most we ought to strike the lake, and close to Cabin Point in the bargain."

"Before we leave here," remarked Will, the old instinct still gripping him, "I'd like to get a snapshot of that bully ledge, now that the sun is peeping up, and shines full on the place."

"A good idea," Frank told him; "we'll often smile when we look at it, and remember our rough experience. I think every time I happen to munch a bit of jerked or dried beef my thoughts will go back to this adventure."

"Yes," added the other, with a chuckle, "and with me, every time anybody mentions dried beef you'll see me begin to rub my poor bones where they ache right now as if my joints were so many boils."

They had not gone far before they began to notice many signs that told of the fury of the wind during the storm. Trees had been toppled completely over or else lay up against some neighboring trunk in a helpless condition, "much like drunken men," Will declared.

Will discovered a number of remarkable sights that appealed to his artistic instinct, so that Frank had to wait until he had focussed his camera and then pressed the button. Those pictures would always remind them of their lively experiences when on the way back to camp after the second visit to Aaron Dennison's place.

When about an hour had passed Will began to show signs of fresh anxiety, but he was confidently assured by his chum that everything was all right.

"The lake is straight ahead of us, you can depend on that," was what the pilot told him; "and pretty soon I think I can prove it to you, since seeing is believing."

"How is that?" asked Will, his curiosity aroused at once, as Frank intended it should be.

"We're coming to a little hill," was the explanation, "and unless the trees are too dense to hide our view I figure we ought to see the big water from the crown; anyway we'll take the trouble to climb up and find out."

Frank was right, for upon arriving at the top of the elevation they managed to find one avenue among the treetops through which they could glimpse the glistening waters of the sun-kissed lake.

After that Will complained no longer, having the utmost confidence in the ability of his companion to guide the expedition into a safe harbor.

Before the second hour had fully elapsed they realized that the shore was close by. Will declared he could even hear the lapping of the waves on the pebbly strand.

"We might have made it in much less time, you understand," said Frank, "if it had not been for the fallen trees we had to go around; and then there was the ravine we skirted a long way before meeting with a place where we could cross."

"But it's all right in the end, Frank; and let me tell you I'm thankful we came through the business as well as we did. Now the only thing to bother us is the fate of the other fellows."

"Oh! they're all right, you can depend on it," said Frank.

"But I don't hear any chopping or talking, and we must be close enough to the cabin to get that, you know," speculated Will.

"Which proves my theory was sound, and that they had to stay all night in the village. You can depend on it, Will, they fared better than we did, because the chances are they slept on feather beds, and had all they wanted to eat."

"Oh, good, now we can cook something! I'm about as near empty as I want to be, and feel able to make way with the biggest beefsteak going. There, I can see the cabin, Frank! I'm glad to find out the storm didn't pick it up bodily and carry it into the lake, as I sometimes thought it might have done."

Both of them hurried their steps a little, for the thought of a warm and tasty breakfast certainly appealed to them as seldom before. Consequently they soon reached the cabin on the Point, which they now called their camp home.



Chapter XIV

The Return Of The Voyagers


"After all the old cabin has had a pretty narrow escape, Will."

Frank, as he said this, pointed to where a tree had crashed to the ground close by. It lay with its head toward the northeast. Had the wind been more in the west at the time of its fall the roof of the log structure must have been crushed in like an egg-shell.

Will was just about to enter when Frank caught hold of his arm and held him back.

"What's the matter, Frank?" instantly questioned the other, looking around him in surprise.

"Why, I wonder how it comes that the door is ajar. We both know as well as anything that we made sure to shut it securely at the time we left."

"Then Bluff and Jerry must have got back home!" exclaimed Will, excited again. "Since they don't seem to be here, I reckon they've set off to search for us, believing we must have gone out for a stroll, and been caught in the storm."

"You forget one thing, Will."

"Do you mean the boat?" demanded the other, quickly. "Well, it doesn't seem to be around, for a fact, Frank; and, sure! it ought to be if they'd come home."

"Well, let's go inside now," remarked the other. "If they did come home, and have gone out again, I think they would have left some word for us."

No sooner had the two boys entered the cabin than they could see that some one had been there. A home-made chair was lying on its side on the floor; also some things had been swept from the heavy table which Frank had repaired so that it stood firmly on its four legs now.

Will looked around, and then turned his eyes on Frank.

"Somebody or some animal has certainly been in here since we left yesterday, or I miss my guess!" he announced.

"There's no question about that," returned Frank, a puzzled look on his face. "And as we fastened the door in the only way we have, which would prevent any but an educated monkey from opening it, I can't believe any wild beast entered here. Take that from me, Will."

"Then of course it must have been a human being," remarked Will, for Frank's decisions seemed to leave no other explanation possible.

"I'm wondering why he came in here, and what he did," continued the other, as he wandered about the place scrutinizing everything. "There's not a sign of anybody's sleeping in one of our bunks, and so far as I can make out there's been no cooking going on here since we had our lunch yesterday, because I remember just how I put everything away then."

"Frank, it's certainly a deep mystery."

"Oh, well! what's the use of bothering our poor heads over it when there was no mischief done. Let's get busy with something to eat. I'm as hollow as a drum right now, and I'm not ashamed to say it, either."

When presently the coffee began to throw out the most tantalizing odor, and the sizzling bacon added its quota to the aroma, the boys felt they could hardly wait until things were ready.

Munching some crackers helped them to hold off a bit, and presently, when things were done, the welcome call to breakfast sounded.

The lake must have been rough and high during the previous night's gale, for the waves still rolled up on the beach in places, though the wind had changed.

"Don't you think they must have started from over yonder by now?" Will was asking as he and Frank began to eat more slowly, having taken the fierce edge from their appetites.

"Yes, the sea has gone down enough by now to let them take chances," Frank admitted; "and after we're through eating we'll use the glasses to find out."

Although he had not said anything about it to his chum, Frank believed he had detected a moving spot far away on the water, and in the direction of the village, which he thought might be the camp boat with their two mates.

He did not hurry through his breakfast, for as the object was constantly drawing slowly but steadily nearer Cabin Point they would be better able to discover who the occupants of the boat were later on.

Will kept the other to his promise, and in good time the small but powerful pair of field glasses was brought out and adjusted.

Frank took the first look. He did not say a single word or betray the result of his survey by the faintest smile, only handed the glasses to Will.

"My sight must be different from yours, Frank, because I have to focus all over again. There, now I reckon I've got it O. K. because I can see the village over there as plain as anything. The boat ought to be this way -- there, I've got it located. Oh, Frank, it's Bluff and Jerry, as sure as you live!"

"Of course it is!" declared the other. "And now you can see that I hit the right nail on the head when I tried to figure out what they'd probably do in the storm. They spent last night among the villagers, and started this morning just as soon as the water went down enough to make it seem safe."

"They're almost half-way here as it is," continued Will; "and rowing like fun, let me tell you! Well, that relieves my mind a heap. I couldn't feel altogether easy about the boys, knowing what an old tub that boat is at best. But it's all right, Frank; and I think I can drink another cup of coffee on that."

"We ought to have some ready for them when they get here," suggested thoughtful Frank; "though of course they'll have eaten breakfast at the village. But a cup of our fragrant coffee is something to make you forget you're tired."

"Yes," agreed Will, "I warrant you they didn't get anything like that over there at the village tavern, or wherever they put up."

They spent much of their time watching the approach of the boat. The sunbeams glinted from the flashing oars as they were methodically raised and lowered. All the while it came nearer and nearer.

"I can see that they're anxious about the camp, and wondering how we came through the storm," ventured Frank; "because every once in a while they stop rowing, seem to be talking together, and then turn around to stare this way."

"Let's step out in the open, and I'll wave my big red bandanna to them, Frank."

"They ought to see that easily enough," laughed the other; "I remember the old bull did that time he had you treed for several hours. Now stand ready, and as soon as I give the word start to waving, while we both shout."

It was easy to tell when the rowers looked around again, thanks to the powerful glasses; and while Will waved his red bandanna, both of them yelled vociferously.

"They see us, because they're waving their hats now!" observed Frank.

"Yes, and I can hear them shouting," added his companion.

Slowly the boat drew nearer, until in the end it was run up on the sandy beach of Cabin Point. Then Bluff and Jerry scrambled out, stretched their stiff legs, and picking up several bundles that had lain in the bottom of the craft, started toward the cabin, sniffing the welcome odor of coffee as they came.

"Looks as if you'd got what you went for," remarked Frank, as he hastened to relieve one of the boys of his burden, a cardboard box, evidently holding several dozen eggs.

"We did all of that," replied Bluff, "and then had to hold the fort through the night because of that nasty little tooter of a storm."

"Listen to him! Trying to make out it didn't amount to much after all!" laughed Jerry. "I wish you could have seen him holding on to the chair he was sitting in at the village inn, whenever there came a terrific blast that made the house shake all over. I even heard him ask the landlord if it was bolted down to its foundation."

"Well, to own up to the honest truth," said Bluff, with one of his wide grins, "it was a regular buster of a howler. I never saw such wind or rain, and my ears ring even yet from the smashing thunder-claps. Wow! but you two must have wondered what was coming when that big tree came tearing down to the ground not thirty feet away from the cabin."

"But we didn't hear it fall," said Will, mysteriously.

"What do you want us to believe by your saying that?" demanded Jerry.

"We didn't happen to be around these parts just then, you see," continued the artist, smilingly. "Fact is, we spent the night under a ledge of rock some miles away from here, hungry and cold as could be."

"Suppose you up and tell us what happened?" said Bluff. "Why so much mystery, I want to know? What took you away, and how did it come that you never noticed that old whooper coming up in time to hurry back to camp?"

"Oh, Frank and I took a little stroll after lunch," remarked Will. "You must know I've been wild to see that place belonging to Aaron Dennison, and snap off a view of it, because Bluff said it is such a remarkable affair. Well, we got the picture, all right, and also one of the owner of the ranch holding up a big cane as though about to strike Frank here."

"Gee whiz! tell us more about that!" begged Bluff, eagerly.

"After you get started on that coffee we made for you," said Frank. And while the two boys were enjoying their cups of hot coffee the story was related.

Then those who had gone to the village were asked about their trip. Nothing remarkable had happened except that on several occasions they were compelled to bail out, and had once to stop in order to pound more oakum into an opening that appeared in one of the seams of the boat.

"Excuse me from ever taking such a long trip again in an old rattletrap of a boat like that," declared Bluff. "Luckily for us, you insisted on our carrying a bunch of that oakum along, Frank. With it we patched up more seams this morning, and managed to pull through, though it's been a hard drive."

"But we've lots of dandy fresh eggs, and five pounds of new butter," added Jerry, proudly.

"The storm came up before you could start, I suppose?" questioned Will.

"Yes, and Bluff here wanted to pull out anyhow," Jerry replied, "but I kicked on that, and some of the villagers also warned him it would be suicidal -- yes, that's the exact word they used, Bluff, and you know it. What if I'd given in to you, and we had been caught all of a sudden by that hurricane? Well, I'll bet deep down in your heart you're just as glad as anything I kept you from making that silly start."

"Sure I am, Jerry! and I hope you didn't really think I meant to go. I was only trying to keep up to my reputation and name as a bluffer. All the while I knew as well as anything we never could get a quarter of the way here. I've cut my eye-teeth for all I sometimes make out to be so brash and bold."

Frank and Will only laughed at the expression of disgust they saw creeping over Jerry's face. Surely all of them ought to know Bluff well enough by this time to understand that he did not always mean what he said.

"And now," remarked Frank, "see if either of you can figure out this mystery." With that he told them how he and Will had found signs of some one's having been in the old cabin on the point between the time they had left it and their late return on that morning.



Chapter XV

Days Of Real Sport


"You're dead sure nothing was taken, are you, Frank?" Bluff demanded first of all, his suspicions running in the direction of a sneak thief.

"We looked, but couldn't find the first trace of anything having been stolen," he was assured. "Things seemed knocked around a bit, and the door was ajar, though we left it tightly closed, but that was all."

"It surely is a deep mystery," admitted Jerry, with a puzzled expression on his face. Jerry had never been remarkably clever at finding out hidden things, and the whiff of a mystery generally confused him.

"I'd be inclined to think it must have been some sort of animal," ventured Bluff, "only you feel certain you fastened the door, so a dog or a wildcat couldn't get inside."

"Besides," spoke up Will, "if it had been any sort of animal bent on getting something to eat, wouldn't we see signs of his nosing around in the cabin?"

"That's a fact," admitted Bluff, immediately, "there's that shank of our ham lying right on the table where we left it. I said we'd boil the same the first chance we got, so as to get the pickings. Any dog would have pulled that on to the floor and gnawed at it."

"Oh, well, what's the use guessing when we haven't got a single clue to go on?" remarked Jerry. "Let's change the subject and talk of something pleasant."

"One thing I know," said Will, with a happy smile.

"Then tell us, won't you?" asked Bluff.

"I'm going to set my little trap again to-night for Br'er 'Coon," continued the enthusiastic amateur photographer.

"Huh! wonder what you'll spot next time?" observed Bluff. "You nailed an old fellow that you tell us is Aaron Dennison himself. I hope the next crack won't give us a picture of the Old Nick himself, horns, split hoofs, forked tail and all! Ugh!"

"Well," muttered Jerry, "seems to me when you set one of those flashlight traps right in the woods of nights you never can tell what kind of a job you're going to get away with."

Will laughed as though amused.

"Why," he went on to say, "don't you understand that's part of the game? The uncertainty of the thing adds to the charm. You never do know exactly what you're going to strike."

"Well," Jerry continued, shaking his head in a contrary fashion as though far from convinced, "I never did take much to the grab-bag business -- putting your hand in, and groping around to pull out a prize or a blank."

"Ditto here, Jerry," spoke up Bluff; "I prefer to know what I'm trying for, and then chasing after it for all I'm worth."

"Oh, well, what's the use of talking?" Will concluded. "Many men, many minds. It's a mighty good thing everybody doesn't think alike. Variety is the spice of life, they say. But excuse me, fellows; I've got some work to do developing the snaps I took yesterday."

That was the last they saw of Will for some time. Once he buried himself in that fascinating photographic labor to which he was devoted heart and soul, it required some strong incentive such as a summons to dinner, to make him break away.

After noon had come and gone, the boys settled down into something like the old life. Less was said about events that had occurred, while new plans were being broached for the immediate future.

Having secured some live bait with a little seine made of mosquito netting, Bluff and Frank tried the fishing, using the boat to reach what seemed to be good ground. A hidden ledge of rock ran from the point, and Frank judged that where the water was something like ten feet deep there ought to be bass.

His figuring proved to be correct, for they were soon busily engaged in playing the fish that struck the live minnows. At times the work became even exciting, as a larger and more gamy fish took hold.

Jerry, who also liked to fish, watched the sport from the shore and envied those who were thus engaged. The next time he was asked by Bluff to accompany him in the boat Jerry's answer would be of a different nature. This was a time when his laziness cost him dearly, he admitted to himself, as he watched Bluff lift a struggling bass into the boat, and then heard him give a yell of triumph.

Will had long since finished developing the films, and all they had heard him say with reference to them was that they seemed to have turned out "pretty fair."

About three o'clock in the afternoon, however, he set to work and printed a lot of proofs by the aid of the sun which aroused the interest and admiration of the other three.

Frank in particular was delighted to find they would have such splendid views by which to remember their singular adventure. The one of "Old Aaron and His Rod," as Will designated it, was perfectly clear and reflected considerable credit on the artist who had snatched it off on the spur of the moment.

Over the proof that showed the strange ledge of rock under which the two storm-bound fugitives had passed the night, Bluff and Jerry lingered longest. There seemed to be some peculiar fascination about the picture that held their attention.

"Some time soon, Frank," said Bluff, "we must go up there and take a look into that cave under the rock. It was a bright dodge on your part to notice the formation of the ground in passing, and then remember it right away when the necessity arose for shelter from the rain, wind and lightning."

"Which only shows," remarked Will, shaking a warning finger at Bluff, "that you ought to keep your eyes about you every minute of time when you're tramping through a woodsy country. You never know the second you'll be called on to remember something. And also let me say that it's best to have along with you a chum who never gets left, no matter what happens."

Even Frank had to join in the general laugh that greeted this wise sally.

"My advice to you all is, never depend on anybody else to pull your chestnuts out of the fire, but learn to do things for yourself," was all the remark Frank would allow himself to make.

They had fresh fish for supper that evening, and such fish! Bluff himself cooked them, and of late he had proven himself to be a most excellent hand at getting up a meal.

His method, of course, was the usual camp way of using fat salt pork melted down in the pan until it was sizzling hot; then placing in the fish, nicely covered with cracker crumbs, and allowing the fish to become browned all over, as well as fairly crisp before pronouncing them done.

Every one enjoyed them, and it was voted unanimously that fish should form one of the staple dishes of their stay in camp at Cabin Point.

Judging from the game qualities of the bass, there would be no lack of candidates for the honor of pulling them in. Even Will, who did not as a rule profess to be much of a sportsman, declared he believed he would like to test that new "pole" which his father had given him for Christmas; at which Bluff groaned, and immediately threw up his hands in affected horror, exclaiming:

"Pole! For goodness' sake, Will, never call that dandy lancewood rod by such a degrading name again. The farmer's boy cuts a pole from the bushes, or buys a fifteen-foot one at the grocery store, the kind that comes up from the Louisiana swamp districts. A true sportsman carries a jointed rod -- spell it out, r-o-d. Why, I'd turn red to the roots of my hair if ever you said 'pole' in the presence of real disciples of Isaac Walton."

"Oh, well, 'rod,' if you prefer it that way," chuckled Will. "But no matter what you call it, the farmer boy's pole is generally the one that knocks the persimmons down."

"That taffy about the genuine sportsman buying his fish from the barefooted farmer's boy is as old as the hills," retorted Bluff. "Maybe it's been true in some cases; but I've seen the time when the man with the fly tackle, and who knew how to use it, got all the fish, while the barefooted boy could only look on."

"There!" exclaimed Frank with a laugh, "I knew the worm would turn some day. Up to now there's been no champion for the man with the fancy fly rod. It was the boy who used the humble worm who did all the business. He'll have to take a back seat after this when our chum Bluff is around."

No one knew whether the flashlight did its duty on that particular night or not -- that is until Will hurried out early in the morning and brought his camera in.

He had cleverly arranged it so that when the cord was pulled that set the cartridge off it also caused the time-exposure arrangement on the camera to work. Thus for perhaps several seconds the delicate film was exposed, after which the action caused it to become once more securely hidden from the light. In this way it was not necessary for the operator to get out to his camera before daylight came in order to save his night's work.

All of them had slept soundly. If Frank did happen to arouse several times during the night he saw and heard nothing to indicate that there were any animals prowling around in the vicinity of the camp.

Will knew, however, that his trap had worked, for the bait was gone, the cord pulled taut, and he could even detect traces of sharp claws around the spot.

It turned out that he had managed to secure a splendid snapshot of the big fellow boasting the striped tail; indeed, the picture was bound to be one of the most prized in all his collection.

That day also passed with nothing unusual happening. The campers enjoyed every hour of it, for there always appeared to be a variety of things awaiting their attention, and all of the boys were full of vigor.

Bluff noticed that it had gradually grown quite warm, after the delightful cool spell following the big storm.

"And a hot wave means another rattler, I should guess," he declared when discussing the weather with his comrades.

Bluff had of late shown a disposition to prove himself somewhat of a weather prophet. He studied the various conditions of the sky, noted the mottled clouds that people used to say denoted rain, consulted calendars he had brought along that explained the phases of the moon, and every little while solemnly announced that according to all the signs such and such a condition of weather was going to follow.

It was on the second morning that Bluff outlined his plan. Waiting until they had all eaten the excellent breakfast which he himself had prepared, and until he had reason to believe Frank must be in an especially good humor, Bluff spoke up.

"Frank, why not all of us go up to that rock ledge to-day before the weather takes a turn for the worse? How about it, Jerry; are you game for a tramp?"

"Every time," came the immediate response; "and as you say, if we're going to have a look in at that queer section of the country, to-day's as good a time as any."

To the delight of both boys, Frank offered no objection. In fact, he himself felt rather inclined to do a little more exploring, for the country in that region interested him deeply. And so presently the four left their cabin camp to plunge into the woods.



Chapter XVI

Showing Bluff And Jerry


It pleased Frank to set out in almost a direct line for the rocky ledges. He wanted to cover once more the ground which he and Will had passed over on their way to camp.

"In the first place," he explained to the others when they remarked on this fact, "there were several interesting sights that Will said he wanted to snap off; and his supply of film had run short the other day. Then we know this route, and can point out a lot of things. Besides, it's a short way to the place, which is a good excuse for taking it."

In due time they reached the rocks, and both Bluff and Jerry must creep under the friendly ledge, to see for themselves what sort of shelter their chums had found from the storm.

"Couldn't be beaten, and that's a fact, Frank!" was Jerry's final verdict, after he had remained under the rock for a time.

"And in such a terrible electric storm," added Bluff, sagely, "I don't know of a better place to take refuge than under a shelf of rock. There's no danger of being struck by the lightning, and only a slim chance of an avalanche tumbling down on top of you."

"All boys ought to make a note of a thing like that," urged Will, wisely nodding his head as might a school-master. "When a storm comes along in summer time, with thunder and lightning, they should never dream of taking shelter under a tree or in a barn. Frank, I'm right there, I reckon, am I not?"

"Every time!" responded the other vigorously. "It's better to drop flat down in the open and take a good ducking, rather than risk chances under a tree or in any sort of barn. Lightning picks out those objects for a blow. But I think myself a shelf of rock like this is about the finest shelter going."

"And I'll always be on the lookout for places like this," asserted Bluff, who could take a lesson to heart for all his bluffing ways.

"I can promise you I will," added Will, "because while I'm still sore from lying so many hours on that hard stone, I feel deep down in my heart that I ought never to look a gift horse in the mouth. That rock ledge was the best friend we had all through the terrible hurricane."

"Well, we're in no great hurry to get back home, are we, boys?" asked Jerry.

"We started out with the intention of making a day of it," Frank observed, "and there's no reason to change our minds. I'm going to take a turn in a new direction, though in the end we may strike the old trail that leads to the Point from Mr. Dennison's place."

Jerry looked at him eagerly.

"Now it so happens that everybody's gone and seen that place but poor me," he went on to state; "and Frank, if we just happened to be in that vicinity between now and sunset would you mind if I took a peep?"

Frank shook his head as though he did not wholly like the idea.

"The old gentleman seemed pretty huffy when we had our little heart-to-heart talk with him," Will remarked, noticing this disinclination on Frank's part; "and on the way down we made up our minds it was none of our business. Jerry, I can guess that it's the queer cry we heard that interests you more than wanting to see the house itself, for I've good pictures of that."

Jerry laughed.

"Oh! I own up you fellows have kind of excited me a little when telling about that thrilling sound you heard," he admitted candidly. "I'd like first-rate to do some prowling around up there to satisfy myself that it wasn't a peacock that screamed, or even a tied-up dog that yelped."

"But I hope you'll give over that idea then, Jerry," said Frank soberly. "You must understand that Mr. Dennison is a gentleman, for all he looks so queer and acts so strangely. He's had something upset him in the past, and chooses to live away from everybody."

"Yes," added Will, "and he's got a right to do as he chooses with his own property, you'll allow, Jerry."

"Sure thing!" agreed the other, though with a shade of disappointment crossing his face, "and I guess I'll have to keep my hands off, since the sign is up 'no trespassing allowed here!' But anyway, I do hope we shall run across Old Aaron and his Rod somewhere in our jaunt to-day."

Frank had nothing more to say on the subject. He was determined not to yield to any temptation, and enter those forbidden grounds again after being so plainly warned off by the irascible owner.

Leaving the rocky section of country, they began to traverse a region quite different in its character. From time to time various interesting things cropped up to attract their attention.

Bluff and Jerry wanted the photographer to snap off all sorts of what they called "mighty absorbing subjects," but Will wisely used his fine discrimination.

"Why, look here," he finally told them, "if I took your advice right along I'd be out of stock in the film line before half the day was over. And I don't know of anything to make a fellow feel worse than to have used his last film and then run across a subject that he'd give heaps to get."

"Will is right, boys," remarked Frank; "leave it to him to decide things like that. I'd stake a lot on his judgment, you must know."

"Well," commented Will, with a chuckle, "I'm a ninny when it comes to lots of things connected with outdoor life; but I do know something about taking pictures, if I say it myself."

At noon-time they stopped and rested for more than an hour, and ate the cold lunch that had been provided. It was warm, and consequently no one felt sorry for the chance to lie in the shade.

Frank afterwards swung around in a half circle. He kept his bearings all the time, and professed to know accurately just where they were, and in what quarter the camp lay.

"For what's the use of claiming to be a woodsman," he told Bluff when the other looked a little incredulous over something or other, "if you don't keep track of your direction? I feel sure that as the crow flies Cabin Point lies over there, right beyond that tree with the feathery crown."

About three in the afternoon all of them owned up to feeling a bit weary.

"But I reckon we must be getting within a mile or so of the lake," Jerry suggested. "I'm saying that partly because I've noticed how Frank has swung around, and is heading in the direction he pointed out when he told of our camp lying in that quarter."

"You hit the nail on the head when you say that, Jerry," commented Frank; "for we're going to strike the old trail before another ten minutes passes."

"Meaning the one that leads to the lake from Aaron's place, eh, Frank?" continued Jerry, with a sparkle of expectancy in his eyes.

"That's right, Jerry," he was told quietly.

"Then I hope -- " began the other, stopping suddenly, with half-opened mouth, to listen, for just then there came to their ears a half-muffled sound that might be the scream of a red-headed woodpecker up on some rotten treetop, or anything else for that matter.

Will and Bluff uttered exclamations indicating that they recognized the cry. Even Frank looked serious, while Jerry was plainly excited.

"Frank!" he exclaimed, "was that the queer cry you fellows told me you heard those two times you were up here?"

"I think it was," replied the other; "but please don't go to getting excited over it, Jerry. You know we agreed it was none of our business whether a peacock on the lawn or a dog in his kennel let out that yawp. The only thing that interests me about it is the fact that we have proof that the high board fence around Mr. Dennison's place ought to loom up any minute now."

Hardly had Frank said this than Bluff broke in with his customary abruptness.

"Right now I can see a little patch of the same fence over yonder, Frank. Notice that big beech, and look under the slanting limbs. How about it, am I right?"

He was immediately assured that his eyes had not deceived him, for it was certainly a small section of the tall fence that he had discovered.

"I hope you will go close enough anyway," ventured Jerry, "so I can see that strand of cruel barbed wire you say runs along the top of the fence."

"Oh! there's no reason you should be cheated out of that little favor," he was told by the leader. "The fact is we have to pass close to the fence in order to strike that trail through the woods."

"The one he took when he struck my trap, and set my flashlight off, eh, Frank?" asked Will.

"Of course it was that trail and no other," said Frank; "you remember we followed it before, and came to the Point. We also agreed that it was used by the old gentleman once in a while when he took a notion to go down to the lake."

"Well, here's the fence, Jerry!" observed Bluff, as they came to a full stop.

Jerry surveyed it critically, even stepping back the better to see how the barbed wire entanglement ran along its apex.

"A rather tough job to get over that fence," he was heard to say, as though half to himself, "though I reckon I could manage it if pushed."

"But I hope you'll never try it," ventured Frank, severely.

"I was wondering," continued Jerry, paying no attention to the reproof, "whether that barbed wire was put there to prevent outsiders from getting in, or to keep some one who was in from breaking out!"

Frank started, and looked serious. He even exchanged glances with Will, as though they might have a little secret between them; but at any rate he did not see fit to encourage Jerry to pursue the subject any further.

"Suppose we let the matter drop now," he said, in that way of his which all of them considered final.

They once more moved along, and, in following the plan Frank had of reaching the old trail that led through the woods and tangle to the lake, they kept close to the high fence.

Jerry looked around him from time to time, and whenever he chanced to discover a knot-hole in one of the boards he immediately glued his eye to the aperture as if in hopes of glimpsing the hermit's house, or something else equally interesting.

As they did not hear him utter any expression of satisfaction after several of these attempts, the others set his labor down as futile.

A short time later they neared the lower end of the fenced-in estate. Frank knew he would run upon the trail near this point, and accordingly he had his eyes fixed on the ground looking for the first signs.

On this account he was not the first to discover something that came to pass. It was when he heard an exclamation from Jerry that Frank looked hastily up, and saw to his dismay that they were once more face to face with the same old gentleman whom he and Will had encountered.

Aaron Dennison had evidently stepped through a narrow gateway, for the opening appeared just behind him. He must have been quite as astonished as the boys at the unexpected meeting. Frank could see that he was very angry, for his face turned red, his eyes gleamed, and the muscles of his cheeks worked under the strain.

Knowing the impetuous nature of one or more of his chums, Frank hurriedly blocked the path so that none of them might pass by. Then, trying to control his own feelings, he faced the scowling owner of the mysterious retreat in the wilderness.



Chapter XVII

The Warning


"So this is the way you keep your word, is it, boy?" demanded Mr. Dennison, as he glared at Frank, who, however, managed to keep cool and collected, because he could easily understand how the old gentleman might deem their presence there very suspicious.

"But what I promised you, sir," said Frank, "was that we would not trespass on your enclosed property again, and we have done nothing of the sort, sir."

"Then why do I find you here, alongside this fence that was constructed to keep such curious people as you from intruding on my privacy? I believe even now it was your intention to enter again by that loose board, which, however, I had nailed fast in order to keep lawless prowlers out."

"You wrong us, Mr. Dennison," declared Frank; while Bluff could be heard muttering his indignation. "Just how we happen to be here is easily explained."

"Of course. And you expect me to believe any kind of silly story you may make up, I suppose?" snarled the angry owner of the property.

"After we left you the other day, sir, my chum and I walked many miles into the woods, to see the country, and find some views, for you remember he is a photographer. We were caught unawares by that storm, and had to spend the night under a rocky shelf. Our comrades were naturally curious to see the queer place that had been of such great use to us, and so to-day we took a trip up there."

"Here is a picture of the rock ledge, Mr. Dennison, so you can see we are telling you the truth," and Will eagerly held up one of his proofs as he spoke, which he had hastily taken from his pocket in order to convince the obstinate old gentleman.

"But that does not explain your presence here," objected the other, though he had deigned to glance at the really excellent sun print, for Will of course had remembered hearing him say that he, too, took a great interest in photography.

"Having set our faces toward home," explained Frank, "it was only natural, sir, that we should make for a trail we had been over before. That brought us out close to your place, and we are at this very minute making for the corner below, where I remember we can find what we are looking for, the trail to Cabin Point."

Mr. Dennison looked doubtfully at Frank. Few people could resist believing anything the boy said, for his manner was convincing; but apparently there was some unknown reason for Mr. Dennison's being unusually suspicious.

He shut his teeth hard together as though repressing some sign of weakening.

"Whether you are telling the truth or not, boy," he said sternly, "I want you to understand once for all that you must not come up here again. I shall instruct my men to keep a constant watch for trespassers, and deal severely with them. This place is posted, and any one who dares to enter does so at his own risk. I hope you understand that, for I should not like to have anything unpleasant happen to boys."

"Yes, sir, we understand what you say," replied Frank, "and I give you my word of honor again that none of us will trespass on your grounds. If ever we enter there again it will have to be on invitation from the owner. I can safely speak for my chums as well as myself."

This last was really meant for impulsive Jerry, just to notify him that under no conditions must he dream of making Frank's promise void.

"Then see to it that you keep away from here," said Mr. Dennison, as unyielding as ever. "Even now you are camping on my property, and I could order you away if I chose to be harsh. But I have not forgotten that I too was once a boy. You can stay at Cabin Point unmolested by my men, but only on condition that you avoid this region up here."

With that he stepped suddenly back and closed the gap in the board fence by pulling the door shut after him. The boys walked on, Jerry looking disappointed.

"Course I'm glad to say I've actually seen the queer old hermit," he remarked, "but even there I'm away behind the rest, for all of you have been inside the dead line, and glimpsed his odd house. Oh, well, don't look at me that way, Frank; you know mighty well I don't mean to make you out a liar by sneaking up here and poking my nose into his private business."

"Huh!" grunted Bluff presently, as though he had been thinking deeply over the whole matter, "what's he got in there, anyway, he's so afraid that people should see, I'd like to know! It's all mighty mysterious, take my word for it, fellows. But then, like as not none of us will ever know the truth."

Again did Frank and Will exchange that sudden glance and nod, showing that the little secret they shared in common must have some connection with the subject Bluff was even then harping upon.

On the way home the talk of course reverted several times to Aaron Dennison and his strangely fenced-in property. But although many suggestions were brought out in the discussion, none of them were fully accepted as correct.

Frank and Will remained almost silent, and let the other two do most of the talking. If the opinion of the former was requested now and then he gave it off-hand, but neither Bluff nor Jerry found much to encourage him in the information thus gleaned.

Frank never once lost the dim trail on the way home. He had no difficulty whatever in following his course, because by now he was getting familiar with it; and since several of them had tramped over the ground there were many signs to be found that had not been there the first time.

A tired lot of boys it was that joyfully greeted the sight of the cabin on the Point late that afternoon.

"But after all's said and done," declared Bluff, "we've had a bully day!"

"And I've added considerable to my stock of pictures, if only these turn out O. K.," added Will, his mind, as usual, running to the one great subject.

Later on he and Frank happened to be left alone. Bluff had gone down to the edge of the lake to clean some fish left over from the day before, being kept in the water at a shady place; while Jerry was trying his hand at mending the leaky boat.

"Let me see that first picture you took of the house, Will," remarked Frank.

"I keep it separate from all the rest," explained the other, as he drew out a little book, and opening it took a print from between the leaves. "You told me to do that, Frank."

"Because I didn't know whether we ought to let the other fellows into this suspicion we've got between us," said Frank, as he accepted the little print that displayed the building inside the high board fence. "And right now I'm wondering if we hadn't better keep this out of their sight until we get home."

"I take it to mean you're afraid of Jerry and Bluff?" queried Will. "They are both of them determined fellows, once they take the bit in their teeth. That face might tantalize Jerry so much that he'd give in."

"Of course it's struck you, Will, that there are what seem to be bars across that window, though neither of us remembers seeing them at the time. For that matter we failed to glimpse the white face or the waving handkerchief."

"Frank, you've been thinking this business over," observed Will, soberly; "please tell me what decision you've come to. I've kept my word about not dropping a hint to the other fellows, as you asked me; and I've also hidden this print away from them. What does it mean, Frank?"

"Of course you must remember that I'm only guessing," replied his chum. "In the first place then, it seems that old Aaron is keeping some one a prisoner up there!"

"Whew! is it as bad as that?" gasped Will.

"It's impossible to make out whether the owner of that white face is a man, a woman or a child," continued Frank, slowly; "but I'm pretty sure the window has bars across it. The person saw us, and tried to attract our attention, but made no sound just then, you remember. Afterwards we heard that cry."

Will was plainly much exercised. He seemed to shiver as though he felt a chill creep over him.

"But Frank, what would old Aaron keep any one shut up in his place for?" he demanded. "Why, it would be against the law, you know, to deprive any one of his liberty."

"Not under certain conditions, Will," he was told; "and perhaps Mr. Dennison has the backing of the law in what he's doing."

Will stared hard at the speaker.

"Oh! do you mean, Frank, that the person behind that barred window might be a madman?"

"That's the only reasonable explanation I'm able to scare up, Will. Suppose, now, his wife went out of her mind years ago. He cared so much for her that the thought of having her confined in any ordinary insane asylum was repulsive to him. What would he do then, having plenty of money?"

"It sounds reasonable to me, for a fact. Who could blame him if he built this house, and surrounded it with a high fence that would keep the inmate from escaping when allowed in the grounds with an attendant? Yes, I shouldn't wonder but that you've guessed the truth, Frank. Everything seems to go to prove it. And then, after all, can you blame him for getting so huffy when he believed we were trying to pry into his terrible secret?"

"I don't think he acted queerly, if what we suspect is true," ventured Frank.

"On my part I'm inclined to feel sorry for old Aaron," declared Will, who had a tender heart. "He looks like a man who has suffered heaps. And then, you know, he's interested in the same things I am, which ought to make me think of him as a fellow artist."

After more talk Will hastily hid the tell-tale print as Jerry was seen approaching. The other looked a little suspiciously at them as though he wondered why Will secreted something so hurriedly at his coming; but other matters arising, he soon forgot the circumstance.

On the following morning Bluff and Jerry went out in the boat to fish, and the latter soon found himself enjoying the thrill that comes to the angler when fast to a vigorous two-pound black bass bred in the cold water of a big northern lake.

The fun grew when Bluff struck the mate to Jerry's fighter, and both boys were put to their best efforts in order to save the fish, as well as to keep them from fouling the lines, in which case one or both might have broken away.

In the end they managed to scoop up both prizes in the landing net, and this gave them more pleasure than many generals would find in capturing a fortress.

About ten o'clock the boys came in. Jerry said they were tired of sitting in the sun and playing havoc with the fish, for they had put back many small ones, being real sportsmen. Bluff, on his part, admitted that he was tired, but declared it lay along the line of baling out the leaky boat, and not of taking fish.

"Hey! you two fellows in camp, come down here and look, if you want to see a sight good for sore eyes!" called Jerry, as he jumped ashore and commenced to drag the old boat up on the sandy beach.

Accordingly Frank and Will approached to look at the catch, and not only admire but tender their congratulations.

"As fine a mess of bass as I've set eyes on in many a day," announced Frank.

"Hello! see who's coming past the cabin, and heading for us!" exclaimed Will. "There's Mr. Dennison, to begin with, but I don't know the other man."

"Well, we do, don't we, Jerry?" ventured Bluff, a vein of uneasiness in his voice. "We happened to talk with him over at the village. You can see the badge on his coat from here. That tells who he is -- the constable of the village, and he said he was also the marshal of this district. But what under the sun does he want at our camp, I'd like to know!"



Chapter XVIII

The Accusation


Frank Langdon watched the two men hurrying toward the beach with an uneasy feeling in the region of his heart. He could easily see that Aaron Dennison looked angry, and from this it was not difficult to surmise that fresh trouble hung over the heads of the Outdoor Chums.

"Whew! what's in the wind now, I wonder?" he heard Bluff asking himself; and so far as that went both Jerry and Will were also plainly disturbed.

The two men quickly reached the spot where the boys were grouped. Jerry mutely held up the two finest bass he and Bluff had taken. It was as though he meant to show that they were engaged in legitimate sport, such as boys in a summer camp were supposed to follow.

"Here they are, the young rascals, Mr. Jeems. Now do your duty!" exclaimed Aaron Dennison, harshly.

Bluff managed to catch the eye of the constable whose acquaintance he and Jerry had made when in the lake village. Perhaps he gave him a humorous wink. At any rate, the tall lanky man shrugged his shoulders and immediately remarked:

"I guess that you'd better tell the boys what you be suspectin' them of, Squire. I don't know nothing about the same, and I'm only here to do what I believes to be my bounden duty as an officer of the law."

"But I explained to you," expostulated the old man, "that my treasured cup disappeared mysteriously, and also that yesterday I came upon these four boys acting in a suspicious manner close to my enclosed grounds."

"Outside your grounds, you said, Mr. Dennison," urged the constable.

"That is very true, Constable. But I chance to know that on two different occasions some of their number actually had the brazen audacity to push their way through a gap in the fence."

"You don't tell me!" exclaimed the other, trying to look very fierce; but when he saw that whimsical grin on the features of Bluff the attempt was not much of a success.

"Worse than that even," continued Mr. Dennison, whipping himself into higher rage. "That boy with the angel face had the nerve to take a picture of my house. I caught him in the very act. Think of that, Mr. Jeems, will you?"

Frank could have laughed if the situation had not been so very serious. It seemed as though Mr. Dennison looked on such a thing as any one's taking a picture of his hidden home as a capital offence; hanging would about fit such a terrible crime, according to his opinion. And Will's "angel face" vastly amused them all.

Desirous of finding out what all the trouble was about, Frank now turned his attention to the irate old gentleman. When he spoke his voice was as soothing and respectful as he could make it; for Frank believed in pouring oil on troubled waters.

"Mr. Dennison, you surely are very much mistaken if you think for a minute that either I or any of my chums would ever steal anything. We are proud of the reputations we have in our home town of Centerville. None of us can understand what you are accusing us of doing, just because we happened to be up in the neighborhood of your place yesterday."

"Where you had no business to be," snapped the other.

"Perhaps not, sir," continued Frank, "but I explained to you just how it happened. And I assure you positively that none of us so much as put a finger inside your grounds yesterday."

"You give us your solemn affidavy on that, do you, young feller?" asked the village constable, eagerly, as though seizing on the first pretext to make peace.

"No matter what he says!" cried the owner of Cabin Point. "I tell you their being in that vicinity just when my treasure was taken so mysteriously looks suspicious. I firmly believe they know something about the gold cup, and I shall not leave this spot until I make certain of their guilt or innocence."

"Gold cup!" muttered Jerry; "now, what do you think of that? Since when have the honorable Outdoor Chums taken to cracksmen's ways, I'd like to know? Wow!"

"Please let me understand this thing better," pleaded Frank, determined to win the angry old man over if he could do so. "You say something you think very highly of has disappeared, Mr. Dennison?"

"I told you it was a gold cup!" snapped the other. "My nephew, who is one of the most famous amateur golf players in the country, won it as a prize in a great competition last summer. He is very proud of it, and I have cherished that magnificent cup as the apple of my eye. To have it mysteriously disappear, and feel that in all probability it may be melted down just for the gold there is in it, almost breaks my heart."

"I can easily understand your feelings, Mr. Dennison," said Frank, quietly. "We happened to meet your nephew while on the way here, though it never struck any of us before that Gilbert was a Dennison, for we didn't wholly catch his last name. And, sir, if we can do anything to help you find the lost cup we'd be only too glad to lend a hand in the search."

"Now that's what I calls reasonable, Mr. Dennison," spoke up the friendly constable, who evidently did not mean to be urged into extreme measures, if diplomacy and soft words could avoid such a thing.

The old man eyed Frank keenly. He looked just as suspicious as ever, and as though he were trying to understand what the boy might have secreted back of his words.

For years Mr. Dennison had been hiding something from the world, and during that time it was only natural he should be growing more and more suspicious of every one about him.

"Your words sound all right, boy," he finally remarked coldly, "but I am not so easily deceived. You want time to cover up your tracks. Perhaps you even hope I may invite you and your rowdy companions to my house, and that the occasion will allow you to satisfy your vulgar curiosity to the bent."

These cruel words struck the boys severely. Bluff was heard to mutter half under his breath, while Jerry frowned and bit his lip as though he found it very hard to keep from telling Aaron Dennison what he thought of him.

Frank himself had to hold back the angry words that tried to escape his lips; the insult was so uncalled for, so unjust, he thought.

"Of course, sir, if you have that sort of opinion of all boys," he went on to say, deliberately, and with considerable dignity for a mere lad, "you wouldn't want us bothering around. I only meant to show you how ready we are to lend a hand. I am sure that if the cup you speak of wasn't simply mislaid it must have been taken by some one belonging to your own household, and may be returned again."

The angry man chose to see some hidden meaning back of Frank's words, which were after all only natural, considering the circumstances.

"There, straws show which way the wind blows!" he exclaimed, turning toward the constable; "and you can see, Mr. Jeems, how these boys have been talking over my private affairs among themselves. They are really consumed by a curiosity to know about matters that do not concern them; and in prowling around my place have perhaps been tempted to take things that did not belong to them."

"But Mr. Dennison, if this prize gold cup was so precious why did you leave it around so that it could be easily taken?" asked Will, suddenly, as though this idea had struck him as strange.

"Because in the first place," replied the old man, "I was fool enough to believe my people were as honest as the day was long; and the thought that any outsider would ever try to enter my house never came to me until lately. In fact, it was after meeting you boys in my grounds that I began to feel uneasy, since I saw it would be possible for a robbery to occur, once desperate men conceived the plan to break in."

"And even then you did not put the golden cup away in some place of security -- you continued to leave it out where servants and others could reach it, did you, sir?" Frank continued, with something of a lawyer's skill at cross questioning.

"It was beginning to worry me," confessed the old man, frowning. "I found myself wishing my nephew would hasten his return, and take possession of his prized cup. Then last night I had a bad dream in which it seemed to me that thieves entered my house, and among other things took away Gilbert's loving cup."

"Last night, you say, sir, this happened?" questioned Frank.

"Yes, and it gave me such a shock that when I awoke and remembered the dream, the first thing I did was to hurry to the closet where two days previously I had placed the gold cup. It was gone!"

"Of course you questioned your servants, sir, to learn if any one had misplaced it?" asked Frank, bent on understanding everything.

"They were filled with consternation," continued Mr. Dennison. "I have a housekeeper, a nurse, and two men employed on the place, no more. One of them suggested that I send to the village and have Mr. Jeems come to the house. While waiting for the constable I suddenly remembered about meeting you boys yesterday, and like a flash it struck me that you were guilty."

"That is a hard thing to say about us, Mr. Dennison," urged Will. "What object could we have in taking your gold cup? We have plenty of money, as you can discover by telegraphing to Centerville; and our neighbors will vouch for our honesty."

"I do not know," said the old man, rubbing his forehead as though puzzled. "Boys have always been a deep mystery to me. I never had one to raise, for as a baby he was taken away from me; and I have always felt it was that loss which unsettled -- but it does not matter. I believe you might have carried off the gold prize cup won by Gilbert in the golf tournament last year, perhaps thinking it a lark. So I am prepared to say to you here and now, if such was the case, and you will immediately restore my property to me, I will say nothing about it. If you refuse, it will go hard with you."

"But Mr. Dennison!" expostulated Frank, "we have never so much as set eyes on any sort of a gold loving cup, so you can see how impossible it would be for us to hand it over to you."

"And what is more," burst from the indignant Bluff, unable to hold back any longer, "we insist on your searching all our duffle to see whether we've got that cup hidden away."

"Yes," added Jerry, "I'm sure none of us would feel right if you didn't examine every bit of our possessions. We're in just the same position as Joseph's brethren when they were leaving Egypt, and overtaken by a messenger who said a cup or something had been stolen while they were getting corn at the capital."

"Hey! what's that you're saying, Jerry?" exclaimed Bluff, startled by the comparison, "don't you remember they did find the lost thing, and in Benjamin's pack, too?"

"But it was put there at the orders of Joseph, wasn't it?" demanded the one who had told the old-time story; "and for a purpose too. But make your mind easy for they can't play that game on us. The lost cup isn't at Cabin Point."

"Then you will offer no objections to our making a search, do I understand?" asked Mr. Dennison, eagerly.

"Rather, we insist on your doing that, sir!" said Will, promptly, for it galled his proud soul to be under suspicion, especially when such a thing as the taking of a valuable piece of property was concerned.

Frank immediately led the way to the log cabin. Mr. Dennison paid not the least attention to the fact that the boys had done so much to make the forlorn place habitable since taking possession. All he seemed to be thinking of just then was that missing golden cup, and the possibility of discovering it somewhere among the possessions of these young boys, to whom he had taken such a violent antipathy.

They passed inside the old building, which, if the guess of the boys was correct, had long years before been the home of Mr. Dennison at a time before he possessed much of this world's goods.

"I call on you to help me in the search, Constable!" said the owner of the cabin.

"And we will only too gladly do all we can to assist, sir!" declared Will, who secretly meant to keep hold of his camera, for fear lest it be knocked to the floor and injured beyond repair.

Upon that every one began the search. Mr. Dennison did not do so much himself, but he kept those keen eyes of his constantly on the watch, as though to let nothing escape him.

The constable apparently did not fancy his job. He went about it in what appeared to be a half-hearted fashion. In fact, when he and Bluff came together, as the boy emptied his clothes bag, and shook each individual extra garment, the wearer of the nickel badge muttered something half under his breath that sounded in the nature of an apology.

Evidently Mr. Jeems was a believer in boys, if the old hermit was not. And when Frank afterwards learned that he had seven youngsters of his own at home, he knew the reason of the constable's sympathy.

By degrees the search included every nook and cranny about the old cabin where it seemed possible an article like the missing golden cup could be secreted. Still nothing rewarded the efforts of the constable.

"It shore ain't here, Mr. Dennison!" remarked the perspiring officer, as he dropped the empty clothes bag belonging to Jerry; "and I guess we'll have to give the hunt up, sir."

"Wait!" snapped Mr. Dennison, his eyes sparkling afresh, as though a sudden and brilliant thought had flashed across his mind. "It stands to reason that a thief would be apt to hide his plunder in some place where he believed it could not be easily found. Of course it was not among their clothes. But perhaps there may be other secret hiding places."

He seemed to glance around at the bare walls. Then Frank saw him drop his gaze toward the floor.

"That's a loose board there, Mr. Jeems," the hermit said excitedly; "see if you can raise it. I should think a cavity under that board would offer a safe hiding place for anything that had been stolen. Lift it up, Mr. Jeems, and let us see."

"I will help him do it!" exclaimed Bluff, eagerly, and leaning forward he inserted his fingers in the crack, and secured a good hold of the loose plank.

The constable, also, had by this time taken a firm grip on the board.

"All together, son; there she be!" Mr. Jeems called out, as he strained himself at his task; and in another second the plank was placed to one side.

Mr. Dennison leaned eagerly over. Then, uttering a cry of mingled delight and savage satisfaction, he snatched an object from the gaping hole, and hurriedly held it up so that every one could see plainly what it was.

Frank and his three chums held their breath in astonishment, for they found themselves looking on a loving cup made of gold, upon which were fashioned various beautifully executed designs especially interesting to those who were devoted to play upon the golf links.



Chapter XIX

Repaying His Debt


"Gee whiz!"

Of course it was Jerry Wallington giving vent to the feeling of utter amazement that very nearly overcame him. His words accurately expressed the feelings that filled the heart and soul of the other three chums as well.

Meanwhile Mr. Dennison was holding that wonderful trophy aloft, and laughing to himself. He acted as though wild with delight over its recovery. Frank was watching him closely, and could see no sign of "make-believe" in his actions.

"What did I tell you, Mr. Jeems?" cried the old hermit, excitedly. "I said they had taken the cup, either to sell it, or in a spirit of boyish mischief. And now you'll believe me, because here we find it hidden under the floor of their cabin. The young rascals -- to add to their offense by trying to deceive us so! Do your duty, Mr. Jeems; I will prosecute them to the limit of the law!"

Frank began to feel anxious. He could see that Mr. Dennison meant what he was saying. Even the recovery of his property had apparently not softened his heart as might have been expected.

All then depended on the constable. If he showed a disposition to assert his authority there would be an untold volume of trouble, and their vacation plans would be "all messed up," as Jerry would say.

"Mr. Dennison," said Frank, trying to keep his voice steady, "I am glad that you have found your lost golden cup; but I want to tell you, sir, none of us knows the least thing about it, nor how it happened to be in that hole."

"A likely story, boy," sneered the other, "which may and may not be believed by the justice of the peace when you are brought before him. Evidence no stronger than this has hung men before now."

"Whew!" gasped Bluff, startled more than he would have cared to admit upon hearing the vindictive old hermit talk in that strain.

Jerry and Will were both indignant.

"When we first came here," said the former, "we tripped so many times over that loose plank that we raised it up to settle the earth underneath. There was certainly no gold cup lying there then where you just now found it, I give you my word on that, sir!"

"Certainly not," agreed Mr. Dennison, "because at that time it was safe under my roof. But I want you to notice, Mr. Jeems, that they admit knowing of this hole under the loose plank. It made a very good hiding-place for valuable property, as you can see."

"Yes, sir," suddenly spoke up Frank, "and apparently this is not the first time it has been used for that same purpose. When we looked we found this silver coin there, a part of an old yellow envelope, and this fragment of what seems to have once been a baby's shoe."

He picked the several things up as he mentioned them, for they had been lying on a little shelf, where Frank himself had placed them days before. Watching Mr. Dennison's face, Frank saw it turn white as the eyes of the old man were focussed on that poor little remnant of what had once been a baby's shoe.

Involuntarily the old man thrust out his hand, and Frank quickly dropped the article into his palm. He could see that Mr. Dennison was very much affected. Doubtless memories long since buried were once more resurrected by the sight of that reminder of his once happy past.

Frank wondered whether he would relent and decide to let matters drop, or once more demand that the constable take them all to the village, to be held for trial before the justice.

When he saw the man thrust into his pocket the fragment of the tiny shoe, the leather of which was now dried up and hard, and then frown again at them, Frank expected the worst.

"Since you have also tried to deceive me, after robbing my house in this shameless manner," said Mr. Dennison, "I believe I shall be only doing my duty toward the community if I see to it that you are severely punished."

"Do you mean, sir, that you would have us arrested?" asked Frank.

"That is exactly my present intention," affirmed the other, showing that he was still angry, and bent on punishing those he believed to have wronged him.

"But you have found your cup again, sir; and we still declare on our honor that until you picked it up just now none of us has ever set eyes on it before."

When Frank said this he found the keen orbs of the hermit fastened on his face as though the other would read his very soul through the windows of the boy's eyes; but not once did Frank flinch.

"That is very true, boy," said Mr. Dennison, "but I believe in justice, and that it is the wrong thing to be too lenient with culprits. When young fellows are given to such practices as this they need to be brought up with a round turn. So I mean to have the constable arrest you all!"

To the astonishment of Frank and his three companions, just at that moment there was a new element injected into the game. Some one hurriedly entered the cabin; and somehow Frank breathed a little more freely when he recognized the newcomer as the young man whom they had been able to help while on the way to Cabin Point.

It was Gilbert Dennison, the old hermit's nephew.

"Please wait a minute before you go to such extreme measures, Uncle!" he exclaimed, as he hurried to the side of the hermit, whose face lost some of its stern expression as he recognized his relative.

"I'm glad to see you again, Nephew," he observed; "and pleased to give over into your keeping the cup you value so highly. I shall insist on your taking it back to town with you when you go. It has already given me one bad scare, and I do not feel able to stand another, with all the troubles I already stagger under."

"But what is this I heard you say about having these boys arrested, Uncle?" continued Gilbert. "Surely you must believe them when they protest their innocence? I have been up at the house, and was told about the cup's disappearance; also that you had come down here with the constable, meaning to have some one taken up for the crime. But I hope you will not think of doing such a thing now."

"I consider it a sacred duty I owe to the community, Nephew," urged the stubborn old hermit. "All the circumstances point to one of these boys as the culprit, and he should by all means be punished. Why should you interfere with my designs, Gilbert?"

"Let me tell you, Uncle," burst out Gilbert, eagerly. "I owe my life, it may be, to these same boys."

"How is this?" asked his uncle, looking somewhat bewildered. "They did say they had met you while on the way here, but in what fashion could they have done you a favor?"

"In my hurry to catch the train after the vehicle broke down," explained Gilbert, "I stumbled in a very dangerous place on the road, lost my footing, and fell over the edge of a precipice. I managed to clutch hold a dozen feet down, but must in the end have let go and fallen to the bottom only for the coming of these boys, who rescued me in a remarkably clever and very unusual way."

Bluff gave a satisfied grunt. After all Gilbert was a pretty decent sort of fellow, he made up his mind; though at the time of the adventure Bluff had thought him rather ungrateful to hurry away so fast, and not half thank them for all the trouble they had taken.

Mr. Dennison apparently had reason to believe anything his nephew said. That was evident from the change that came over his manner. He looked at Frank and his three chums again, shrugged his shoulders, and then went on to remark:

"Of course if that is the case, Nephew, and you are indebted to these boys for helping you out of a bad fix, I have nothing more to say. Because of that they can go free, for all of me; though I may live to repent my kindness; because no matter how they protest, the fact remains that the cup was found under this floor, and I still firmly believe they secreted it there."

The kind-hearted constable was grinning as he winked at Bluff. It was very evident that the new conditions pleased Mr. Jeems; since he was relieved from executing a most disagreeable duty.

Mr. Dennison told the officer to come outside with him, and Gilbert added that he would join his uncle in a minute.

Left in the company of the four chums Gilbert's first act was to offer Frank his hand. It was done with such a boyish freedom that the other eagerly grasped the outstretched hand, and squeezed it in return.

"Of course it goes without saying," began the college boy, "that I do not believe any one of you could do such a thing as steal my cup. There's a queer mystery about its being found under this floor, and I intend to discover the truth before long. In the meantime I hope you'll stay here and enjoy yourselves the best way you know how."

"And we'd like to see more of you, if you expect to stay around here longer," spoke up Jerry, impulsively.

"I promise that you shall," assented Gilbert; "because I, too, am fond of camping, fishing, and all such things; and I can see how my stay up here might be prolonged indefinitely, if such a jolly set could be found to help kill time."

"Did you win in the golf tournament?" asked Bluff, as though to show that they knew about his ambition in that sport.

"I'm sorry to say that I came in a poor second this time," laughed the other; "and I really believe it was because I didn't have the kind of balls I'm in the habit of using."

This was the opportunity poor anxious Will had been waiting for.

"We've got your bag safe and sound here, Gilbert!" he exclaimed, springing forward to pick the leather receptacle up, for it, too, had been closely examined by the constable, acting under Mr. Dennison's orders; "and I certainly hope my precious Maine films are in the same condition."

"Make your mind easy on that score, my boy," he was told by the other; "although I was terribly provoked when first I opened the bag and saw them, I understood that the mistake was all mine. So I took good care of your films, though I had a photographer make me a print from the whole bunch. I must say they are some of the most interesting pictures I've ever seen. I wanted Uncle to admire them, for he, too, is devoted to photographic work."

Of course this news caused Will to lose the anxious expression that his chums had noticed on his face at times.

"The bag I left up at the house," continued Gilbert, "but you shall have it in a short time. There's uncle calling me, so I'll have to move along; but you can expect me again before long," and with that he hurried out of the cabin.



Chapter XX

Groping In The Dark


"Well, I feel as weak as a sick cat, after meeting with such an adventure as that!" exclaimed Jerry, after he and his three chums once more found themselves alone in the cabin.

"To think of our being accused of being common, every-day thieves!" grumbled the indignant Bluff. "Why, it just makes my blood fairly boil!"

"But I'm mighty glad to know my films are all right," Will burst forth with, and this remark showed that this important fact took precedence of all others in his mind.

Frank stepped over to the opening where the plank had been removed, and glanced down as he rubbed his chin reflectively.

"Look here, fellows," he said to the others, "all of you saw the hole under this board that time we found the coin, the half of an old envelope with Mr. Dennison's name on it in faded writing, and that baby shoe; isn't it so?"

"Of course we did, Frank," assented Jerry; "and I want to make my solemn affidavit to the fact that there wasn't any gold cup lying there then."

"Will, you are just as positive about that as Jerry, of course?" continued Frank.

"Well, I should say I was!" came the prompt reply.

"And you too, Bluff?" Frank went on, evidently intending that there should not be a single dissenting voice in the group.

Bluff immediately lifted his hand, with the fingers stiffened as though he fancied himself on the witness stand.

"Give you my word for it, Frank; nothing doing," he asserted in his customary vigorous manner, that was usually very convincing.

"Gilbert came up to the scratch smiling, didn't he?" remarked Jerry; "and I take it he's going to turn out a pretty decent sort of a fellow."

"Queer, isn't it," Will was saying, "how chickens do come home to roost? When we stopped a little while on our way here, and pulled Gilbert up by the use of that wild grape-vine, none of us ever dreamed he'd be in a position to return the favor, and yet see what happened. What's that old proverb about the bread thrown to the fishes, or something like that?"

"You must mean 'bread cast upon the waters will come back again ere many days,'" explained Frank, smilingly.

"All right, no matter how it runs, it worked, you see," continued Will. "We got Gilbert out, and now he has returned the favor."

"Huh! strikes me he kept us from getting in," interrupted Bluff; "because the old gentleman seemed bent on ordering Mr. Jeems to arrest us, and throw us in the village lockup."

"Luck still seems to hang out with us," ventured Jerry; "and you know they say it's a heap better to be born lucky than rich. Money may fly away, but so long as luck stands back of you it's easy to get everything you want."

"But all the same that mystery of the golden cup bothers me," said Frank.

"Yes, that's a fact," added Jerry. "How in the wide world could it ever have come into this cabin, when we know it wasn't here a few days ago?"

"Mr. Dennison admits it was safe in his house until about the day before yesterday," continued Frank; and then he cast a sly look out of the tail of his eye in the direction of Jerry.

Truth to tell, Frank was just a trifle uneasy concerning that member of the little party. There was a shadow of a reason why he should feel that way, too. He could only too easily remember how impulsive Jerry had hinted that he felt a great temptation to try to find out what the secret of the hermit's house was. At the time he expressed this longing Frank had taken him severely to task; and Jerry had promised faithfully to forego all effort to pry into matters that were none of his concern.

Jerry as a rule could be depended on. When he gave his word about anything it was as good as his bond, and Jerry was proud to declare that.

Frank could not bring himself to believe there could be anything in this sudden thought. Even if Jerry had crept out in the night-time while his chums were fast asleep, how could the boy possibly have made his way along the trail to the hermit's place, have entered the house and carried off the valuable cup, to hide it under the cabin floor?

No wonder Frank decided that such an explanation of the mystery was impossible. Even if they never learned the truth he could not bring himself to suspect any of his chums of doing such a monstrous thing.

To the surprise and also the consternation of Frank, he found that Jerry had noticed his manner, and he immediately accused the other.

"I can guess easily enough what you're thinking, Frank," asserted Jerry, with offended dignity marked in his manner; "but 'tisn't so, I tell you. I never set eyes on that old cup before he snatched it up out of that hole."

"No need of your saying that, Jerry," declared Frank, "because I believe you are as innocent as I can be myself. I only happened to remember that you talked of wanting to sneak up there and spy around a bit, though you owned it would be mean. And I also chance to know that you've been around every hour since you came back from the village."

"I'm blessed if I can make head or tail out of the game," admitted Jerry. "I never was a good hand at guessing answers to riddles; and say, let me tell you this thing is the toughest nut to crack that ever came our way, eh, Frank?"

"It's going to bother us a heap, that's right, Jerry."

"But somehow I've got my little hunch, Frank, that in the end you'll hit on the answer. It may take a lot of time and figuring, but I sure believe you can do it."

"It may be Gilbert can help us out," suggested Will, just then.

"But how would he know anything about the job," objected Bluff, "when he just got back from that golf tournament?"

Frank bent down and looked closely into the hole.

"All we know for certain is that somebody put that gold trophy cup in here," he observed reflectively.

"Yes, and if the old plank could talk it'd be easy for us to get at the truth. But then of course that isn't possible," Jerry remarked, with a sigh.

"Help me to put the plank back in place again," said Frank, and after this had been done he commenced to work at it as if to see whether one person could manage to raise the heavy board.

"It can be done, you see," was what Frank said, as, managing to get his fingers underneath, he raised the plank a little.

"Now what's the line you're figuring on, Frank?" demanded Jerry; "because it's as plain to me as the nose on my face that you've struck a strong clue."

"Yes, tell us what it is, won't you, Frank?" urged Will.

"Well, listen," the other began to say, slowly, as with upraised finger he marked off each point in his theory. "Look back a little, Will, to when we got home here after our high jinks up in the woods. Don't you remember what we discovered the first thing?"

Will thereupon uttered an exclamation, while his face lighted up with eagerness.

"That's so, Frank!" he exclaimed; "we knew somebody had been in here after we started out the afternoon before. The door wasn't shut close, and a chair lay on its side on the floor. Besides that, a number of little things showed they had been disturbed. Yes, somebody had been in the cabin!"

Jerry gave a shrill cry in which delight could be traced.

"It was that person, then, who hid the pesky old cup under the loose plank; that goes without saying, Frank!" he announced, as though his mind was made up to that fact and could not be easily changed.

"Well, even if we agree on that," said Bluff, "how're we going to learn who the intruder was? To tell you the truth, it gets me why a sneak thief would steal just that gold loving cup of Gilbert's, and then come all the way down here to hide it under the floor."

"Frank, you're keeping something back; I can see it in your face!" cried Will. "Tell us, do you think old Aaron put that cup here himself?"

"Whew! that would be the limit, I should say!" gasped Jerry.

All of them waited to hear what Frank would have to say. The leader of the Outdoor Chums did not reply hastily, for Frank did not wish to commit himself in so grave a matter without due consideration. Still, he must have had his mind made up fairly well, for presently he started to answer.

"Let's see, fellows, how the case stands," he told them. "We know that long ago Aaron Dennison once lived in this cabin. We also know that he probably kept what little money he owned in those days down under that loose plank. The finding of that old mouldy half dollar points toward that. So you see he knew about the cavity under the board."

"So far as that goes, Frank," observed Bluff, "you could see by the way he had the constable raise the plank that he knew. But I was watching his face at the time, and let me tell you he looked as astonished to see the cup lying there as any one of us did, and that means a lot."

"That's what bothers me," admitted Frank; "one minute I seem to think Mr. Dennison put the cup there; and then again I'm just as certain that he believes us guilty of stealing it. We'll have to keep trying to find the answer; but just now, Jerry, you and Bluff had better get busy cleaning those fine bass you hooked, if we mean to have them for dinner to-day."



Chapter XXI

An Unexpected Appeal


The fish were what Bluff called "gilt-edged." Perhaps he was a little prejudiced in the matter, because he had had a share in capturing the gamy fighters. But there was not a dissenting voice when Jerry moved that they pronounce the finny denizens of the big lake unequalled for their many fine qualities.

That evening, as they sat around taking things easy, for it was rather warm and the fire not needed, the conversation ranged over a wide field. Many events of the past were recalled, one thing seeming to lead to another.

Will was fairly bubbling over with joy on account of his recent streak of good luck. He counted the promised safe return of those precious films as a glorious thing.

"Why shouldn't I feel that way?" he expostulated, when Bluff took him to task for referring to the matter so frequently. "Think of our great trip up into the Maine wilderness and the many strange things we saw there," he went on, referring to matters already related in "The Outdoor Chums in the Big Woods." "My pictures took a prize, remember; and besides they recall the happy days we spent up there last fall."

"Will is right," declared Frank; "and I'm almost as glad as he is over the recovery of his property; because I know he's got some sort of scheme in his mind to enlarge some of those same pictures. It couldn't easily be done with the negatives lost."

"Before we shake the dust of this section from our feet," continued the ardent photographer, "I mean to explore every rod of territory around here."

"Looking for new and interesting sights, of course?" quizzed Bluff.

"Yes, because you never do know at what minute you may run smack up against the most wonderful picture going," pursued Will. "That's one reason I'm so keen about traveling over new ground. There's always a chance ahead of you."

"Well, right here we're bounded on one hand by the big water, which cuts off about half your chances," suggested Jerry.

"Some time or other you might go to the lake shore village," said Bluff; "because if I'm any judge of things you'd find some remarkable characters there to snap off."

"You've already got pictures of old Aaron and his hermit shell; one of the latter being a cracking good snap of the house. How did the other view turn out, Will?"

Again that quick look of intelligence passed between Frank and Will. They were still of the opinion that for the present there was no necessity for the other boys to know about the strange white face in the barred window of the hermit's lonely home.

"Oh! it doesn't seem to be quite as clear as the one you saw," Will explained. "The sunlight didn't strike as well, and there are too many shadows. Some time or other when I think of it I'll take off a lighter print, which may improve the looks of the thing."

Not having the least suspicion there could be anything singular connected with that second view of the hermit's house, Bluff did not pursue the subject any further.

Of course Will had his flashlight working again. In roaming around he had found traces of a sly fox that made its home amidst some rocks, and Will, after more or less hard study, believed he could see the regular track taken by clever Reynard in coming and going.

"There's one thing sure," remarked Will, proudly, when relating how he had investigated, and figured, and found out many things in connection with that particular little animal, "this hunting with a camera certainly does force a fellow to become acquainted with the habits of every kind of bird and animal."

"There's no doubt about that, Will," Frank immediately assented; "and I warrant right now you're in closer touch with Nature ten times over than you'd have been if you hadn't taken up this fad or hobby."

"I should say so!" continued the enthusiast, his face kindling with earnestness. "Why, before that I never bothered my head much about the habits of foxes, 'coons, squirrels, minks, bobcats, or anything that had its hiding-place in the woods or in burrows under the rocks. But now I'm forever trying to learn new things about the way they live, and how they get their food."

"Of course I can understand that," admitted Jerry; "us fellows who love to hunt wild game have to know a lot about their habits. It's the same if you go after the wily black bass -- if you're green about his ways you can fish till you drop and never get a single bite."

"I've had something to do with both kinds of sport," said Frank, seriously; "and I want to say right here that I certainly believe hunting with a camera beats the gun business all hollow. You get in closer touch with the little animals when you're only trying to take their pictures, and not harm them. I warrant now Will often counts them as his friends, and that they show little fear of him."

That launched the camera advocate into a fervent description of many meetings with his coy subjects, and the tricks he was compelled to resort to in order to let them understand he meant them no harm.

So the evening passed pleasantly.

There was nothing in the way of a disturbance to break in upon their sleep. Will had posted his camera trap a full quarter of a mile away, and even if it worked at any time during the night they would not know it.

The moon arose about the middle of the night, but none of the boys had any use for the battered lantern in the sky, since they remained under the cabin roof until morning broke.

As before, they took a little dip in the cold waters of the lake in order to get in good trim for a warm day. Then breakfast followed, and was heartily enjoyed, although with their healthy appetites there was nothing wonderful about that.

Each of them had laid out plans for the morning.

"We'll give the bass a rest for one day," remarked Bluff; "because if we make it too common the zest of catching and eating them is apt to wear away. Besides, I don't believe it's as good a morning for fishing as yesterday was. Then, we'd have to use that little mosquito netting seine, and get some more minnows."

"Last but not least," laughingly added Jerry, "the cranky old tub of a boat leaks again like a sieve, and some of us ought to get busy patching it up while we have a chance."

"Yes," said Will, who of course knew that the job would never fall to his share, "I always believe in having everything ready beforehand; because you never know in what a big hurry it may be needed."

Of course Will had hurried out to where his camera lay long before he would touch a bite of breakfast; he even gave up the early morning dip in his anxiety to learn whether the bait had been jerked, and the camera made to do its duty.

By this time Will had become quite expert, so that there was little danger of what Bluff, taking his cue from the golfers, would have called a "foozle."

To see the joy written upon his face when he came hurrying back to announce almost breathlessly that success had rewarded his efforts, one might even suspect the boy had never before succeeded in photographing a sly fox in this manner.

It was a busy morning for all.

Frank rather expected to see Gilbert, but when noon came and the other had not as yet put in an appearance he decided that he must be detained for good reasons. Perhaps by another day he would find it convenient to drop in and see the campers at Cabin Point.

"From the way he talked," Bluff remarked, when at lunch they were speaking of Mr. Dennison's nephew, "I got the notion that Gilbert would like to stay over here a spell with us, and enjoy some of our doings."

"He did say he was fond of camping, and for all we know he may have been around some up in Michigan or Wisconsin," suggested Jerry.

"Well," added Bluff, a little boastfully, "when it comes to experiences I reckon the Outdoor Chums don't have to occupy a back seat! We might relate some things that would make Gilbert sit up and take notice."

"I think he's the kind of fellow who would enjoy hearing about the things we've seen and done," Frank told them. "I'm glad now I brought along my little note-book in which I jotted down many of the things that have happened since we first got together and formed the 'Rod, Gun and Camera Club.'"

"Yes, and I'm fond of looking over that journal of yours myself, Frank," admitted Will. "Of course I didn't have as big a part in a whole lot of the adventures as the rest of you, but all the same they belonged to our crowd."

"And then don't forget, Will," continued Frank, "that Mr. Dennison admitted to us he was fond of photography. Gilbert said as much, too, when he spoke about having a set of your Maine pictures printed to show his uncle. You may get on good terms with this singular old man, and have some mighty pleasant times in his company."

"He looks pretty severe," commented Will, "but then there's a reason for that, I guess; and once he gets thawed out he'll be a different sort. Nothing like finding a fellow's pet hobby and working it, to make him friendly."

None of them thought to go far away during that afternoon. It did not look very promising, for clouds could be seen hovering along the horizon, the heat was intense, and all of them agreed that a storm might creep up.

Their last experience in a storm had been so unpleasant that somehow they seemed to shrink involuntarily from a repetition so soon. Later on, when the memory became fainter, they might again take risks, after the manner of buoyant youth the world over.

Bluff and Jerry were pleased with their work on the boat. They had taken great pains this time, and felt sure the calking was there to stay. Still, they contented themselves with planning another fishing excursion for the coming morning. Bluff had discovered a place where minnows were very plentiful, and hence they could be assured of a good haul at any time, with but little exertion.

The day was nearing an end, and there was some talk of getting supper ready when a cry from Jerry outside the cabin brought the others hurrying forth.

They found him talking with a small boy who seemed greatly excited, for his face was peaked and white, and terror could be seen in his dilated eyes.

Apparently he had hurried in a veritable panic through the forest, for he had various scratches on his face, and a lump on his forehead showed where he had struck a stone after tripping over a root or a vine.

Naturally Frank and the other two were at once filled with curiosity to know who the boy was, and what had brought him to Cabin Point. Jerry had already started to question the panting lad, and the other was trying to explain, although his words came in jerks and disjointed sentences.

"I'm Sandy Moogs -- my dad's a woodchopper -- workin' now up yonder 'bout three miles -- tree fell on him -- broke his leg, he reckons -- in a heap o' pain -- can't hardly crawl -- knowed you-uns was at Cabin Point -- sent me to git help -- he sez as how he'll bleed to death by mawnin' if he ain't helped -- I hopes as how you'll kim along with me -- he's my dad, you know!"

The four exchanged looks when this pitiful story was unfolded in gasps. It was a foregone conclusion that they would go, for never had the Outdoor Chums rejected an appeal for assistance.



Chapter XXII

First Aid To The Injured


"Of course we'll all go, Frank!" Bluff was saying, almost before the boy who had given his name as Sandy Moogs finished speaking.

Frank had to decide without much waste of time, and he did so in his customary sensible way.

"This woodchopper is probably a pretty husky sort of fellow, as most of them are," he said, loud enough for the others to hear; "and if he's in such a bad shape we may even have to carry him all the way here, so as to look after his hurts, and keep him out of a storm."

"We could make a litter and carry him, you know, Frank," suggested Jerry.

"Just what I had in mind," the other agreed.

"And it would need four to carry a heavy man for a long distance," was Will's comment; "so that means we must all go along."

"Then we'll call it settled," Frank decided.

"How about supper?" came from Jerry, faintly, as though he felt bound to mention such an important matter, and yet at the same time experienced more or less shame about seeming to be greedy.

"Have to wait until we get back," the leader announced. "If anybody is near the starving point right now let him pick up some crackers to munch as he trots along."

No one seemed willing to display such weakness, for there was only a rush to get hats and coats, while Frank made sure of the camp hatchet and some heavy twine, as well as a piece of strong canvas that could be used in making the stretcher on which the injured woodchopper was to be carried.

By this time the small boy had managed to get his breath. He looked pleased on discovering that the campers meant to respond so handsomely to his appeal for aid. It could be plainly seen that Sandy cared greatly for his father, and now that the prospect of the injured man's being assisted had grown brighter, the boy felt greatly relieved.

After all, only a brief time elapsed before they were ready to start. Frank had of course seen to it that Doctor Will carried along some of his stock in trade, in the shape of bandages and liniment. They would certainly be needed, for the boy had assured them that his father was losing considerable blood because of his wound.

"You're certain you can take us straight to the place, are you, Sandy?" asked Frank, just as they were ready to start.

"I shore kin do that same!" replied the sturdy little chap. "I was born in the woods, and never got lost even onct. I smell my way dark nights."

This last assertion amused Bluff and Jerry, but Frank knew what the boy meant. He had been given an intuition that never failed him in so far as direction was concerned. If asked a question in connection with any point of the compass he could reply with positive accuracy, and without the slightest hesitation.

Watching how he made his way along, Frank soon ascertained that the boy was actually leading them over the very route he had taken in making for Cabin Point. He proved this several times by pointing out where he had fallen when an unseen vine caught his foot; or made a little detour in order to avoid some thorny bushes that had scratched his face and hands on the other occasion.

One mile, two, had been passed over, and still the boy led them on. Sandy had called it about three miles, and since he was so remarkably clever at woodcraft in so far as direction went, Frank hoped his knowledge of distance might be equally accurate.

No one complained. Even Will, who was less robust than his mates, and not as accustomed to hurrying along through dense woods, shut his teeth hard together and persevered. He had been sensible enough to leave his camera behind, Frank having convinced him that it would be an unnecessary burden, for if they had to carry the wounded man all that distance back to the cabin they would find their hands full without other impedimenta.

After more time had elapsed the question was put to the boy.

"Are we nearly there now, Sandy?"

"'Most nigh the place," came the prompt reply. "This here's the burnin' where the charcoal was made last year. On'y a little furder, an' we'll be up to dad. And oh! I hopes he's alive yet, I shore does!"

Frank of course comforted him the best he could.

"Your father is a big strong man, Sandy, and like as not he knows something of the way to stop some of the bleeding by using a rag twisted around a stick and pressed down on the artery. Most woodsmen do, I've found. He'll be all right, Sandy. And boys, let's all give a loud whoop. It may encourage the poor fellow some to know we're coming along."

Accordingly they united their strong young voices in a brave shout that could easily have been heard half a mile away. Although they listened they did not hear a reply. A woodpecker screamed as he clung to a rotten treetop; some saucy crows scolded and chattered as they craned their necks and looked down on the line of passing boys; but all else was silence.

Sandy was evidently worried because of this, but Frank reassured him.

"He doesn't want to waste what strength he has in shouting, Sandy; but three to one we'll find him waiting for us to come along. How far are we away now?"

"Oh! it's just over there at t'other side of that rise!" gasped the boy.

They pushed quickly on, increasing their pace if anything, such was the anxiety they were now beginning to share with poor Sandy Moogs, the woodchopper's son.

"I see him!" cried sharp-sighted Jerry.

"There, he waved his hand at us, Sandy, so you see he's all right!" added Frank, only too glad of the opportunity to relieve the pent-up feelings of the dutiful son of the injured man.

In another minute they had reached his side. Frank and Will began immediately to busy themselves with attending to his injury. Bluff and Jerry, taking the hatchet, started to hunt for the proper kind of poles with which a litter could be framed.

Frank instantly saw that the man had suffered a serious injury. Not only was the leg broken but the flesh had been badly lacerated, and he had lost a large amount of blood.

It turned out just as Frank had said, for the woodchopper, after Sandy had run away to seek aid, had bethought himself of a way to stop some of the bleeding. His method of procedure was crude, but it had been on the well-known tourniquet principle of applying a bandage with the knot resting as nearly as possible on the artery above the wound, and then by twisting a stout stick around and around increasing the pressure as far as could be borne.

When Frank saw what he had done he told the man his action had likely enough been the means of saving his life, for in the two hours that had elapsed since the boy left him he might have bled to death.

Will of course was quite in his element now. If there was one thing in which he excelled besides taking pictures it lay along the lines of medicine and practical surgery.

Indeed, Frank himself was only too glad to take orders from the other chum at such a time as this, although he too knew considerable about caring for gunshot wounds, broken bones, and such accidental happenings as are apt to occur in the woods.

While the two amateur surgeons labored to the best of their ability to stop the bleeding, and set the broken bones, at least temporarily, Bluff and Jerry had taken a little saunter around the place looking for stuff that could be utilized in making the litter.

"Here's where a hickory tree was cut down a year or two back," said the former, finally, "and all around the old stump new growth has set in. Some of it is as much as an inch or more thick."

"Yes, and just the sort we want for our litter," Jerry admitted; "so get busy with your hatchet, Bluff; and when you feel tired let me have a show for my money."

As the camp hatchet was always kept exceedingly sharp it bit into those hickory stems "like fury," according to Bluff; and one after another they fell before the onslaught.

Then the straightest and strongest were selected for the outside poles, which must be gripped by the four bearers. Across from these, side sections were fastened by means of the strong cord. Next came the placing of the strip of canvas which had really been fashioned particularly for the very use to which it was now being put. All around the edges brass eyelets had been inserted in the canvas. Through the holes the twine was to be run, enclosing a portion of the side poles with every loop. This procedure would result in giving them a splendid litter.

"I guess Frank was right when he said no party should ever come out into the woods without carrying along a strip of canvas fixed like this one is," Jerry was saying as he laced away vigorously, admiring his work as he went along.

"That's right," assented the other; "because when it's needed it's always wanted in a big hurry. Besides, such a strip can be made useful in many ways. If the ground is damp it comes in handy when you have to sleep with only a blanket between you and the cold earth. In that way it takes the place of a rubber poncho."

"There's one thing bad about all this, I'm afraid," ventured Jerry.

"I hope now," cried Bluff, "you're not mean enough to consider the drain it'll be on our grub resources to have two more mouths to feed! But there, I take that back, because I know it wouldn't be like you even to think that. What did you mean, Jerry?"

"It's nearly night as it is, and we'll sure be overtaken before we cover a single mile. Think of tramping along in the pitch dark carrying a man hurt as badly as he is."

"Between you and me I don't believe Frank will risk it. We can go as far as possible, and when it grows dark pull up. Along about midnight, if it stays clear, we ought to have the moon, and it'll give us enough light to go on again."

It proved to be just as Bluff had said, for when the wounded man had been carefully lifted and placed on the litter, with one of the boys ready to take hold of each corner, Frank set forth his plan.

"We'll do the best we can, fellows, until it gets too dark to see well; then we can lie down and rest for hours. When the moon gets fully up, so that the woods are light again, we'll finish our tramp to the cabin. Get that, everybody?"

The woodchopper seemed to be resting fairly easily now. Of course he was in great pain and often groaned in spite of his close clenched teeth; but the strain on his mind had lessened. He felt confident that these lads would see him through his trouble in some way or other. Their manner inspired the utmost confidence.

Again they left it to the boy to lead the way. His wonderful instinct made him an infallible guide. Frank would have probably been able to fetch up close to the cabin on the Point, but there was always a chance of his going astray, while Sandy knew no such word as fail when it came to "sensing" direction.

The little procession started. As well as they could, the four boys bearing the litter kept step with one another, since that helped to make the jar less noticeable.

It was no child's play carrying that heavy man through the darkening forest, for unusual care had to be taken constantly, lest a stumble occur that would cause him to cry out with sudden pain.

Just as Bluff had said, they must have covered about a full mile when Frank called a halt, saying that it had grown too dark now to continue the tramp.



Chapter XXIII

A Light In The Window


When the halt was made they were almost half-way to the cabin on the Point. Bluff grumbled because none of them proved to be a modern Joshua, able to command the sun to stand still for a sufficient time to cover the remaining distance.

"Never mind about that, fellows," Frank observed, after laughing heartily at the quaint remark; "what we want to do just now is to make Moogs here as comfortable as we can, and then try to get some rest. All of us are tired, and we've still a mile and a half to cover."

"And I want to serve warning right now," Jerry announced, "that the first thing we do when we strike camp is to get the fire going, and a big pot of coffee boiling. I'm as hungry as a wolf."

Frank found that the injured man was standing the trip as well as could be expected. He suffered great pain, though at times a sort of numbness came over his limb, as often happens.

Bluff and Jerry had found some dead leaves behind a log, and here they decided to settle down. Frank and Will had already seen to it that their patient was placed upon a bed of leaves, and had made things as comfortable as possible for the poor fellow.

He seemed to be very grateful, and constantly assured them that their kindness would never be forgotten, and that he would only too gladly repay them if ever it lay in his power.

The small boy, Sandy Moogs, crouched alongside his father and seemed happy just to know that everything was moving along in a satisfactory way.

Frank was more concerned about the weather than anything else. There were signs of a brooding storm. The low-hanging clouds they had noticed in the afternoon close to the western horizon might push up and cover the heavens.

That would be a serious thing for them, under the present conditions. To be caught afoot in the woods far from camp by one of those drenching rains was bad enough; but it meant a terrible risk to poor Moogs should he be soaked through while suffering from such a wound.

Still the time passed and there was no particular change in conditions. So long as he could see the stars Frank needed no watch to know the hour. He knew when the moon would appear in the east, as well as which of the bright planets would set by that time. All he had to do when desirous of knowing how time was passing was to observe the stars.

Jerry and Bluff could be heard talking from time to time. As for Will, who was close to Frank, seeing the other lift his head for a look at the sky above, he asked for information.

"What time do you think it is, Frank?" was what Will said.

"Close to eleven," was the immediate reply.

"Did you guess that, or are you reading the answer in the stars?" continued Will.

"See that bright star a little way above the horizon?" asked Frank. "Well, that's Mercury, and when it drops out of sight to-night it'll be just eleven. When that other brighter planet goes down, look for the moon to peep up. That will be at twelve-seven, according to the almanac."

"You've certainly got it all down pat," chuckled the other, satisfied that what Frank said must be exactly so; for he did not make a practice of simply guessing at things.

It happened that when the big star did pass out of sight behind the far distant horizon Will was watching, being wide awake.

"It's time for the moon to show up, thank goodness!" he was heard to say, whereupon Bluff from his bed of dead leaves close by called back:

"If you look close you can see the sky lighting up over in the northeast a bit. Trouble was you didn't remember that in summer the moon makes a different sweep, and to do that often rises far away from the true east."

They could all see that Bluff spoke truly, and that before long the darkness that hung over the woods would be partly dispersed. Will had been impressed with what the other had said concerning the phases of the moon. He made up his mind that when he got home again, and could find books on astronomy in the town library, he would study up on the subject, for it promised to be interesting.

They did not start immediately, for it would be some time before the light became strong enough to be of benefit to them. After the moon could be fairly seen the boys sat around and made comments that were not at all complimentary to the heavenly luminary.

"Wow! looks like she'd been out all night on a tear," commented Jerry; "her face is that battered."

"Makes a regular practice of these all-night affairs, I reckon," chuckled Bluff; "no wonder she looks so peaked. Nobody can stand that sort of life for long and not show it."

"Please quit looking a gift horse in the mouth," pleaded Will. "We're staking a whole lot on that same old moon, it seems to me; and you fellows are an ungrateful bunch. What if you hurt her feelings so she puts her hands over her face, in the shape of black clouds? Where would we be then, tell me?"

Finally Frank decided that they should start.

"Of course we must use an extra amount of care at first," he told them; "and as the moon gets higher up the thing will come easier. But be careful how you go."

"Yes, watch your step!" added Bluff, as he reached down to get a good grip on the end of the litter pole.

The start was made in fairly good shape, and if their movements caused the wounded man new pain he managed to repress his groans. Realizing the great debt he owed these sterling boys, the woodcutter felt that he ought to suppress the signs of suffering, at least as much as he possibly could.

Frank watched to see with what confidence little Sandy again started in the lead. He was immediately convinced that there need be not the least anxiety concerning his ability to serve as a true guide. The instinct was born in him; if asked how he picked out his course he could never have explained save by saying he knew it, and that was all.

When they had covered about a mile Frank called for a rest. He felt sure Will in particular must be getting weak and weary with all this strenuous work, to which he was quite unaccustomed.

Sandy had offered to lend a hand, but was told to stick to his post as guide.

"It's a more important service you can render leading us straight, than the little help you could give lifting," Frank told the boy when, for the third time, Sandy offered to relieve Will.

"We ought to get there on the next turn," decided Bluff.

Jerry was sniffing the night air.

"Why, it seems to me," he remarked, blandly, "that I can just smell the lake, and according to my guess it can't be more than half a mile away."

They waited to rest for about ten minutes. Then as Bluff and Jerry began to manifest signs of restlessness Frank gave the order to move along once more. Will declared that he felt able to keep on for a time, long enough, probably, to take them over the remainder of the ground.

There were numerous occasions when one or another stumbled, for with poor illumination it was not always possible to see small obstructions. Once or twice the man on the litter groaned, and at such times the boys took themselves to task with fresh energy, afterwards trying more than ever to avoid all such petty pitfalls.

"Pretty nearly there, I guess!" said Jerry, who felt sure he had recognized some of the surrounding woods, although they looked different to him in the weird moonlight from their usual seeming in broad day.

"We'll break out of the trees inside of five minutes," prophesied Bluff, going his chum one better, since he set the time, which Jerry had not.

"Make it seven and I'm with you," Frank told them, knowing that a certain amount of chatter would be apt to make them forget their weariness.

"I even thought just then I could hear water lapping upon the shore, Frank," remarked Will.

"That was what you heard, because I caught it too," he was assured by the one in whom Will placed such confidence.

"Be ready, then, to see our old cabin as soon as we get to the edge of these woods," remarked Frank; "everybody watch, and see who's the first to call out. Of course you two fellows ahead have the best chance."

Shortly afterwards Jerry broke out again.

"Frank, there's the water through the trees!"

"Yes, and with the moonlight playing across it like a pathway of silver," added Will, who was a little inclined to be poetical.

"Home, sweet home," sighed Bluff; "be it ever so lowly there's no place like home."

"Oh! quit that, Bluff!" urged Jerry. "Don't you know you'll make us want to quit Cabin Point and hike for our real homes. Just let's keep thinking of what a spread we're in for, once I get started hustling the supper along. Wow! in fancy I can see it now, with the coffee-pot boiling on the hob and -- holy smoke! Frank, what does this mean now?"

"Tell us what's happened!" demanded Will, beginning to show signs of excitement, as Jerry came to a full stop.

"Why, there's our cabin; can't you see, fellows -- and as sure as you live somebody's inside it, because the light is shining through the window where that wooden shutter can't be coaxed to close tight. Now I wonder what that funny business stands for."



Chapter XXIV

The Mystery Solved


"Yes, it's a light, that's what it is!" Bluff was heard to mutter.

"This is certainly a queer piece of business, as you say, Jerry," admitted Frank.

"Oh! I hope now it isn't a messenger from home with bad news! That would upset all our plans. And my mother wasn't feeling just up to the mark when I left home, either," cried Will.

Will's mother was a widow, and he had a twin sister named Violet. The three of them lived by themselves in one of the most substantial and beautiful houses in Centerville; so the boy's sudden sense of anxiety could be easily understood. He was really the man of the house, and often felt his conscience stab him when he left his mother and Violet alone.

"Oh! stow that, Will!" urged the more practical Jerry. "It isn't going to turn out as bad as that. How do we know but that they do have hoboes up this way, and that the tramps have taken a shine to our bunks? Frank, what shall we do?"

Of course they looked to Frank to decide; but as he was used to doing more than his share of the planning for the crowd, he thought nothing of this request.

"First of all, let's put the litter down gently," he proposed.

"That's right, boys," said the wounded man, "don't ye bother any 'bout me, but look after yer own 'fairs first. I'll get on all right, with Sandy hyar to stand by and keer for me."

They were very careful as they put the stretcher down, for only too well did they know how the wretched occupant suffered from any jolt. This having been accomplished successfully, the four chums were ready to take the next step.

"Now we'll go on and see what it all means," said Frank.

He managed to control his voice so that none of the others could discern any undue emotion; yet truth to tell Frank was more worried than he would have cared to admit.

What Will had voiced was in fact the very fear that had flashed upon him. They had left word at home for a messenger to be sent up after them should sickness or accident overtake any of those left behind. And it seemed at least reasonable to believe that something of the kind had happened.

As the boys advanced eagerly though noiselessly they were keyed up to the top notch of excitement.

When he dropped his end of the stretcher Bluff discovered a stout club lying on the ground. It answered his present needs admirably, and accordingly the boy snatched it up with a sense of exhilaration. To himself Bluff was muttering:

"Tramps, hey? Measley hoboes roosting in our nice shack, are they? Well now, let me just get a whack at the same with this bully home-run bat, and if I don't make 'em sick of their job you can take my head for a football. Tramps, hey? Wow! Count me in the deal, will you? I just eat tramps!"

Frank led the way from long habit. It was perhaps the same training that kept Bluff and Jerry just at the heels of the pilot, although they were in a fever to make faster time.

So far as they could see there was no sign of life about the old cabin, only the light shining through that gap in the wooden window shutter. If a party of vagrants had indeed taken possession of the place they were wonderfully quiet. Not a sound smote the stillness of the night.

Presently, however, from some tree not far away a whippoorwill suddenly sent out his vociferous notes, complaining again and again of the severe punishment "poor Will" might expect. The cabin was now close at hand. Frank could see that the door was ajar, as though inviting the passerby to enter without the formality of knocking.

"Huh!" Bluff was heard to grumble, as he, too, discovered this fact.

Approaching the window, Frank leaned forward and took a first peep. He did not say a single word, although very much surprised at what he saw; but simply made room for Will, who in turn moved slightly on so that the others might also see.

The wooden shutter, which had been repaired as well as possible, even when closed left a slight gap, and through this hole it was possible for one outside to survey the whole interior of the cabin.

A single figure sat in the most comfortable chair the cabin boasted. The lantern had been lighted, and hung so that its rays illuminated the interior of the place fairly well.

None of the boys had the slightest difficulty in recognizing the person they were looking at through the window. It was Gilbert Dennison.

Somehow or other it seemed that none of the chums had once considered Gilbert when trying to guess who could be in the cabin. When they now discovered him sitting there, and apparently waiting for them to come in, a great load seemed to be lifted from their hearts.

At least poor anxious Will was heard to give a long sigh of relief. His worst fears were dissipated when instead of some messenger from Centerville he discovered Gilbert Dennison sitting there, watching and waiting.

Frank was also well pleased at the discovery. At the same time there flashed into his mind a conviction that it must be something beyond the ordinary desire to visit them that had brought Gilbert there.

None of the boys paid quite as much attention to secrecy as before. It was different now, since they knew a friend occupied their cabin, and not a party of dusty tramps, who had been making free with their supplies.

Apparently the sound of their footsteps must have reached the ears of the one inside, for as Frank pushed back the door he found Gilbert on his feet. Also, he seemed to be crouching there as much in the shadows as possible; and really his whole attitude struck Frank as astonishing.

As Frank and then Bluff, Jerry and Will pushed into the cabin Gilbert looked at first a little surprised and disappointed; but he instantly raised his hand to indicate silence, and at the same time pressed a finger on his lips.

These mysterious actions astonished the four chums. They stared as though they found it difficult to believe their eyes.

"Gee whiz! what next?" Bluff was muttering, as though things were happening so rapidly that almost any sort of surprise could be expected.

Frank pushed forward.

"Glad to see you here, but what's up, Gilbert?" he asked.

"Please speak in a whisper when you have to talk, Frank," replied the other.

"All right," said Frank, doing as he was told, "but please explain what it all means, for we've got a wounded man outside, who had his leg broken by a tree he was dropping, and we wish to bring him in here to make him easy."

"It'll all be over in a short time, I should think," continued Gilbert; "for he ought to be here any minute now."

"Who do you mean?" asked Bluff, like most boys caring naught for grammatical rules when far away from the school room.

"My uncle!" replied Gilbert.

"But why under the sun is Mr. Dennison coming down here to the cabin, and at midnight, too?" asked Jerry.

"That's just it," replied the visitor at the cabin. "I've known for some time that Uncle Aaron is a sleep-walker, you see."

Frank had already grasped the meaning of the situation, but Bluff was still groping in the dark. He proved this by asking:

"But what would your old uncle wander down here for in his sleep, Gilbert, when it must be all of half a mile anyway, and over a crooked trail?"

"I'll tell you what I think," replied the other, in a very low tone. "You see, he understands that I set great store on that gold cup I won, and which I brought up here with me when I came. He had it on his mind after I went away, being afraid some one would steal it."

"Oh! now I get what you mean," whispered Bluff. "In his sleep he took a notion to try to hide the thing where no one would find it. And since he used that cavity under the floor to keep his savings in long years ago, somehow he just wandered down here the one night we were all away, and put the cup there."

"Yes, and knew nothing about it when he came to search the cabin later on," explained Gilbert. "But keep still, everybody, for I really think I saw him coming out there in the open before the door. Please don't say a word, but just watch!"



Chapter XXV

Conclusion


It was an exciting time when Gilbert and the four chums stood there as silent as ghosts, and waited for the arrival of the sleep-walker. Perhaps a dozen seconds had passed when there was a rustle and a sigh at the open door. Then a figure stalked in.

They could see that it was Aaron Dennison.

Mr. Dennison walked straight over to where that loose plank lay. He did not show the slightest sign of hesitancy, but stooping down placed some object on the floor, after which he began to raise the plank as though familiar with its working.

No wonder the boys stared, and Bluff chuckled softly, when they saw the object so carefully deposited on the floor by the man who walked in his sleep.

It was the golden cup, won in the amateur golf tournament by Gilbert Dennison!

They watched him lift the plank, and then quickly place the cup in the hole underneath; after this he gently lowered the board, patted it affectionately, and arose to his feet as if to go.

Frank was more than satisfied. The mystery had been explained in a fashion that left not a shred of doubt behind.

At the same time Frank found himself wondering what Gilbert would do next. To convince Mr. Dennison that he himself was wholly to blame, it would seem to be the proper thing to awaken him before he quitted the cabin, and show him the cup nestling under the plank.

Frank dimly remembered reading that it was not a wise thing to arouse a sleep-walker suddenly; he understood that the sudden shock had a tendency to affect the brain. Apparently Gilbert did not know this, for he stepped forward and reaching out caught hold of the old man's arm, shaking it as he called:

"Wake up, Uncle Aaron, wake up!"

They saw the sleeper give a tremendous start. Then he stared first at Gilbert, and then around him as though dazed.

"It's I, Uncle, and you've been up to your old tricks again, walking in your sleep," the young fellow told him. "Yes, no wonder you look as if you could hardly believe your eyes; for you've wandered down to the old cabin on the Point And, Uncle, what do you think we saw you doing?"

As he said this Gilbert in turn suddenly stooped, and managing to get the loose plank up he pushed it aside. When he picked up the golden cup and held it before the eyes of the old gentleman, Bluff could hardly keep from bursting into laughter, the look of astonishment on Mr. Dennison's face was so ludicrous.

"Did I bring that cup here, and stow it away again in that hole, Gilbert?" he demanded.

"You certainly did, Uncle," he was told.

"Then it stands to reason that I must have been guilty on that other occasion, too, Nephew?" faltered the old hermit.

"Of course you were, Uncle. Don't you see, you worried over having the cup there on your hands; and in your sleep you must have dreamed about the old place here under the floor where you once used to hide things. And down you came all the way. It happened that the boys were all away on that night after the storm; isn't it so, fellows?"

"Yes," replied Frank, "Will here and I were caught up in the woods, and slept under a shelf of rock, while Bluff and Jerry stayed at the village, where they met the constable, Mr. Jeems. So the cabin was not occupied at all that night."

"And we knew somebody must have been in here," spoke up Will, "because the door wasn't closed as we left it, a chair had been pushed over, and some other things were disturbed. It was a great mystery to all of us, sir."

Mr. Dennison proved himself equal to the occasion. The look of consternation on his face had now given way to one of friendliness.

"Then I can plainly see how I have wronged these boys by accusing them of this mysterious taking of the golden cup," he said, frankly. "I trust all of you will forgive me, and that Gilbert will some time or other fetch you up to see me. I want particularly to become better acquainted with the one who is interested in wild animal photography."

Mr. Dennison whispered a few sentences to his nephew. Evidently he must have been telling Gilbert that he was at liberty to explain certain sad things connected with his past life, when the occasion arose, so that the boys would understand just why, for all his money, he lived in such a lonely place.

Then he said he must go, and asked Gilbert to accompany him.

"Be sure and bring that precious golden cup of yours," he told the other. "We'll have to find a safe place to keep it, if I'm going to have any sound sleep after this. At my age I cannot afford to take chances of meeting with some accident when wandering around the woods at night-time. Good-bye, lads, and remember I shall hope to have you take supper with me some evening soon, when we can get better acquainted."

After Mr. Dennison and Gilbert had departed Frank thought again of the injured woodcutter, and, hastening out, they soon had him under the roof of the cabin.

In the morning it was decided that, as the weather seemed promising, two of them had better start for the village with the wounded man and Sandy. The boat was now in extra-good shape, and seemed hardly to leak a drop. Besides, the sooner Moogs was placed under the care of an experienced surgeon the better. Frank did not want to be responsible for the consequences any more than seemed absolutely necessary.

In time the injured woodcutter recovered from his severe wound; and the boys afterwards received a letter from Sandy, in which the boy tried hard to express the heavy obligations under which he and his "dad" felt themselves bound to the Outdoor Chums.

In the afternoon Gilbert came down to see them, and stayed over night.

As they sat around after supper and exchanged confidences the boys learned of the tragedy that had taken place in the life of Aaron Dennison. It fully explained the mystery hovering over his enclosed estate.

He had had a single child, as the poor fragment of a baby shoe had informed Frank; but the little fellow had been taken away from them. The wife and mother had never been the same after that, though for years she continued to be the faithful partner of the man, as he fought his way up in the world.

In the end she entirely lost her reason, and Mr. Dennison, unwilling that the one he loved so fondly should be placed in even the best asylum, had conceived the idea of building this home far removed from civilization.

Here the poor lady lived attended by a trusty nurse day and night. There were bars across the windows of her sleeping chamber, because of late she had developed a mania for wanting to leap from a height and hence they had to take all precautions.

No doubt she imagined herself a prisoner, and seeing the boys below, she had waved her handkerchief to them, and also had made gestures with her hands as though invoking their aid.

Of course Frank assured Gilbert that when they came up to take supper with his uncle not a word would be said on that painful subject. Even if they heard that pitiful wailing cry they would pretend that it was the screech of a strutting peacock, as once they had really believed.

After that the Outdoor Chums found each day bringing new pleasures. They went up to see Mr. Dennison, not only once but many times, for the old hermit soon found himself deeply interested in the boys. He asked a thousand questions concerning the things connected with their past, and seemed never to tire of listening while these little adventurous happenings were being narrated.

The glorious days slipped away and finally the day arrived when they must say good-bye to Cabin Point and all its happy associations.

Will had a large number of splendid pictures to carry back; and all the boys would often think of the happy times spent at the big lake.

Other events would undoubtedly cross their path, but in reviewing the strenuous past Frank and his Outdoor Chums would always remember with deepest interest the mystery of the golden cup, and how strangely it was solved while they were in camp at Cabin Point.

<eob>

The Happy Prince And Other Tales

By

Oscar Wilde



The Happy Prince.


[Picture: Woman opening window and seeing bird]

HIGH above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.

He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.

"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything."

"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.

"He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.

"How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never seen one."

"Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.

One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.

"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.

"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.

After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. "She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also."

"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.

"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away.

All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."

Then he saw the statue on the tall column.

"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.

"I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness."

Then another drop fell.

"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.

But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw-Ah! what did he see?

The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.

"Who are you?" he said.

"I am the Happy Prince."

"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched me."

"When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep."

"What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.

"Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move."

"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad."

"I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."

But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger."

"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.

So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.

He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!"

"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy."

He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting better"; and he sank into a delicious slumber.

Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold."

"That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.

When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.

"To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much.

When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"

"I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint."

"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"

"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play."

"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to weep.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."

So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.

"I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy.

The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I am going to Egypt"! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.

"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"

"It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea."

"In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her."

"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."

So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.

Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always."

"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."

"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.

All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.

"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there."

So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.

Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.

"I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy."

Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried.

Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.

The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.

But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"

"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you."

"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?"

And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.

At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.

Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said.

"How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.

"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer," said the Mayor in fact, "he is litttle better than a beggar!"

"Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors.

"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University.

Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself."

"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.

"What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.

"Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.

"You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me."

[Picture: Decorative graphic of two birds]



The Nightingale and the Rose.


[Picture: Decorative graphic of young man lying on grass]

"SHE said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red rose."

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched."

"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."

"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."

"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers-what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."

"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.

"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.

"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.

"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.

"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."

"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"

"There is a way," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you."

"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."

"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."

"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove-"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river-pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you."

But the girl frowned.

"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."

"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

"What a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

[Picture: Decorative graphic of nightingale and rose]



The Selfish Giant.


[Picture: The Selfish Giant]

EVERY afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.

It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each other.

[Picture: Decorative graphic of children in garden]

One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.

"What are you doing here?" he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.

"My own garden is my own garden," said the Giant; "any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself." So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.

Trespassers

Will Be

Prosecuted

He was a very selfish Giant.

The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. "How happy we were there," they said to each other.

Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. "Spring has forgotten this garden," they cried, "so we will live here all the year round." The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. "This is a delightful spot," he said, "we must ask the Hail on a visit." So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.

"I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather."

But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. "He is too selfish," she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.

One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. "I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.

What did he see?

He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.

And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. "How selfish I have been!" he said; "now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever." He was really very sorry for what he had done.

So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. "It is your garden now, little children," said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.

All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.

"But where is your little companion?" he said: "the boy I put into the tree." The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.

"We don't know," answered the children; "he has gone away."

"You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow," said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. "How I would like to see him!" he used to say.

Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. "I have many beautiful flowers," he said; "but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all."

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.

Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, "Who hath dared to wound thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

"Who hath dared to wound thee?" cried the Giant; "tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him."

"Nay!" answered the child; "but these are the wounds of Love."

"Who art thou?" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.

And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, "You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise."

And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

[Picture: Decorative graphic of wreath]



The Devoted Friend.


[Picture: Hans and the Miller]

ONE morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the water.

"You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your heads," she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all.

"What disobedient children!" cried the old Water-rat; "they really deserve to be drowned."

"Nothing of the kind," answered the Duck, "every one must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too patient."

"Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents," said the Water-rat; "I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship."

"And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?" asked a Green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard the conversation.

"Yes, that is just what I want to know," said the Duck; and she swam away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her children a good example.

"What a silly question!" cried the Water-rat. "I should expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course."

"And what would you do in return?" said the little bird, swinging upon a silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.

"I don't understand you," answered the Water-rat.

"Let me tell you a story on the subject," said the Linnet.

"Is the story about me?" asked the Water-rat. "If so, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction."

"It is applicable to you," answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend.

"Once upon a time," said the Linnet, "there was an honest little fellow named Hans."

"Was he very distinguished?" asked the Water-rat.

"No," answered the Linnet, "I don't think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his garden. In all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet-william grew there, and Gilly-flowers, and Shepherds'-purses, and Fair-maids of France. There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac Crocuses, and gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock, Marjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil and the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the months went by, one flower taking another flower's place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell.

"Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to little Hans, that he would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season.

"'Real friends should have everything in common,' the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas.

"Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich Miller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship.

"So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then.

"'There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow lasts,' the Miller used to say to his wife, 'for when people are in trouble they should be left alone, and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses and that will make him so happy.'

"'You are certainly very thoughtful about others,' answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; 'very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little finger.'

"'But could we not ask little Hans up here?' said the Miller's youngest son. 'If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.'

"'What a silly boy you are!' cried the Miller; 'I really don't know what is the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything. Why, if little Hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody's nature. I certainly will not allow Hans' nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I will always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words are spelt differently, and mean quite different things. Everybody can see that.'

"'How well you talk!' said the Miller's Wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale; 'really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in church.'

"'Lots of people act well,' answered the Miller; 'but very few people talk well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of the two, and much the finer thing also'; and he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea. However, he was so young that you must excuse him."

"Is that the end of the story?" asked the Water-rat.

"Certainly not," answered the Linnet, "that is the beginning."

"Then you are quite behind the age," said the Water-rat. "Every good story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered 'Pooh!' But pray go on with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy between us."

"Well," said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other, "as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale yellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little Hans.

"'Why, what a good heart you have!' cried his Wife; 'you are always thinking of others. And mind you take the big basket with you for the flowers.'

"So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm.

"'Good morning, little Hans,' said the Miller.

"'Good morning,' said Hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear to ear.

"'And how have you been all the winter?' said the Miller.

"'Well, really,' cried Hans, 'it is very good of you to ask, very good indeed. I am afraid I had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring has come, and I am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.'

"'We often talked of you during the winter, Hans,' said the Miller, 'and wondered how you were getting on.'

"'That was kind of you,' said Hans; 'I was half afraid you had forgotten me.'

"'Hans, I am surprised at you,' said the Miller; 'friendship never forgets. That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don't understand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses are looking, by-the-bye!"

"'They are certainly very lovely,' said Hans, 'and it is a most lucky thing for me that I have so many. I am going to bring them into the market and sell them to the Burgomaster's daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money.'

"'Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don't mean to say you have sold it? What a very stupid thing to do!'

"'Well, the fact is,' said Hans, 'that I was obliged to. You see the winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to buy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again now.'

"'Hans,' said the Miller, 'I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in very good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the world. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and, besides, I have got a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at ease, I will give you my wheelbarrow.'

"'Well, really, that is generous of you,' said little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with pleasure. 'I can easily put it in repair, as I have a plank of wood in the house.'

"'A plank of wood!' said the Miller; 'why, that is just what I want for the roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will all get damp if I don't stop it up. How lucky you mentioned it! It is quite remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true, friendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I will set to work at my barn this very day.'

"'Certainly,' cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the plank out.

"'It is not a very big plank,' said the Miller, looking at it, 'and I am afraid that after I have mended my barn-roof there won't be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault. And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to give me some flowers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it quite full.'

"'Quite full?' said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for the market and he was very anxious to get his silver buttons back.

"'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don't think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers. I may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.'

"'My dear friend, my best friend,' cried little Hans, 'you are welcome to all the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion than my silver buttons, any day'; and he ran and plucked all his pretty primroses, and filled the Miller's basket.

"'Good-bye, little Hans,' said the Miller, as he went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand.

"'Good-bye,' said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, he was so pleased about the wheelbarrow.

"The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, when he heard the Miller's voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.

"There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back.

"'Dear little Hans,' said the Miller, 'would you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to market?'

"'Oh, I am so sorry,' said Hans, 'but I am really very busy to-day. I have got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all my grass to roll.'

"'Well, really,' said the Miller, 'I think that, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse.'

"'Oh, don't say that,' cried little Hans, 'I wouldn't be unfriendly for the whole world'; and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders.

"It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down and rest. However, he went on bravely, and as last he reached the market. After he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour for a very good price, and then he returned home at once, for he was afraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way.

"'It has certainly been a hard day,' said little Hans to himself as he was going to bed, 'but I am glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is my best friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.'

"Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money for his sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed.

"'Upon my word,' said the Miller, 'you are very lazy. Really, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you might work harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don't like any of my friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you. Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were not your friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.'

"'I am very sorry,' said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off his night-cap, 'but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for a little time, and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I always work better after hearing the birds sing?'

"'Well, I am glad of that,' said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the back, 'for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed, and mend my barn-roof for me.'

"Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse the Miller, as he was such a good friend to him.

"'Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?' he inquired in a shy and timid voice.

"'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'I do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of course if you refuse I will go and do it myself.'

"'Oh! on no account,' cried little Hans and he jumped out of bed, and dressed himself, and went up to the barn.

"He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the Miller came to see how he was getting on.

"'Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?' cried the Miller in a cheery voice.

"'It is quite mended,' answered little Hans, coming down the ladder.

"'Ah!' said the Miller, 'there is no work so delightful as the work one does for others.'

"'It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,' answered little Hans, sitting down, and wiping his forehead, 'a very great privilege. But I am afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.'

"'Oh! they will come to you,' said the Miller, 'but you must take more pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you will have the theory also.'

"'Do you really think I shall?' asked little Hans.

"'I have no doubt of it,' answered the Miller, 'but now that you have mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive my sheep to the mountain to-morrow.'

"Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next morning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans started off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get there and back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight.

"'What a delightful time I shall have in my garden,' he said, and he went to work at once.

"But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his friend the Miller was always coming round and sending him off on long errands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the Miller was his best friend. 'Besides,' he used to say, 'he is going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.'

"So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a note-book, and used to read over at night, for he was a very good scholar.

"Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fireside when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he thought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a third, louder than any of the others.

"'It is some poor traveller,' said little Hans to himself, and he ran to the door.

"There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the other.

"'Dear little Hans,' cried the Miller, 'I am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the Doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it has just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so, it is only fair that you should do something for me in return.'

"'Certainly,' cried little Hans, 'I take it quite as a compliment your coming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your lantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the ditch.'

"'I am very sorry,' answered the Miller, 'but it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.'

"'Well, never mind, I will do without it,' cried little Hans, and he took down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler round his throat, and started off.

"What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely stand. However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking about three hours, he arrived at the Doctor's house, and knocked at the door.

"'Who is there?' cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom window.

"'Little Hans, Doctor.'

"'What do you want, little Hans?'

"'The Miller's son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself, and the Miller wants you to come at once.'

"'All right!' said the Doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big boots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the direction of the Miller's house, little Hans trudging behind him.

"But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and little Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse. At last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans was drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds, floating in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage.

"Everybody went to little Hans' funeral, as he was so popular, and the Miller was the chief mourner.

"'As I was his best friend,' said the Miller, 'it is only fair that I should have the best place'; so he walked at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket-handkerchief.

"'Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,' said the Blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes.

"'A great loss to me at any rate,' answered the Miller; 'why, I had as good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don't know what to do with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair that I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take care not to give away anything again. One always suffers for being generous.'"

"Well?" said the Water-rat, after a long pause.

"Well, that is the end," said the Linnet.

"But what became of the Miller?" asked the Water-rat.

"Oh! I really don't know," replied the Linnet; "and I am sure that I don't care."

"It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature," said the Water-rat.

"I am afraid you don't quite see the moral of the story," remarked the Linnet.

"The what?" screamed the Water-rat.

"The moral."

"Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?"

"Certainly," said the Linnet.

"Well, really," said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, "I think you should have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said 'Pooh,' like the critic. However, I can say it now"; so he shouted out "Pooh" at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his hole.

"And how do you like the Water-rat?" asked the Duck, who came paddling up some minutes afterwards. "He has a great many good points, but for my own part I have a mother's feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes."

"I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him," answered the Linnet. "The fact is, that I told him a story with a moral."

"Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do," said the Duck.

And I quite agree with her.

[Picture: Decorative graphic of windmill and overturned barrow]



The Remarkable Rocket.


[Picture: The Remarkable Rocket]

THE King's son was going to be married, so there were general rejoicings. He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she had arrived. She was a Russian Princess, and had driven all the way from Finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge was shaped like a great golden swan, and between the swan's wings lay the little Princess herself. Her long ermine-cloak reached right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny cap of silver tissue, and she was as pale as the Snow Palace in which she had always lived. So pale was she that as she drove through the streets all the people wondered. "She is like a white rose!" they cried, and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies.

[Picture: Decorative graphic of young man kissing the princess' hand]

At the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her. He had dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When he saw her he sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand.

"Your picture was beautiful," he murmured, "but you are more beautiful than your picture"; and the little Princess blushed.

"She was like a white rose before," said a young Page to his neighbour, "but she is like a red rose now"; and the whole Court was delighted.

For the next three days everybody went about saying, "White rose, Red rose, Red rose, White rose"; and the King gave orders that the Page's salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not of much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly published in the Court Gazette.

When the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was a magnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls. Then there was a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The Prince and Princess sat at the top of the Great Hall and drank out of a cup of clear crystal. Only true lovers could drink out of this cup, for if false lips touched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy.

"It's quite clear that they love each other," said the little Page, "as clear as crystal!" and the King doubled his salary a second time. "What an honour!" cried all the courtiers.

After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom were to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play the flute. He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so, because he was the King. Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never quite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for, whatever he did, everybody cried out, "Charming! charming!"

The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.

"What are fireworks like?" she had asked the Prince, one morning, as she was walking on the terrace.

"They are like the Aurora Borealis," said the King, who always answered questions that were addressed to other people, "only much more natural. I prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You must certainly see them."

So at the end of the King's garden a great stand had been set up, and as soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place, the fireworks began to talk to each other.

"The world is certainly very beautiful," cried a little Squib. "Just look at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real crackers they could not be lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the mind wonderfully, and does away with all one's prejudices."

"The King's garden is not the world, you foolish squib," said a big Roman Candle; "the world is an enormous place, and it would take you three days to see it thoroughly."

"Any place you love is the world to you," exclaimed a pensive Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided herself on her broken heart; "but love is not fashionable any more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once-But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the past."

"Nonsense!" said the Roman Candle, "Romance never dies. It is like the moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance, love each other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as myself, and knew the latest Court news."

But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. "Romance is dead, Romance is dead, Romance is dead," she murmured. She was one of those people who think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times, it becomes true in the end.

Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.

It came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to the end of a long stick. He always coughed before he made any observation, so as to attract attention.

"Ahem! ahem!" he said, and everybody listened except the poor Catherine Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring, "Romance is dead."

"Order! order!" cried out a Cracker. He was something of a politician, and had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew the proper Parliamentary expressions to use.

"Quite dead," whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to sleep.

As soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third time and began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was dictating his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person to whom he was talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished manner.

"How fortunate it is for the King's son," he remarked, "that he is to be married on the very day on which I am to be let off. Really, if it had been arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him; but, Princes are always lucky."

"Dear me!" said the little Squib, "I thought it was quite the other way, and that we were to be let off in the Prince's honour."

"It may be so with you," he answered; "indeed, I have no doubt that it is, but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket, and come of remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated Catherine Wheel of her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing. When she made her great public appearance she spun round nineteen times before she went out, and each time that she did so she threw into the air seven pink stars. She was three feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very best gunpowder. My father was a Rocket like myself, and of French extraction. He flew so high that the people were afraid that he would never come down again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly disposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden rain. The newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering terms. Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic art."

"Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean," said a Bengal Light; "I know it is Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister."

"Well, I said Pylotechnic," answered the Rocket, in a severe tone of voice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at once to bully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of some importance.

"I was saying," continued the Rocket, "I was saying-What was I saying?"

"You were talking about yourself," replied the Roman Candle.

"Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I was so rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind, for I am extremely sensitive. No one in the whole world is so sensitive as I am, I am quite sure of that."

"What is a sensitive person?" said the Cracker to the Roman Candle.

"A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other people's toes," answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the Cracker nearly exploded with laughter.

"Pray, what are you laughing at?" inquired the Rocket; "I am not laughing."

"I am laughing because I am happy," replied the Cracker.

"That is a very selfish reason," said the Rocket angrily. "What right have you to be happy? You should be thinking about others. In fact, you should be thinking about me. I am always thinking about myself, and I expect everybody else to do the same. That is what is called sympathy. It is a beautiful virtue, and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose, for instance, anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that would be for every one! The Prince and Princess would never be happy again, their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the King, I know he would not get over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the importance of my position, I am almost moved to tears."

"If you want to give pleasure to others," cried the Roman Candle, "you had better keep yourself dry."

"Certainly," exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better spirits; "that is only common sense."

"Common sense, indeed!" said the Rocket indignantly; "you forget that I am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have common sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have imagination, for I never think of things as they really are; I always think of them as being quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for myself, I don't care. The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that I have always cultivated. But none of you have any hearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the Prince and Princess had not just been married."

"Well, really," exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, "why not? It is a most joyful occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to tell the stars all about it. You will see them twinkle when I talk to them about the pretty bride."

"Ah! what a trivial view of life!" said the Rocket; "but it is only what I expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty. Why, perhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live in a country where there is a deep river, and perhaps they may have one only son, a little fair-haired boy with violet eyes like the Prince himself; and perhaps some day he may go out to walk with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may go to sleep under a great elder-tree; and perhaps the little boy may fall into the deep river and be drowned. What a terrible misfortune! Poor people, to lose their only son! It is really too dreadful! I shall never get over it."

"But they have not lost their only son," said the Roman Candle; "no misfortune has happened to them at all."

"I never said that they had," replied the Rocket; "I said that they might. If they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying anything more about the matter. I hate people who cry over spilt milk. But when I think that they might lose their only son, I certainly am very much affected."

"You certainly are!" cried the Bengal Light. "In fact, you are the most affected person I ever met."

"You are the rudest person I ever met," said the Rocket, "and you cannot understand my friendship for the Prince."

"Why, you don't even know him," growled the Roman Candle.

"I never said I knew him," answered the Rocket. "I dare say that if I knew him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very dangerous thing to know one's friends."

"You had really better keep yourself dry," said the Fire-balloon. "That is the important thing."

"Very important for you, I have no doubt," answered the Rocket, "but I shall weep if I choose"; and he actually burst into real tears, which flowed down his stick like rain-drops, and nearly drowned two little beetles, who were just thinking of setting up house together, and were looking for a nice dry spot to live in.

"He must have a truly romantic nature," said the Catherine Wheel, "for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about"; and she heaved a deep sigh, and thought about the deal box.

But the Roman Candle and the Bengal Light were quite indignant, and kept saying, "Humbug! humbug!" at the top of their voices. They were extremely practical, and whenever they objected to anything they called it humbug.

Then the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars began to shine, and a sound of music came from the palace.

The Prince and Princess were leading the dance. They danced so beautifully that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and watched them, and the great red poppies nodded their heads and beat time.

Then ten o'clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve, and at the last stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace, and the King sent for the Royal Pyrotechnist.

"Let the fireworks begin," said the King; and the Royal Pyrotechnist made a low bow, and marched down to the end of the garden. He had six attendants with him, each of whom carried a lighted torch at the end of a long pole.

It was certainly a magnificent display.

Whizz! Whizz! went the Catherine Wheel, as she spun round and round. Boom! Boom! went the Roman Candle. Then the Squibs danced all over the place, and the Bengal Lights made everything look scarlet. "Good-bye," cried the Fire-balloon, as he soared away, dropping tiny blue sparks. Bang! Bang! answered the Crackers, who were enjoying themselves immensely. Every one was a great success except the Remarkable Rocket. He was so damp with crying that he could not go off at all. The best thing in him was the gunpowder, and that was so wet with tears that it was of no use. All his poor relations, to whom he would never speak, except with a sneer, shot up into the sky like wonderful golden flowers with blossoms of fire. Huzza! Huzza! cried the Court; and the little Princess laughed with pleasure.

"I suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion," said the Rocket; "no doubt that is what it means," and he looked more supercilious than ever.

The next day the workmen came to put everything tidy. "This is evidently a deputation," said the Rocket; "I will receive them with becoming dignity" so he put his nose in the air, and began to frown severely as if he were thinking about some very important subject. But they took no notice of him at all till they were just going away. Then one of them caught sight of him. "Hallo!" he cried, "what a bad rocket!" and he threw him over the wall into the ditch.

"BAD Rocket? BAD Rocket?" he said, as he whirled through the air; "impossible! GRAND Rocket, that is what the man said. BAD and GRAND sound very much the same, indeed they often are the same"; and he fell into the mud.

"It is not comfortable here," he remarked, "but no doubt it is some fashionable watering-place, and they have sent me away to recruit my health. My nerves are certainly very much shattered, and I require rest."

Then a little Frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled coat, swam up to him.

"A new arrival, I see!" said the Frog. "Well, after all there is nothing like mud. Give me rainy weather and a ditch, and I am quite happy. Do you think it will be a wet afternoon? I am sure I hope so, but the sky is quite blue and cloudless. What a pity!"

"Ahem! ahem!" said the Rocket, and he began to cough.

"What a delightful voice you have!" cried the Frog. "Really it is quite like a croak, and croaking is of course the most musical sound in the world. You will hear our glee-club this evening. We sit in the old duck pond close by the farmer's house, and as soon as the moon rises we begin. It is so entrancing that everybody lies awake to listen to us. In fact, it was only yesterday that I heard the farmer's wife say to her mother that she could not get a wink of sleep at night on account of us. It is most gratifying to find oneself so popular."

"Ahem! ahem!" said the Rocket angrily. He was very much annoyed that he could not get a word in.

"A delightful voice, certainly," continued the Frog; "I hope you will come over to the duck-pond. I am off to look for my daughters. I have six beautiful daughters, and I am so afraid the Pike may meet them. He is a perfect monster, and would have no hesitation in breakfasting off them. Well, good-bye: I have enjoyed our conversation very much, I assure you."

"Conversation, indeed!" said the Rocket. "You have talked the whole time yourself. That is not conversation."

"Somebody must listen," answered the Frog, "and I like to do all the talking myself. It saves time, and prevents arguments."

"But I like arguments," said the Rocket.

"I hope not," said the Frog complacently. "Arguments are extremely vulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the same opinions. Good-bye a second time; I see my daughters in the distance and the little Frog swam away.

"You are a very irritating person," said the Rocket, "and very ill-bred. I hate people who talk about themselves, as you do, when one wants to talk about oneself, as I do. It is what I call selfishness, and selfishness is a most detestable thing, especially to any one of my temperament, for I am well known for my sympathetic nature. In fact, you should take example by me; you could not possibly have a better model. Now that you have the chance you had better avail yourself of it, for I am going back to Court almost immediately. I am a great favourite at Court; in fact, the Prince and Princess were married yesterday in my honour. Of course you know nothing of these matters, for you are a provincial."

"There is no good talking to him," said a Dragon-fly, who was sitting on the top of a large brown bulrush; "no good at all, for he has gone away."

"Well, that is his loss, not mine," answered the Rocket. "I am not going to stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention. I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying."

"Then you should certainly lecture on Philosophy," said the Dragon-fly; and he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared away into the sky.

"How very silly of him not to stay here!" said the Rocket. "I am sure that he has not often got such a chance of improving his mind. However, I don't care a bit. Genius like mine is sure to be appreciated some day"; and he sank down a little deeper into the mud.

After some time a large White Duck swam up to him. She had yellow legs, and webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account of her waddle.

"Quack, quack, quack," she said. "What a curious shape you are! May I ask were you born like that, or is it the result of an accident?"

"It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country," answered the Rocket, "otherwise you would know who I am. However, I excuse your ignorance. It would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable as oneself. You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I can fly up into the sky, and come down in a shower of golden rain."

"I don't think much of that," said the Duck, "as I cannot see what use it is to any one. Now, if you could plough the fields like the ox, or draw a cart like the horse, or look after the sheep like the collie-dog, that would be something."

"My good creature," cried the Rocket in a very haughty tone of voice, "I see that you belong to the lower orders. A person of my position is never useful. We have certain accomplishments, and that is more than sufficient. I have no sympathy myself with industry of any kind, least of all with such industries as you seem to recommend. Indeed, I have always been of opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do."

"Well, well," said the Duck, who was of a very peaceable disposition, and never quarrelled with any one, "everybody has different tastes. I hope, at any rate, that you are going to take up your residence here."

"Oh! dear no," cried the Rocket. "I am merely a visitor, a distinguished visitor. The fact is that I find this place rather tedious. There is neither society here, nor solitude. In fact, it is essentially suburban. I shall probably go back to Court, for I know that I am destined to make a sensation in the world."

"I had thoughts of entering public life once myself," remarked the Duck; "there are so many things that need reforming. Indeed, I took the chair at a meeting some time ago, and we passed resolutions condemning everything that we did not like. However, they did not seem to have much effect. Now I go in for domesticity, and look after my family."

"I am made for public life," said the Rocket, "and so are all my relations, even the humblest of them. Whenever we appear we excite great attention. I have not actually appeared myself, but when I do so it will be a magnificent sight. As for domesticity, it ages one rapidly, and distracts one's mind from higher things."

"Ah! the higher things of life, how fine they are!" said the Duck; "and that reminds me how hungry I feel": and she swam away down the stream, saying, "Quack, quack, quack."

"Come back! come back!" screamed the Rocket, "I have a great deal to say to you"; but the Duck paid no attention to him. "I am glad that she has gone," he said to himself, "she has a decidedly middle-class mind"; and he sank a little deeper still into the mud, and began to think about the loneliness of genius, when suddenly two little boys in white smocks came running down the bank, with a kettle and some faggots.

"This must be the deputation," said the Rocket, and he tried to look very dignified.

"Hallo!" cried one of the boys, "look at this old stick! I wonder how it came here"; and he picked the rocket out of the ditch.

"OLD Stick!" said the Rocket, "impossible! GOLD Stick, that is what he said. Gold Stick is very complimentary. In fact, he mistakes me for one of the Court dignitaries!"

"Let us put it into the fire!" said the other boy, "it will help to boil the kettle."

So they piled the faggots together, and put the Rocket on top, and lit the fire.

"This is magnificent," cried the Rocket, "they are going to let me off in broad day-light, so that every one can see me."

"We will go to sleep now," they said, "and when we wake up the kettle will be boiled"; and they lay down on the grass, and shut their eyes.

The Rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn. At last, however, the fire caught him.

"Now I am going off!" he cried, and he made himself very stiff and straight. "I know I shall go much higher than the stars, much higher than the moon, much higher than the sun. In fact, I shall go so high that-"

Fizz! Fizz! Fizz! and he went straight up into the air.

"Delightful!" he cried, "I shall go on like this for ever. What a success I am!"

But nobody saw him.

Then he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him.

"Now I am going to explode," he cried. "I shall set the whole world on fire, and make such a noise that nobody will talk about anything else for a whole year." And he certainly did explode. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the gunpowder. There was no doubt about it.

But nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were sound asleep.

Then all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on the back of a Goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch.

"Good heavens!" cried the Goose. "It is going to rain sticks"; and she rushed into the water.

"I knew I should create a great sensation," gasped the Rocket, and he went out.

<eob>

The Autobiography Of Thomas Platter, A Schoolmaster Of The Sixteenth Century

By

Thomas Platter, Mrs. Finn



Chapter I.

Master Thomas Becomes A Goatherd.


I came into this world on the Shrove-Tuesday of the year 1499, just as they were coming together for mass. From this circumstance, my friends derived the confident hope that I should become a priest, for at that time that sort of superstition was still every where prevalent. I had one sister, named Christina; she alone was with my mother when I was born, and she afterwards told it me. My father's name was Anthony Platter, of the old family of Platter, who have their name from a house which stands on a broad plat (Platte). This plat is a rock on a very high mountain, near a village of the name of Grenchen, in the district and parish of Visp, a considerable village of the Canton of St. Gall. My mother, however, was named Anteli Summermatter, of the very great family of that name. Her father attained the age of 126. I conversed with him six years before his death; and then he told me that he knew ten more men in the parish of Visp who were all older than he. When he was 100 years old he married a woman who bore him one son. By his first wife he left sons and daughters, of whom some were white-headed and some grey before he died. They called him old Hans Summermatter. The house in which I was born is near the village of Grenchen, and is called Am Graben. My mother could not nurse me herself, therefore I was obliged to drink cow's milk through a small horn, as is the custom in that country when they wean a child: because they give the children nothing to eat, but only milk to drink, till they are four or five years old. My father died when I was so young that I do not remember ever to have seen him. It is usual in that country for almost all women to be able to weave and sew. Before the winter, almost all the men go into the territory of Berne to buy wool: this the women spin, and make rustic cloth of it for coats and trowsers for the peasants. So also my father was in the district of Thun, in the territory of Berne, buying wool. There he was attacked by the plague and died, and was buried at Staffisburg, a village near Thun. Soon after, my mother married a man of the name of Heintzmann, who lived in a house between Stalden and Visp, that was called Am Grunde. So the children were all separated from her: I do not exactly know how many of them there were. Of my sisters, I knew only two; -- one, whose name was Elizabeth, died in Entlibuch, where she was married; -- the name of the other was Christina, and she died above Stalden, at Burgen, of the plague, with eight persons of her family. Of my brothers, I knew three: the first was called Simeon, the other Hans, the third Theodore. Simeon and Hans fell in battle. Theodore died at Oberhofen, on the lake of Thun: for the usurers had mined my father, so that my brothers were obliged to go to service almost as soon as they could do any thing; and as I was the youngest, some of my aunts, my father's sisters, had me with them for a while. I can still well remember that I was with one whose name was Margaret. She carried me to a house that was called "In der Wilde," near Grenchen. One of my aunts was there also: she wrapped me up in a truss of straw that was accidentally in the room, and laid me on the table, and went to the other women. Once in the night, after my aunts had laid me down, they went to the mass at candle-mass time. Then I got up, and had run through the snow in winter, naked, to a house. When they came back, and did not find me, they were in great distress, but found me at last in that house, between two men, who were warming me, for I was frozen in the snow. Afterwards when I was also for a while with the same aunts, at "In der Wilde," my eldest brother arrived from the Savoy war, and brought me a little wooden horse, which I drew along by a thread before the door. I still remember well that I really thought the little horse could walk, and can therefore well explain to myself how the little children often think that their dolls, and what they have, are alive. My brother also strode over me with one leg, as I still perfectly remember, and said, "Oho! Tommy, now you will never grow any more." When I was about three years old. Cardinal Matthew Schinner passed through the country to hold a visitation and confirm every where, as is the custom in the Catholic Church, and came to Grenchen also. At this time there was a priest in Grenchen, whose name was Anthony Platter; he was a relation of mine; to him they brought me, that he should act as godfather at my confirmation. When however the Cardinal had dined, and was gone again into the church to confirm, (I do not know what my uncle had to do), I ran without his knowledge into the church, that I might be confirmed, and that my godfather might give me a crown piece, as it is the custom to give the children something. The Cardinal sat in an arm chair waiting till they brought him the children. I still recollect very well that I ran up to him. As my godfather was not with me, he spoke to me: "What do you want, my child?" I said, "I should like to be confirmed." Then he said, smiling, "What is your name?" I answered, "My name is Master Thomas." Then he laughed, murmured something with his hand laid on my head, and gave me a gentle slap on the cheek. At this moment Mr. Anthony came, and excused himself by saying that I had run away without his knowledge. Then the Cardinal related to him what I had said, and said to that gentleman, "Certainly that child will become something wonderful, -- probably a priest." And because I was born just as they were ringing for mass, many people supposed that I should become a priest; on which account also they sent me to school earlier than usual. When I was about six years old they sent me to Eisenthal behind Stalden, where my mother's sister had a husband, called Thomas of Rudi, who lived on a farm called Am Boden. For him I was obliged to keep the goats near the house. I can remember how I often stuck in the snow, so that I could scarcely get out, and my shoes remained behind, so that I came home barefoot and shivering. This farmer had about eighty goats, which I had to tend in my seventh and eighth years. When therefore I opened the stable, and did not immediately get out of the way, the goats, as I was still so little, knocked me down, ran over me, and trod on my head, arms, and back; for I usually fell on my face. When I drove them over the bridge, then the foremost ran past me into the corn field; and when I drove these out, the others ran in. Then I used to cry and lament; for I knew well that in the evening I should be beaten. When, however, other goatherds came to me from other farmers, they helped me; particularly one, called Thomas of Leidenbach. He had pity on me, and shewed me much kindness. Then we all sat together, when we had led the goats up the high and frightful mountains, and ate our supper. Each one had a shepherd's basket on his back, with cheese and rye-bread in it. One day when we had dined we set about shooting for a trial of skill. On the top of a high rock there was a flat piece of ground. As one after the other now shot at the mark, one stood before me who wished to shoot. I endeavoured to get out of his way, that he should not strike me on the head; but as I stepped back a few paces I fell backwards from off the rock. The shepherds all cried out, "Lord Jesus! Lord Jesus!" till I was out of sight; for I had fallen under the rock, so that they could not see me; and they fully believed that I was killed. I however soon got up again, and climbed up by the side of the rock to them. If they wept before for grief, they now wept for joy. Six weeks after a goat belonging to one of them fell down at the same spot, and was killed! So carefully had God watched over me. About half a year after, I led out my goats early in the morning before the other shepherds, (for I was the nearest,) over a point of rock, called White Point, when my goats turned to the right over a piece of rock that was a good foot wide, but below which there was, in a frightful abyss more than 1000 fathoms deep, nothing but rocks. From the ledge of the rock one goat went up after the other, over one where they had scarcely room to put their feet on the little roots of grass which had grown on the rock. As soon as they were up, I wished to get after them. When, however, I had drawn myself up by the grass about a step, I could get no farther; neither did I dare to step upon the rock again, much less to jump backwards, for I was afraid if I did so that I should jump too far, and so fall over the dreadful precipice. I remained therefore a good while in this position, and waited for the help of God, for I could not help myself; except that I held myself with both hands by a little tuft of grass, and supported myself by turns with my great toes on another tuft of grass. In this predicament I suffered extreme anxiety; for I was afraid that the great vultures that flew about in the air below me, would carry me away, as it sometimes does happen in the Alps, that they take away children and lambs. Whilst I stood there and the wind blew about my garment behind -- for I had no trowsers on -- my comrade Thomas perceived me from a distance, but did not know what it was. When he saw my coat fluttering in the wind, he supposed that it was a bird. When, however, he recognised me, he was so terrified that he became quite pale, and called to me, "Now, Tommy, stand still!" Then he hurried upon the ledge of rock, took me in his arms, and carried me down again to where we could get after the goats another way. Some years after, when I came home from the schools in distant lands, and my companion heard of it, he came, and reminded me how he had rescued me from death (as indeed is true, for which I give the glory to God). He said to me, that when I became a priest I should remember him, and pray to God for him. The master, however, with whom I served at that time, afterwards told my wife, "That he had never had a better little servant, as young and small as I was." Amongst other sisters of my father, was one of the name of Frances, who was unmarried, and my father had particularly recommended me to her care, as being the youngest child. When therefore the people told her in what a dangerous employment I was engaged, and that I should certainly kill myself some day by a fall, she came to my master and declared to him that she would not have me there any longer. At this he was dissatisfied; still she took me away again to Grenchen, where I was born, and placed me with a rich old farmer who was called "Hans im Boden." For him I was also obliged to mind the goats; when it happened one day that I and a little girl (who also minded her father's goats) were playing by an artificial channel, whereby the water was conducted down the mountain to the grounds, and had forgotten ourselves in play. We had made little meadows, and watered them as children do. In the mean while the goats had gone up the mountain, we knew not whither. Then I left my little coat lying there, and ascended the mountain up to the very top; the little girl however went home without the goats. I, on the contrary, as a poor servant, would not venture to go home unless I had the goats. Up very high I saw a kid that was just like one of my young goats, and this I followed at a distance till the sun went down. When I looked back to the village and saw that at the houses it was quite night, I began to descend again; but it was soon quite dark. In the mean time I climbed from one tree to another, and held myself by the loose roots from which the earth had fallen off. When however it became quite dark, I would not venture any farther, but held myself by my left hand on a root; with the other I scratched the earth loose under the trees and roots, to hollow out a place to lie in, and listened how the lumps of earth rolled down into the abyss. Thereupon I forced myself into the opening which was made between the earth and roots, in order to lie firmly, and not to fall down in my sleep. I had nothing on except a little shirt, neither shoes nor hat; for the little coat, in my anxiety at having lost the goats, I had left by the watercourse. As I lay under the tree the ravens became aware that I was there, and made a noise on the tree; so that I was in great terror, being afraid that a bear was at hand. I crossed myself, however, and fell asleep, and slept till the morning, when the sun was shining over all the mountains. When however I awoke, and saw where I lay, I do not know that I was ever more frightened in my life: for had I in the night gone four yards deeper, I must have fallen down, a frightfully steep precipice many thousand feet deep. I was in great trouble too about the mode of getting away from thence. I drew myself from one root to the other, till I again got to the place from whence I could run down the mountain to the houses. When I was just out of the wood, near the farms, the little maid met me with the goats which she was driving out again; for they had run home of themselves the night before, and the people in whose service I was, were very much frightened on account of my not having come home with the goats. They believed that I had fallen and killed myself, and asked my aunt and the people in that house in which I was born (for that stood next to the house in which I served) whether they knew any thing of me, for that I had not come home with the goats. From that time on they would not allow me to mind goats any more, because they had to endure so much anxiety on my account. Whilst I was with this master and tended his goats, I once fell into a boiler of hot milk which stood on the fire, and scalded myself, so that one could see the scars all my life after. I was also in two other perils besides this while I was with him. Once there were two of us little goatherds in the wood, and were talking of various childish things: amongst others we wished that we could fly, for then we would fly out of the mountain to Germany (for so Switzerland was called in St. Gall). On a sudden came a frightfully large bird darting down upon us, so that we thought it was going to carry one or both of us away. At this we both began to scream, and to defend ourselves with our shepherd's crooks, and to cross ourselves, till the bird flew away; then we said to one another, "We have done wrong in wishing to be able to fly; God did not create us for flying, but for walking." Another time I was in a very deep fissure looking for crystals, of which many were found in it. All at once I saw a stone as large as an oven starting from the side, and as I had no time to get out of the way, I stooped down upon my face. The stone fell several fathoms down to a spot above me, and from thence it made a spring away over me, so that I escaped with a whole skin. I had plenty of such joys and happiness on the mountains among the goats, of which I now remember nothing more. This I well know, that I seldom had whole toes, but often great bruises; had many bad falls; without shoes for the most part in summer, or else wooden ones; and endured great thirst. My food was in the morning, before day, a rye-broth, that is, a soup made of rye-meal. Cheese and rye-bread are given in a little basket to be carried at one's back; at night cheese-milk; of all however there was a fair allowance. In summer, lying on hay; in winter, on a straw mattrass full of all sorts of vermin. Such are the resting-places of the poor little shepherds who serve the farmers in the wildernesses.


Chapter II.

Master Thomas Becomes A Travelling Scholar.


As they would not any longer allow me to tend the goats, I entered the service of a farmer who had one of my aunts to wife, and was a fiery passionate man. I had to keep his cows; for at most places in St. Gall they have not shepherds in common, to mind the cows for all; but whoever has a mountain whither he can send them during the summer, has a little shepherd who watches them upon his own property. When I had been with them a while my aunt Frances came, who wished to send me to my uncle, Mr. Anthony Platter, that I should learn the writings (such was their phrase when they wished to send any one to school). That gentleman was at that time no longer in Grenchen, but was become an old man at St. Nicholas, in the village that is called Gasse. When my farmer, whose name was the "Antsche," or "Anthony an der Habzucht," was aware of my aunt's intention, he was much dissatisfied: and said, "That I would learn nothing notwithstanding;" and added, putting the forefinger of his right hand into the palm of the left, "the urchin will learn just as much as I can drive my finger through." That I saw and heard myself. My aunt answered, "Oh! who knows? God has not refused him his gifts: he may yet become a pious priest." And so she led me to the spiritual gentleman, when I was about nine and a half years old. Then it was that my sufferings really began, for the gentleman was a very passionate man, but I a little awkward peasant boy. He beat me barbarously; often took me by the ears and dragged me from the ground. I screamed like a goat that had the knife sticking into it, so that often the neighbours came screaming in to him to know whether he would kill me out and out. I did not remain long with him. Just at this time there came one who had travelled to the schools at Ulm and Munich in Bavaria, a grandson of my old grandfather. This student's name was Paul Summermatter. My friends had told him of me, and he promised them that he would take me with him, and in Germany take me to school. As soon as I heard of this I fell on my knees, and besought God Almighty to help me away from the priest, who taught me sheer nothing, but on the contrary beat me unmercifully. I had scarcely learned to sing the "Salve" a little, and to go about the village with other scholars who were also with the priest, and were obliged to sing before the houses for eggs.

Once, when we were about to celebrate mass, the other boys sent me into the church to fetch a taper. This I thrust alight into my sleeve and burnt myself so, that I still bear about me the scar of it. When Paul wished to wander again, I was to come to him to Stalden. Behind Stalden is a house called "Zum Mullibach;" there my mother's brother, Simon Summermatter, lived; he was to be my guardian, and gave me a golden florin: which I carried in my hand to Stalden, and on the way often looked at it to see whether I had it, and then gave it to Paul. Thus we left the country. I was then obliged to beg for the necessary money on the road, and also to share it with Paul my Bacchant. Schools were not then established in all places; and young persons who wished to learn any thing, or to prepare themselves for any religious office, which at that time required but little knowledge, went, either singly or in greater numbers, after renowned teachers. As they were for the most part poor people, they lived on alms by the way. And when the thing degenerated the grown ones were called Bacchants, because they lived well on what was obtained by begging, and led a wild and dissolute life: the little ones were called a-b-c fags.[1] They, when the begging was not sufficient, did not make any scruple about stealing, which was called "Sharp-Shooting." They were, however, usually called Scholastics, or Travelling Scholars. So bad were the school-arrangements; until the Reformation made improvements in this department also. On account of my simplicity and provincial dialect, people gave very liberally to me. When I crossed over the Grimsel, and came into an inn at night, I saw a stove made of tiles of white delft for the first time, and the moon shone on the tiles. I thought it was a large calf, for I saw only two tiles shining, and believed them to be the eyes. In the morning I saw geese, of which I had never seen any before. When therefore they set on me hissing, as geese are accustomed to do, I ran away from them with a loud cry, for I thought it was the devil who wanted to devour me. In Lucerne I saw the first tiled roofs, and wondered very much at the red colour. Hereupon we came to Zurich: there Paul waited for several comrades who wished to go with us to Meissen. In the mean time I went for alms, with which I was obliged almost entirely to support Paul: for when I came into an inn the people liked to hear me speak the St. Gall dialect, and gave me liberally. At that time there was in Zurich a certain fellow, a great rogue, out of Leak in St. Gall: his name was Carle. He once came to me -- for we lodged in the same house -- and said to me, that I should allow him to give me one blow on the bare back, and that he would give me a Zurich sixer (sixpence) for it. I allowed myself to be persuaded. He then laid hold of me stoutly, laid me across a chair, and beat me very sorely. When I had borne that, he asked me to lend him the sixer again, for he wished to sup with the landlady at night, and could not pay the reckoning. I gave him the sixpence, but never got it again. Thus were my innocency and inexperience abused. After we had waited for company about eight or nine weeks, we set out for Meissen; for me, a very long journey, because I was not accustomed to travel so far, and besides that, I was obliged to provide my provisions on the way. We travelled eight or nine together -- three little fags, and the rest great Bacchants, as they were called, and I was the smallest and youngest of the fags. When I could not get on vigorously, my relation Paul walked behind me with a rod or stick, and beat me on the bare legs; for I had no hose on, but bad shoes. I cannot now remember all that befel us on the road; but some adventures I have not yet forgotten. When we were upon the journey, and were speaking of all sorts of things, the Bacchants narrated to one another how it was the custom in Meissen and Silesia for the fags to be allowed to steal geese and ducks, and other articles of provision, and that nothing was done to them on that account if they could only escape from the owner. In my simplicity I believed every thing, for I knew nothing of the commandments of God, and had had no experience of the world. We were one day not far from a village; there was a great flock of geese there, and the herdsman was not at hand, but pretty far off with the cowherds. Then I asked my comrades, the fags, "When shall we be in Meissen, that I may throw at the geese and kill them?" They said, "We are there already." Then I took a stone, threw it, and hit one on the foot. The others fled away, but the lame one could not follow. I took another stone, threw, and hit it on the head, so that it fell down; for when with the goats, I had learned to throw well, so that no shepherd of my age was superior to me: could also blow the shepherd's horn, and leap with the pole; for in such arts I exercised myself with my fellow-shepherds. I then ran to it, and caught the goose by the neck, and put it under my little coat, and went along the road through the village. Then the gooseherd came running after, shouting through the village, "The urchin has robbed me of a goose." I and my fellow fags ran off, and the feet of the goose hung out from under my little coat. The peasants came out of their houses with halberds, and followed us. When I now saw that I could not escape with the goose, I let it fall. I jumped aside into a thicket outside the village; but my two comrades ran along the road and were overtaken by two peasants. They then fell down on their knees and begged for mercy, for that they had done them no harm. The peasants therefore seeing that he was not there who had let the goose fall, went back into the village and took the goose along with them. When I saw how they ran after my companions, I was in a great fright, and said to myself, "O God! I believe that I have not blessed myself to-day:" as I had been taught that I should bless myself every morning. When the peasants came into the village they found our Bacchants in the public-house; for they had gone before, and we came after. Then the peasants thought that they ought to pay for the goose, which would have made about two bats (four-pence), but I do not know whether they paid it or not. When they came to us again they laughed, and asked how it had happened. I excused myself with saying, that I thought such was the custom of the country; but they said that it was not yet time. When, however, some of the Bacchants behaved themselves very rudely towards us, some of us, with Paul, determined to run away from the Bacchants, and go by way of Dresden to Breslau. On the way we had to suffer much from hunger, so that several days we ate nothing but raw onions with salt; some days roasted acorns, crab-apples, and wild pears. Many a night we lay in the open air, because no one would suffer us in the houses, no matter how early we might ask for lodging. Now and then the dogs were set at us. When however we came to Breslau there was an abundance of every thing; yes, every thing was so cheap that the poor fags used to eat too much, and often made themselves sick. At first we went to school in the cathedral of the Holy Cross; when however we heard that in the principal parish of St. Elizabeth there were several Swiss, we went thither. There were there two from Bremgarten, two from Mellingen, and others, besides a number of Suabians. There was no difference made between the Suabians and the Swiss; they addressed one another as countrymen, and protected one another. The city of Breslau has seven parishes, each a separate school: and no scholar was allowed to go singing into another parish; else they immediately shouted "Ad idem! ad idem!" Then the fags ran together, and beat one another very sorely. There were, as was said at that time, several thousand Bacchants and fags in the city at once, who all lived upon alms. It was said also that there were some that had been there twenty, thirty, or more years, who had had their fags that were obliged to wait upon them. I have often in one evening carried my Bacchants five or six loads of provisions home to the school where they lived. People gave to me very willingly, because I was little, and a Swiss; for they were uncommonly fond of the Swiss. They also felt great compassion with the Swiss, because just at that time they had suffered sorely in the great battle at Milan; so that the common people said, "The Swiss have now lost their Pater-Noster." For before that, they imagined that the Swiss were quite invincible.

I one day went up to two gentlemen or country squires in the market-place, (I heard afterwards that the one was called Benzenauer, the other Tucker,) who were walking there, and asked alms from them, as poor fags were accustomed to do. Tucker said to me, "From whence are you?" and when he heard that I was a Swiss, he was surprised, together with Benzenauer, and said to me, "But are you really a Swiss? If that is the fact, I will adopt you as a son, and I will assure you of that here before the council in Breslau; but, in return, you must promise to remain with me, and accompany me wherever I go." I answered, "In my native place I was given in charge to a certain person; I will ask him about it." But when I asked my relation Paul about it, he said, "I have conducted you out of your own native place, and I will conduct you to your own friends again, and then whatever they bid you, that you can do." I therefore declined this offer. But whenever I came before the house I was not allowed to go empty away. Thus I remained for a time in Breslau; was also three times ill in one winter, so that they were obliged to bring me into the hospital, for the travelling scholars had a particular hospital and physicians for themselves. Sixteen hellers were also paid weekly from the Town-house for each sick person, by which one person could be well supported. Care was then taken of the patients, and they had good beds, only they were not clean; so that I rather lay upon the floor than in the beds. During the winter the fags lay upon the floor in the school; but the Bacchants in small chambers, of which there were several hundreds at St. Elizabeth's. But in summer, when it was hot, we lay in the church-yard: collected grass, such as is spread in summer before the doors on Sunday in the gentlemen's streets,[2] and lay in it, like pigs in the straw. When however it rained we ran into the school; and when there was thunder we sang responsories and other sacred music the whole night, with the Subcantor. Now and then after sapper, in summer, we went into the beer-houses to beg for beer. And the drunken Polish peasants would then give us so much, that I was often unable to find my way to the school again, though only a stone's throw from it. In short, there was plenty to eat here, but there was not much study; and of true piety no one had an idea. In the school at St. Elizabeth's, indeed, nine Bachelors of Arts read lectures at the same hour, and in the same room; still the Greek language had not yet made its way anywhere in the country; neither had any one printed books, except the Preceptor, who had a printed Terence. What was read had first to be dictated, then pointed, then construed, and at last explained; so that the Bacchants had to carry away thick books of notes when they went home.

From Breslau eight of us migrated again to Dresden; had however to suffer much from hunger on the way. We then determined to separate for one day; some went to see after geese; some after turnips, and carrots, and onions; some about a pot; we little ones however were to procure bread and salt in the neighbouring town of Neumark. In the evening we intended to assemble again outside the city, and there take up our lodging, and cook what we might have. About a gunshot distant from the city there was a well, by which we wished to remain during the night; but when the fire was seen, they fired at us; still no one was hit. We therefore took ourselves off behind a ridge to a little rivulet and thicket. The bigger companions hewed branches down, and made a hut; others plucked the geese, of which they had managed to get two; others cut the turnips into the pot, and put the head and feet and the like in also; others made two wooden spits, and began to roast; and as soon as it was a little brown, we took it from the spit and ate it, and the turnips too. To none of us did it occur that we were partaking of stolen provisions, and so were worthy of punishment in the sight of God and man. In the night we heard something making an odd noise. There was a wear near us from which the water had been let off the day before, and the fish were springing up to the wall; we therefore took as many as we could carry in a shirt, and on a stick, and set off for the nearest village. There we gave part of them to a peasant, that, in return, he should boil the others in beer for us.

From Dresden we went to Nuremberg. On the way, not far from Dresden, it happened that I went into a village to request alms, and came before a peasant's house. Then the peasant asked me where I came from. When he heard that I was a Swiss, he asked, if I had any companions. I answered, "My companions are waiting for me outside the village." "Desire them to come hither," said he, and he got a good meal ready for us; also beer enough to drink. When we were comfortable, and the peasant with us, he said to his mother, who was lying in bed in the room, "Mother, I have often heard from you, that you would like to see a Swiss before you die: there you see several; I have invited them for your sake." Then the mother raised herself up, thanked the son for bringing such guests, and said, "I have heard so much good of the Swiss, that I very much desired to see one: methinks that I will now die more willingly; therefore make yourselves merry." Whereupon she laid herself down again, and we set out again after we had thanked the peasant. From thence we came to Munich, where Paul and I found lodging with a soap-boiler of the name of Hans Schrall, who was a Master of Arts of Vienna, but an enemy to the clerical state. Him I helped to make soap, rather more than I went to school; and travelled about with him to the villages to buy ashes. Paul at length determined to pay a visit to our home, for we had not been at home during five years. Accordingly, we went home to St. Gall. My friends were then unable to understand me, and said, "Our Tommy speaks so profoundly, that no one can understand him:" for, being young, I had learned something of the language of every place where I had been.


Chapter III.

Master Thomas Begins To Study.


My stay at home was not long. We soon set out again towards Ulm. Paul then took another boy With him, whose name was Hildebrand Kalbermatter; he was also very young. Some cloth, such as was made in that country, was given to him for a little coat. When we came to Ulm, Paul desired me to go about with the cloth, and beg the money to pay for the making. With it I earned a great deal of money; for I understood begging well, because the Bacchants had always kept me to it. To the schools on the contrary, they did not draw me, not even so much as to teach me to read. Thus it was at Ulm too: when I ought to have gone to school, I was obliged to run about with the cloth. I suffered great hunger at this time; for all that I got I had to bring to the Bacchants, and did not dare, for fear of stripes, to eat even a morsel. Paul had taken another Bacchant to live with him, of the name of Achatius, a native of Mayence; and I, with my companion Hildebrand, had to wait on them both. But my companion ate almost all that was given him at the houses himself. The Bacchants on that account went after him into the street, and found him eating: thereupon they threw him on a bed, covered his head with a pillow, so that he could not cry, and beat him with all their might. That made me afraid, so that I brought home all that I got. They had often so much bread that it became mouldy; they then cut off the mouldy outside, and gave it to us to eat. I was often very hungry, and frost-bitten too, because I had to go about in the dark till midnight, to sing for bread. Now there was at that time a pious widow at Ulm, who had a son, Paul Reling, and two daughters. This widow during the winter often wrapt my feet in a warm fur, which she laid behind the stove, to warm them when I came; gave me also a basin full of vegetables, and then allowed me to go home. I was indeed sometimes so hungry, that I drove the dogs in the street away from their bones, and gnawed them; I also sought together the last crumbs out of the bags, and eat them.

From Ulm we went to Munich, where I still had to beg for money to make up the cloth, which however was not mine. A year after we came again to Ulm, intending to go once more to our native place. I brought the cloth again with me, however, and was obliged again to beg for money to make it up. I can still well remember that some said to me, "What! has the coat never been made? I believe that you are playing tricks." What became of the cloth, and whether the coat was ever made, I know not. From thence we made a visit to our native place, and after that returned again to Munich.

As three of us little fags had no lodging, we intended to go at night to the corn-market, and sleep upon the corn sacks. There were several women in the street standing before the salt-house, who asked where we were going. A butcher's widow was of the number, who, when she understood that we were Swiss, said to her maid, "Run, hang the pot with the soup and the remainder of the meat over the fire; they must lodge with me to-night; I am friendly to all Swiss. I served in an inn at Inspruck at the time the Emperor Maximilian held his court there. The Swiss had much dealing with him then, and were such good people, that I will be friendly to them all my life long." She gave us enough to eat and drink, and a good place to rest in. In the morning she said to us, "If one of you will stay with me, I will give him lodging, and meat and drink." We were all willing, and because I looked a little sharper than the others, she chose me. I helped her with her household and field occupations; but was still obliged, however, to wait on my Bacchant. The woman did not like to see that, and said, "Let the Bacchant alone, and stay with me, then you need not beg." For eight days, therefore, I went neither to the Bacchant nor to the school. He then came and knocked at the house-door. She said to me, "Your Bacchant is there, say that you are sick." I did what she desired me, for I did not know that a lie of that kind was a sin. When Paul came she said to him, "You are truly a fine gentleman, and should have looked after Thomas: he has been sick, and is so still." He said then, "I am sorry for it, boy: when you can go out again, come to me." Afterwards, on a Sunday, I went to vespers; then he said to me after vespers, "You fag, you do not come to me, I will trample you under foot some day." Then I resolved that he should not trample on me, for that I would run away. On Sunday I said to the butcher's widow that I wanted to go into the school and wash my shirt. I went, however, over the Iser, for I was afraid that if I went to Switzerland Paul would follow me. At the other side of the Iser is a hill; there I sat down, looked at the city, and cried bitterly, because I had now no longer any one to help me. I thought of going to Saltzburg or Vienna in Austria. As I sat there, a peasant came by with his waggon. He had brought salt to Munich, and was already drunk, although the sun had only just risen. I asked him to allow me to get up, and rode with him till he stopped to get something for himself and his horses to eat. In the mean time I begged in the village; and not far from the village I waited for him, and fell asleep. On awaking I cried heartily; for I thought that the peasant had driven away, and felt as if I had lost a father. However he soon came, quite drunk; told me to get up again, and asked whither I wished to go? I said to Saltzburg. When it was evening he drove side-ways off the highroad, and said, "Now you can get down, there is the road to Saltzburg." We had driven eight miles that day. I came into a village; when I got up in the morning there was a hoar frost, as if it had snowed, and I had no shoes, only torn socks; no cap, and a jacket without folds. I therefore went to Passau, and wished there to get a passage, and sail on the Danube to Vienna. In Passau they would not let me in. Then I determined to go to Switzerland, and asked the gatekeeper which was the nearest road to Switzerland. "By Munich," said he. "To Munich!" I answered, "I will not go. I would rather go out of my way ten miles to avoid it." He then directed me to Freissing, where there was a high-school or university. There I found Swiss. But before many days had elapsed Paul arrived with an halberd. The fags said to me, "The Bacchant from Munich is here, and is looking for you." Then I ran out at the gate as if he had been behind me, and went to Ulm, where I came to my saddler's widow, who had formerly warmed my feet by wrapping them in fur. After several weeks, one came to me who had been a companion of Paul's, and said to me, "Your relation Paul is here, and looking for you." So he had come eighteen miles after me; for in me he had lost a good benefice, because I had supported him several years. When however I heard this, although it was nearly night, I ran out at the gate, on the road to Constance; but lamented in my soul, for it was very grievous to me on account of the dear woman who had taken care of me like a mother. So I crossed the lake to Constance, and went over the bridge, and saw some little Swiss peasants in white jackets. Oh how glad I was! I imagined I was in the kingdom of heaven. From thence I came to Zurich, where I found some fellow-countrymen, natives of St. Gall, great Bacchants; to them I offered my services, if in return they would instruct me; but that they did as little as the others. After several months Paul sent his fag Hildebrand from Munich, to tell me that if I would return he would pardon me; but I would not, but stayed in Zurich, though indeed without studying. There was one Anthony Benetz there, out of Visp in St. Gall, who persuaded me to accompany him on a tour to Strasburg. When we arrived, there were a great many poor scholars there, and, as was said, not even one good school; we therefore went to Schlestadt. A gentleman met us, and asked, "Where are you going?" When he heard that we wished to go to Schlestadt he dissuaded us from it, by saying that there were many poor scholars there, and no rich people. Whereupon my comrade began to cry bitterly, because he did not know any other place to go to. I comforted him, and said, "Be of good courage! If there is one in Schlestadt who makes shift to live alone, I will manage to support us both." Whilst in a village outside of Schlestadt, where we got lodging in a mill, I got such a pain that I thought I must choke, and scarcely could get breath; for I had eaten a great many green nuts, which fall off about that season. Anthony then cried again; for he thought that he should lose his companion, and then not know how to help himself any more: and yet he had ten crowns secretly about him, and I not a halfpenny. When we came into the town, and had found lodging in the house of an aged married couple, of whom the man was stone blind, we went to the preceptor, Mr. John Sapidus, and begged of him to receive us. He asked us whence we came; when we said, "From Switzerland, from. St. Gall." He said, "There are wicked peasants there; they drive all their bishops away out of the country. If you intend to study properly you need not give me any thing; but if not, you must pay me, or I will pull your coats off your back." That was the first school which seemed to me to go on well. At that time the study of languages and sciences came into fashion. It was the same year that the diet was held at Worms. Sapidus had at one time nine hundred scholars, amongst whom were several fine learned fellows, who afterwards became celebrated men. When I entered the school I could do nothing, not even read the Donatus,[3] and was nevertheless already eighteen years old. I seated myself among the little children, but was like the clucking hen among the chickens. When we had been there from Autumn till Whitsuntide, and there was a continual influx of scholars from all quarters, I was no longer able to procure sustenance for us both; we therefore went away to Solothurn, where there was a tolerably good school, and also a maintenance easier to be found. But as a set-off against this, we had to stay much in church, and lose time: so we went again to our native place, where I remained awhile, and went to school to a priest who taught me a little writing, and other things I know not what. Here I got the ague, and was nursed by my aunt Frances in Grenchen. At the same time I taught the little son of my other aunt, Simon Steiner, his A B C. He came to Zurich a year after, and studied by degrees: then he came to Strasburg, where he became Dr. Bucer's Famulus: and because he was attentive to his studies, he was made teacher of the thirds and afterwards of the second, class; and was very much regretted by the scholars at Strasburg when he died.

In the following Spring I left the country again, with two brothers. When we took leave of our mother, she cried and said, "God have mercy upon me, that now I must see three sons go into misery." Excepting that time I never saw my mother cry, for she was a courageous stout-hearted woman, but rather rough. When her third husband died, whom she had married in my absence, she remained a widow, and did all manner of work like a man, in order that she might be better able to bring up her youngest children. Hewing wood, hay-making, threshing, and other work which belongs more to men than women, were not too much for her. She had also buried three of her children herself, who had died in a time of very great pestilence; for in time of pestilence it costs a great deal to get persons buried by the gravediggers. Towards us her first children she was very harsh, for which reason we seldom entered the house. Once when I came to her again, after an absence of five years, in which I had travelled much in far distant lands, the first word she said to me was, "Has the devil carried you hither once more?" I answered, "The devil has not carried me, but my feet; I will not however be a burden to you long." She then said, "You are not a burden to me; but it grieves me that you go strolling backwards and forwards in this manner, and doubtless learn nothing at all. If you learned to work, as your late father did, that would be better; -- you will never be a priest: I am not so lucky as to be the mother of a priest." So I remained with her two or three days. She was otherwise a respectable, honest, and pious woman, as was admitted by every body.

On my departure with my two brothers, as we were crossing the Letshi mountain towards Gestelen, my brothers sat down upon the slopes on the snow, and so slid down the mountain. I wished to imitate them, but because I did not instantly put my feet asunder the snow threw me over, so that I slid down the mountain head over heels. It would have been no wonder if I had killed myself by knocking my head against a tree; for there were no rocks. Three times I had the same mishap, for I always thought that I should be able to do it as well as my brothers; but they were more used to the mountains than I. Thus we travelled on together. They both remained in Entlibuch, but I went on to Zurich. There I lodged with the mother of the far famed, pious, and learned Mr. Rudolph Gwalther, who is now pastor at St. Peter's. He was then in the cradle, and I used often to rock him. I now visited the school in Frauenmunster, in which Wolfgang Knauel, a pious Master of Arts, taught. I was quite in earnest in my desire to study, for I perceived that it was high time. They said at that time, that a teacher would come from Einsiedeln, a learned and faithful man, but extremely old. So I made a seat for myself in a corner not far from the teacher's seat, and said to myself, "In this corner you will study or die." When he came into the school for the first time, he said, "This is a nice school, but methinks there are stupid boys: still we shall see; only be industrious." This I know, that had my life depended on it I could not have declined a noun of the first declension, although I had learned Donatus off by heart to a nicety. For when I was at Schlestadt, Sapidus had a certain Bachelor of Arts, George von Andlau, a very learned man: he plagued the Bacchants so grievously with the Donatus, that I thought, "If it be such a good book, then you must learn it by heart," and as I learned to read it I learned it by heart at the same time. That turned to good account for me in the opinion of Father Myconius, my new teacher in Zurich; for he began at once to read Terence with us, and then we had to decline and conjugate every little word of a whole comedy. He used often to deal with me until my shirt was wet with perspiration through fear, and my eyes grew dim; and yet he never gave me a blow, except on one single occasion with the left hand on my cheek. He also read lectures upon the Holy Scriptures, which were attended by many of the laity; for at that time the light of the Gospel was just beginning to dawn, although Mass and the idolatrous pictures in the churches were continued for a long time after. Whenever he was rough towards me, he afterwards took me to his house, and gave me a meal; for he liked to hear me relate how I had travelled through all the countries in Germany, and what I had suffered every where, which I could much better remember then than now. Myconius without doubt was already acquainted with the pure doctrine; but was obliged, notwithstanding, to go to church at Frauenmunster with his scholars to sing the Vesper, Matins, and Masses, and to direct the singing. Once he said to me, "Custos,"[4] (for I was his Custos), "I would now rather read four lessons than sing one Mass; do me a favour, and sometimes attend to an easy Mass, a Requiem, and such like for me: I will not let it be unrewarded." With that I was well content, for I was accustomed to that sort of thing, not only at Zurich, but also at Solothurn and elsewhere; for everything was still Popish. Many a one was to be found who could sing better than expound a Gospel; and it was daily to be seen in the schools that wild Bacchants went off and were ordained, if they could only sing a little, though they understood nothing either of grammar or Gospel. During the time that I was Custos, I was often in want of wood for heating the school. One morning Zuinglius was to preach before day in Frauenmunster; and as they were ringing the bell for service, there being no wood for heating the school, I thought in my simplicity, "You have no wood, and there are so many idols in the church!" As no one was there I went into the church to the nearest altar, seized a wooden St. John, hurried with him into the school, put him into the stove, and said to him, "Johnny, now bend yourself; you must go into the stove, even though you do represent a St. John." When he began to burn, there were nasty great blisters from the oil paint. I thought, "Now hold still; if you stir, which you however will not do, I will shut-to the door of the stove, and you dare not come out, unless the evil one fetches you." In the mean time the wife of Myconius came, intending to go to church to the sermon, and said, "God give you a good day, my son; have you heated the stove?" I closed the stove door, and said, "Yes, mother; I am quite ready." I would not however tell it to her; for if it had been known, it would have cost me my life at that time. In the school Myconius said, "Custos, you have had famous wood to-day," I thought, "St. John deserves the most praise." When we were to sing the Mass two priests were quarrelling together, and one said to the other, "You Lutheran knave, you have robbed me of a St. John." This they continued a good while. Myconius did not know what the matter was, but St. John was never found again. Of course I never told it to any one, till several years after, when Myconius was preacher at Basle; I then told it to him, and he wondered very much, and remembered well how the priests had quarrelled together. Although it appeared to me then that Popery was mere mummery, yet I still had it in my mind to become a priest, and to do the duties of my office faithfully, and deck out my altar smartly. For of real piety I understood at that time nothing; all rested merely on outward ceremonies. When, however, Ulrich Zuinglius preached severely against it, my scruples increased more and more in course of time. Otherwise I had prayed much, and fasted rather more than was agreeable to me; had also my saints and patrons, to whom I prayed: our Lady, the Virgin Mary, that she would be my intercessor with her Son; St. Catherine, that I might become learned; St. Barbara, that I might not die without the sacrament; St. Peter, that he would open heaven to me. What I neglected I wrote in a little book, and when there was a holiday at school, as on Thursday and Saturday, I went to Frauenmunster to a school: began and wrote all my offences upon a chair, and paid one debt after the other with prayers, blotting them out one after the other, and thought then that I had done right. Six times I went with processions from Zurich to Einsiedeln; was diligent in confession, and have often fought with my companions for Popery. One day, however, Ulrich Zuinglius preached in Sollnau upon the Gospel of St. John x., "I am the good Shepherd," &c.: that he explained so pointedly, that I felt as if some one had pulled me up into the air by the hair of my head, and made known to me how God would require the blood of the lost sheep at the hands of the shepherds who are guilty of their destruction. Then I thought to myself, "If that be the meaning, then adieu to the priest's office! a priest I will never be!" I continued however in my studies; began also to dispute with my comrades; attended the sermons diligently, and was fond of hearing my preceptor Myconius. Mass and the idolatrous pictures, however, were still continued at Zurich.


Chapter IV.

Master Thomas Becomes Rope-Maker And Hebrew Professor.



At that time six of us went home to St. Gall: and on our arrival at Glyss, one Saturday, we heard that the priests were singing Vespers. After Vespers one of them came and asked, "Whence do you come?" I, as the boldest, replied, "From Zurich." On this the priest said, "What have you done in that heretic city?" I became angry and said, "Why heretic city?" The priest replied, "Because they have put away the Mass, and removed the pictures from the church." Thereupon I said, "That is not so, for they still celebrate Mass there; they have also pictures; why are they then heretics?" "For this reason," he replied, "because they do not consider the Pope as the head of the Christian Church, and do not call upon the Saints." I went on, "Why is the Pope the head of the Christian Church?" He said, "Because St. Peter was Pope at Rome, and has given the Popedom there to his successors." I said, "St. Peter very likely was never at Rome;" pulled my New Testament out of the bag, and shewed him how in the Epistle to the Romans the Apostle salutes so many, and yet never mentions St. Peter, who, according to his assertion, was the most eminent among the Christians of that place. Thereupon he said, "How could that be true, then, that Christ met St. Peter outside the city of Rome, and was asked by him where he was going to? whereupon he answered. To Rome, to allow myself to be crucified." I asked, "Where have you read this story?" He said, "I have often heard it from my grandmother." Thereupon I answered, "So, then, I perceive that your grandmother is your Bible! And why should we call upon the Saints?" Answer -- "Because it is written, God is wonderful in all his works." Then I stooped down, plucked a little plant, and said, "If one were to collect all men together, they would not be able to make a plant like this." He then became angry, and so our conversation ended. We had besides more than an hour's walk before us that night. Early on Sunday we came to Visp, where a lazy ignorant priest was to celebrate his first mass; for which reason a great many priests and scholars, and a great crowd of other people, came together. We scholars helped the priest to sing the mass. Then one who passed for the most eminent preacher preached from a window, and said amongst other things, to the young priest, "O thou noble knight! thou holy knight! thou art holier than the mother of God herself: for she only bore Christ once, but thou shalt hear him every day of thy life henceforth." Then one on the bridge, a Basle Master of Arts, out of Sitten, said a little too loud, "Priest! you lie like a miscreant." The priests had all an eye upon me; -- I knew not why, till I saw the priest with whom I had disputed the day before; then I could well imagine that he had complained of me. When the mass was over, all the priests and scholars were invited to dinner; but no one invited me. No man can believe how happy I then was, and how willing I was to fast for Christ's sake. When however my mother saw me, she said, "How comes it that they have not invited you also?" and she put bread and cheese into a bowl, and prepared me some porridge. Once when I was there at home, I visited my uncle (my mother's brother) who was at that time Castellan (that is, chief person in the Visper tenth), and said to him after supper, "Uncle, tomorrow I shall set out again." He asked "Whither?" I said: "To Zurich." He: "Pray do not go to that place, at your peril; for the Confederates will invade it; and have sent deputies from all places. They will be taught to give up the heretic faith." I: "And is no one here from Zurich?" He: "There is a messenger here with a letter." I: "Have they read the letter before the deputies and country people?" He: "Yes." I: "And what does the letter contain?" He: "In the letter they declare that they have adopted a doctrine by which they intend to abide! But if any one can convince them of another out of the Old or New Testament, then they will give it up." I: "Is not that right?" Upon that he said distinctly, and in these very words, "Let the devil take them and the New Testament together." I was horrified, and said, "O God! how you speak! It would be no wonder if God were to punish you both in body and soul. What then is the New Testament?" "It is their new heretic doctrine," said he; "so the deputies have acquainted us, particularly the one from Berne." Thereupon I said, "The New Testament is the new covenant which Christ established with the faithful, and sealed with His blood. That is recorded in the four Gospels and in the Epistles of the holy Apostles." Then he said, "Is that so?" "Yes," I answered; "and if you will, I will go with you to-morrow to Visp, and, if they will let me speak openly, I shall not let myself be restrained either by shame or by fear." He then said, "If the matter stands thus, I will not give my voice for making war upon them." On the following day the country people consulted together, and determined that this was a religious matter, and because the people of Zurich desired to be taught by the Holy Scriptures, the learned should be left to fight it out together. So nothing came of it, and I went again to Zurich, and pursued my studies in great poverty. I lodged in the house of an old woman of the name of Hutmacherinn, and had a room in company with a good and tolerably clever companion. There God knows that I often suffered great hunger, and many days had not a mouthful of bread to eat. More than once I put some water into a pan, begged of the woman a little salt to put into the water, and then drank it from sheer hunger. I had to give a Zurich shilling to the woman every week for the room; I therefore went now and then with messages across the country, for I got a bat (two-pence) for a mile; or I helped to carry wood, or to do other work of which many a student would be ashamed, and got something to eat for it, of which I was very glad and well satisfied. I was also Custos, for which I got at every quarterly fast a Zurich angster from each of the boys, of whom there were nearly sixty, sometimes more. Zuinglius and Myconius used also often to employ me to carry letters to the lovers of the truth in the allied districts. In this service I have often ventured my life with joy, that the doctrine of the truth might be spread, and several times narrowly escaped. So I remained in poverty in Zurich till Mr. Henry Werdmuller engaged me as tutor to his sons; one of whom, Otho Werdmuller, afterwards became Master of Arts in Wittenberg, and then preacher at Zurich; the other, however, was killed in the battle of Kappel. My sufferings from want were now at an end, for I got my dinner every day, but was near over-doing myself with study. I wished to study Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, all at the same time; and many a night slept very little, but tormented myself grievously with struggling against sleep; often I took cold water, raw turnips, or sand into my mouth, that the grating of my teeth might awake me. My dear father Myconius often warned me against it, and said nothing to me if it sometimes happened that sleep overpowered me during the lesson. Though I never had the fortune to hear lectures on Latin, Greek, and Hebrew grammar, yet I began to read them with others, in order to practise myself in them; for Myconius only drilled us diligently in the Latin language; not being himself thoroughly master of the Greek, as this was something very rare at that time. In private I occupied myself with Lucian and Homer, of which I had translations. Now also it happened that Father Myconius took me to live in his house. He had several boarders, among whom was the late Dr. Gessner, with whom I was to work Donatus and the declensions: this exercise was uncommonly useful to me. At that time Myconius had the very learned Theodore Bibliander as assistant, who was extraordinarily well versed in all languages, but particularly in the Hebrew, and had written a Hebrew grammar. He also boarded at Myconius's table, and instructed me, at my request, in Hebrew. I used to get up early every morning, made a fire in the stove in Myconius's little apartment, seated myself before the stove, and copied the grammar as long as Bibliander slept, and he never found it out. In this year Damian Irmi, of Basle, wrote to Pellican in Zurich, that he was going to Venice, and that if there were any poor fellows who might like to have Hebrew Bibles, he would bring some with him as cheap as possible. Dr. Pellican told him to bring twelve. When they came a copy cost a crown. I had still a crown left of a legacy which I had received a short time before; that I gave with joy for one, and then began to compare the original Hebrew Bible with the translation, and so to make myself acquainted with the meaning of the words. One day Conrad Pur, preacher at Mettmenstetten, in the Canton of Zurich, came; and when he saw me sitting at work over the Hebrew Bible, he said, "Are you a Hebrew? you must teach it to me also." I said, "I know nothing;" but he would not let himself be put off his purpose, till I promised him; for I also thought that by staying there longer I might become a burden to Myconius. I therefore went with him to Mettmenstetten, instructed him in Hebrew, had plenty to eat and to drink, and remained seven-and-twenty weeks with him. From him I came to Hedingen, to pastor Weber, who likewise desired instruction in Hebrew, and remained about twenty weeks with him. After that I came to another pastor at Rifferswyl; he was eighty years old, and wished to begin to learn Hebrew. From him I came again to Zurich. In the mean time there came a very learned young man from Lucern, of the name of Rudolph Collin; he was to go to Constance to receive priest's orders. Zuinglius, however, and Myconius, persuaded him to learn the rope-making trade with his money instead. After he had married, and become a master, I asked him to teach me the rope-making trade also. He said he had no hemp. Now just at that time a small legacy had fallen to me from my mother; with that I bought the master a cwt. of hemp, and learned as much as possible, till it was used up; but had, at the same time, always a desire for study, I used to get up quietly when the master thought I was asleep, and strike a light, and had a Homer, and secretly my master's translation, out of which I made notes into my Homer. When I was working at my trade, I took Homer with me. When the master discovered that, he said, "Platere! pluribus intentus, minor est ad singula sensus:" (Either study or follow your trade!) Once as we were eating our supper, and drinking water to it, he said, "Platere! how does Pindar begin?" I answered, "[Greek: Ariston men to hudor]," (Water is the best). He then laughed and said, "Then we will follow Pindar's advice and drink water, because we have no wine." When I had used up the cwt. of hemp my apprenticeship was over, and I intended to go to Basle. I therefore took leave of my master, as if I was going early next morning; but I went to my old lodging at the house of the hatter's widow, and remained there six weeks privately, and wrote a gloss upon Euripides, that I might be able to take it as well as Homer with me; for I intended also to study on the way. I then took my bundle and left Zurich at day-break, came in one day as far as Muttentz, and the next morning to Basle. Here I inquired after a master, and came to Hans Staheli at the Ox-market, whom they called the Red Rope-maker. They said that he was the rudest master on the whole length of the Rhine, on which account the rope-making journeymen did not like to be with him, and I found a place open the sooner. When he first employed me I could scarcely hang up the hemp, and could twist it very little. Then the master shewed me his manners, began to be abusive and to curse, and said, "Go stick out the eyes of the master that taught you; what shall I do with you? you can do nothing!" He did not however know that I had not worked up more than one cwt. of hemp in my whole life. That I did not dare to tell him; for he had a very bad apprentice who could work better than I, and who treated me very contemptuously, and insulted me. After the master had tried me eight days, I spoke to him in a friendly manner, and said that he should have patience with me; and whether he gave me wages or not, that I would render him faithful service, and write down every thing punctually; for no one in the house could write. "I have," said I, "learned little -- that I clearly perceive; -- my master had seldom any hemp." So he allowed himself to be persuaded to keep me, and gave me two-pence a week wages. With this money I bought candles and studied at night although I was obliged to work till the trumpet sounded in the evening and to get up again in the morning at the sound of the trumpet. Yet I was willing to bear that, if I could only stay and learn the trade. In the course of half a year I was able to twist a day's work, and act as foreman. I also worked often, when we made the large ropes or cables, in the sweat of my brow. Then the master used to laugh at me, and say, "Had I studied so much as you, and had such a love for it, I would let the rope-making go where it liked;" for he saw well that I had a singular love for books. I had made acquaintance with a pious printer, Andrew Cratander; he presented me with a Plautus, which he had printed in octavo. As it was not yet bound, I took one sheet after the other, and stuck it in a little wooden fork split at the bottom, and the little fork I stuck in the hemp. This I read as I went backwards and forwards when I twisted, and then when the master came I threw the hemp over it. Once, however, he caught me in the act, and behaved very wildly. "If you wish to study," said he, "follow it, or follow the trade. Is it not enough that I allow it you by night, or on a holiday, that you must also read while you twist?" On holidays, as soon as I had eaten my dinner, I took my little book, went into a summer-house, and read the whole day, till the watchman at the city gate called. By degrees I made acquaintance with a few students, particularly with the scholars of Dr. Beatus Rhenanus. These and others often passed my shop, and wished me to give up the rope-making trade, and they would recommend me to Erasmus of Rotterdam, who at that time lived at Basle. But it was all of no use, although Erasmus himself came to me once, as I was helping to make a great rope on the Peter's-place; although with great exertion and labour I only got bad food, and not enough of that, and in winter had to suffer sadly from cold. I became acquainted with Dr. Oporinus, amongst others. He requested me to instruct him in Hebrew; but I excused myself, saying that I myself knew but little of it, and also that I had not time. As however he left me no peace, I made my master the offer, that if he would only let me have some time free, I would serve him for nothing, or else take less wages than hitherto. He then allowed me every day one hour in the afternoon, from four to five. Now Oporinus put up a notice on the church, that a certain person intended to give lessons in the elements of the Hebrew language, about four o'clock on Monday, at St. Leonard's. When I came there at the appointed hour, thinking that I should find Oporinus alone, -- for I had not seen the bill on the church door, -- there were eighteen very learned gentlemen there. I wished directly to run away; but Dr. Oporinus called to me, "Do not run away; these are also good fellows." Although I was ashamed of being seen in my little apron which ropemakers are in the habit of wearing, yet I allowed myself to be persuaded, and began to read them "Munster's Hebrew Grammar," which had not yet come to Basle, also the Prophet Jonah, as well as I was able. The same year a Frenchman came from Basle, whom the Queen of Navarre had sent that he should learn Hebrew. He also came into the school; and when I went in with my poor clothes, I seated myself behind the stove, where I had a comfortable little seat, and allowed the students to sit at the table. The Frenchman now asked, "When does our Professor come?" Oporinus pointed to me. At this he looked at me, and without doubt felt surprise, because he thought such an one ought to be otherwise dressed, and not so badly. When the lesson was over, he took me by the hand, led me over the little bridge, and asked me how it happened that I was so badly clothed; and offered to write respecting me to the Queen, saying that she would make me a great man if I would only follow him. This person was expensively dressed, had a golden cap, and a servant who carried his hat and cloak after him. He also attended my lectures till he left the place; but I had no wish to follow him.


Chapter V.

Master Thomas Becomes Armour-Bearer And Then Schoolmaster.


When for the first time they took the field against the five Cantons, (Lucern, Schwyz, Uri, Unterwalden, and Zug,) my master was also summoned, and I carried his armour to Mettmenstetten. When however a truce was concluded, I remained a while in Zurich with Myconius; and studied. He and his wife recommended me to marry their housekeeper Anne, and give up the wandering hither and thither, and then they would make us their heirs. I allowed myself to be persuaded, and after a few days we went to Dubendorf, to Myconius's brother-in-law, to church, and celebrated the wedding with such pomp, that there were people at table with us who did not know that it was a wedding. Myconius owed my wife fourteen florins wages, of which he gave her two florins. With these we went away the first day to Mettmenstetten to the gentleman whom I had taught Hebrew, by way of Lucern, and Sarnen, to Visp in St. Gall. At first we visited my sister Christina in Burgendorf; she had there a husband and nine children. He had two aunts, who were so old that they did not know how old they were, and no one else did. With her we remained until St. Gall's day. I had inherited some household furniture, which my sister had kept for me; and she lent me her ass, that I might bring it to Visp. There happened to be an empty house there with a bed that was not wanted, and we got it lent to us rent free. It was almost the best house in the village, with nice windows that had panes. There all went on well at first. I began to prepare my rope-making trade, and to keep a school. In winter I had about thirty scholars; in summer scarcely six. Each had to pay a penny every quarterly fast; besides which, I got many presents. I had many relations; one brought me eggs, another cheese, or a ball of butter. Also others, whose children came to me to school, brought the like; some a quarter of a sheep; those who were at home in the village gave milk, vegetables, jugs of wine; so that seldom a day passed in which something was not given to us. At times we have reckoned at night, that in one day eight or nine different presents had been sent to us. A few weeks before my arrival, several women in Eisterthal, who were in a room together, had spoken of me, how magnificent the first Mass would be that I should celebrate, and how large the offerings which I should receive. For of the Summermatters alone, the family of my mother, I had seventy-two cousins, not one of whom was yet married, and who therefore would have been able to carry their offerings to the altar themselves. Through my marrying, however, all these splendid hopes were disappointed. When we began our housekeeping I borrowed fifteen Swiss bats of my uncle, Anthony Summermatter. With this we began to trade -- bought wine, and sold it again retail; bought apples also, which, my wife sold again to the boys who would have them; so that we did very well, and had no want. I had never been so well off. The priests however were not very friendly to me, although they did me an occasional kindness, and often invited me as a guest, that I might not take too much to the Lutheran ways. But when I had to go to church, and help to sing the Mass, it was a burden to me, and against my conscience to be obliged to help in the commission of idolatry, -- to be present, and not to be able to speak my mind freely at all times. I therefore began to think over the matter, what I should do in order to get out again, and went to Zurich to consult with Father Myconius. He advised me to leave the place, for that I had prospects of being able to go to Basle again. When I set out on the journey home, I had a scholar with me, who was not able to keep up with me on the Grimsel. It began to snow and to rain, and was very cold; so that we were almost frozen. As however I was acquainted with the manner of living upon the mountains, I told the boy that he should not sit down, but keep going forward. Now and then I went on far before him to warm myself, and then ran back to the boy; till at last, by the help of God, we came to the hospital, a good inn on the mountain, where one can find good victuals and drink. That was before the middle of August. It happened once before, that I went over the same mountain, and because I was alone, and did not know the method of travelling over the mountains, becoming faint and tired I sat down, and wished to rest. I then suddenly felt an odd sensation about my heart; I became delightfully warm, and fell asleep with my arms laid on my knees; when a man came to me, laid his hands upon both my shoulders, awoke me, and said, "Hey! why do you sit there; stand up and walk?" What became of the man I know not; but whithersoever I looked, above or below, I could see no one. I then stood up, took out of my bag a bit of bread, and ate it. When I related that to several people who were acquainted with the life on the mountains, they said I had been good as dead; for if any one feels excessively cold on the mountains, and sits down from weakness, the blood rushes from the heart into the face and extremities, and the person must die. I cannot think otherwise than that God preserved my life in a wonderful manner, as the people also assured me, for there is no easier death than freezing. On that account persons are sometimes found upon the mountains sitting as though they slept, and they are dead. When however the inhabitants of the mountains, who are acquainted with this danger, are overtaken by night, they take each other's hands and move round and round in a circle, if it be ever so dark, till it becomes day again. My wife was glad when I came home; for the pastor of the village had been seized with the plague, and no one would attend on him. She was also anxious as to how it might fare with herself, if she should become sick. I had experienced the same thing several years before; for whilst going to school at Zurich, there was a terrible plague there; so that in the great Minster they laid nine hundred persons in one grave, and in another seven hundred. At that time I went home with others of my countrymen, and had a boil on my leg, which I looked upon as a plague boil; by reason of which they would scarcely let us in any where. I went to Grenchen to my aunt Frances, and between Galpentran (a little village at the foot of the mountain) and Grenchen, I fell asleep eighteen times in half a day. My aunt, however, put on a bandage of herb-leaves, and no evil consequence ensued to me or others; yet neither I nor my aunt was allowed to go near any one for six weeks.

Being now desirous to leave the country, when the Bishop Baron Adrian you Rietmatt heard of it he sent his cousin John von Rietmatt to me with a message that I should come to him at Sitten, and become schoolmaster of the whole country; and that a good salary should be given me. I thanked his Grace, but begged several years' more leave of absence, for that I was still young and unlearned, and should like to study more. At this he shook his finger at me, and said, "O Platter! you would be old and clever enough, but you have something else in your mind; but when we call upon you at some future time we hope that you will be more ready to serve your native country than a foreign land." So I took my baby that had been born meanwhile, the cradle suspended from a hook on my back, and left the place. The child's godmother gave it at parting a double ducat. Besides that, from twelve to fifteen pieces of money had also been given to us. The little household furniture which we took with us I carried, and the mother followed after as a calf the cow. The books, however, I had sent by way of Berne to Basle; thither we also went by way of Zurich. I carried the child, and a scholar went with us who helped the mother to carry her bundle. After looking for a dwelling for a long time, we at last got a small house which was called the sign of the Lion's Head. Dr. Oporinus was living in the great court by the Bishop's Palace (where afterwards the Baroness von Schonau lived), and was schoolmaster at the Castle. Through the solicitation of some pious people I was appointed assistant to Dr. Oporinus, and the gentlemen deputies fixed my salary at forty pounds. So much, they said, they had never given to any one before me. Out of this I had to pay ten pounds house-rent; at that time too every thing was dear; for a quartern of corn cost six pounds, and a quart of wine eight rapps. The scarcity however did not last long. I went to the market and bought a little cask of wine -- I think it was an aulm -- which I carried home upon my shoulder. During the drinking of this wine my wife and I had many disputes; for we had no drinking vessel but an anker, and as soon as we went into the cellar with the anker, there was a quarrel. I said, "Do you drink; you have to nurse." My wife said, "Drink you; you have to study, and to work yourself to death in the school." Afterwards a good friend bought us a glass, in shape something like a boot; with which we went into the cellar when we had bathed. This glass held rather more than the anker. The cask lasted long; and when it was out we bought another. I went into the Hospital, and bought a little kettle and a tub, both of which had holes in them. I also bought a chair, and a tolerably good bed, for five pounds. We had not much superfluous furniture; but God be praised, poor, as we were from the beginning, I cannot remember we ever had a meal without bread and wine. I studied every day, -- got up early, and went to bed late; -- in consequence of which I often had the headache, and great dizziness; so that at times I had to hold by the benches. The physicians would gladly have helped me by bleeding and the like, but it was all in vain. At that time a famous physician -- Epiphanius, a native of Venice -- came to Bruntrut, who cured me in a very simple manner; so that I never had dizziness again, except when I stayed up too long, and remained fasting.


Chapter VI.

Master Thomas In The War -- Becomes Professor In Basle.


Not long after that, the inhabitants of Zurich and the five Cantons went to war again. The event was very lamentable, for many a worthy and honest man met his death there; amongst others that eminent man, Ulrich Zuinglius. I was at that time in Zurich. When the battle was lost, and the report reached Zurich, they sounded an alarm on the great bell, just about the time the candles were lighted. Then many people ran out of the town towards the Sihlbridge, lower down on the Albis. I also snatched up a halberd and sword in Myconius's house, and ran out with the others: but when we had proceeded some distance, the sight was so dreadful that I thought to myself, "Better for you to have staid at home;" for many met us who had only one hand; others held their head with both hands, grievously wounded and bloody; others suffering still more dreadfully, and men with them who lighted them along, for it was dark. When we came to the bridge they let every one out over the bridge; but into Zurich they would let no man; for there were armed men standing on the bridge to hinder it; -- otherwise I believe the most would have fled into the city. They then exhorted each other not to be disheartened. There was one man out of the Zurich territory, a very stout-hearted fellow, who spoke with a loud voice, so that every one could hear, and reminded them how it often happened that at the beginning the prospect was gloomy, and yet afterwards matters turned out well; he also advised that during the night they should march towards the Albis, for the purpose of receiving the enemy should they come on the morrow. When we reached that place no captain was any where to be found; for they had all been shot in the night. Besides this, it was excessively cold at that time: for in the morning there was a severe frost. We then made fires; and I seated myself close to one of the fires, and pulled off my shoes to warm my feet. There was also one Fuchsberger at my fire, at that time trumpeter of the States of Zurich; he had neither shoes nor cap, nor any sort of weapon. As we sat there an alarm was sounded to see how the people would behave themselves; and while I was going to draw on my shoes, Fuchsberger snatched up my halberd, and was going into the ranks with it. I said to him, "Hold, comrade! leave me my weapon:" when he gave it back instantly, and said, "Well, in God's name they knocked me about so grievously yesterday, they may kill me outright to-day;" and with these words he laid hold of a large hedge-stake, and placed himself in the rank directly before me. Then I thought, "What a fine fellow that is! and there he stands quite unarmed!" I repented very much that I had not let him keep my halberd. Otherwise I had given myself up to my unalterable fate, and thought, "Now it must be." I was not at all frightened; but thought I would defend myself stoutly with my halberd; and if I lost my halberd, then I would defend myself vigorously with my sword. When however they saw that no enemy was at hand, they allowed the ranks to disband themselves; and I was not less glad than many another whom I knew, and who used to walk about very haughtily in Zurich, but trembled there like an aspen leaf. Then I heard a brave man, who stood on an elevated place, call out aloud, "Where are our captains? O God of heaven! is there then no one here to direct us what to do?" Although several thousands of us were assembled, yet no one knows what would have happened if the enemy had come up. When it was about nine o'clock in the morning the chief captain was seen coming across a meadow; he had lost his way in the flight: the other captain, William vom rothen Hause, had been killed. The third, however, George Goldin, had so conducted himself, that afterwards in Zurich he was convicted of treachery, and had to leave the country. What further happened there I know not: for I was not equipped like the others; and having nothing to eat, I went back again to Zurich. My old teacher Myconius asked me, "What is the news? has Ulrich Zuinglius been killed?" When I said "Yes," he said, with a grieved heart, "My God! have mercy upon us: now I have no wish to remain any longer in Zurich;" for Zuinglius and Myconius had been good friends for many years. When I had got something to eat; we went out together into a chamber, and Myconius said, "Where shall I now go to? I have no desire to remain longer in Zurich." Hearing a few days after, that the preacher Hieronymus Bodanus, of St. Alban's in Basle, had also been killed in the battle, I said to Myconius, "Go to Basle, and become preacher there." He answered, "What preacher would give way to me, and let me occupy his place?" I now acquainted him that the preacher of St. Alban's had been killed, and that I believed he would be received there: there was however nothing more said about it.

After the peace was concluded, four hundred Swiss came, who were desirous to get into the town at night. This caused a tumult among the citizens, who feared that they were going to make a murderous night of it; for there were but too many traitors in the town, who could have pointed out which were to be murdered. They then locked the gate, and the whole Rennway was filled with people. The traitorous blockhead Escher, who had become colonel in Lavater's place, rode out to the Swiss at the Sihl, and gave them lodging -- whoever would not let them into his house he forced the door, and was very friendly to them. When every one had gone home from the Rennway, Dr. Ammianus came to Myconius, and said to him, "Mr. Myconius, I will not allow you to sleep in your house to-night. No one knows what may happen, and they will certainly not spare you; come therefore with me." Several of his scholars escorted him to Dr. Ammianus's house, and I amongst them. Myconius said to me, "Thomas, do you sleep with me to-night;" so we both slept in one bed, and each had a halberd lying beside him in the bed. On the following day the Swiss went up along the lake of Zurich towards home. When all was quiet again, and as I was losing my time, I determined to go again to Basle to my studies. I studied in the college, and slept in my own bed; I had my board at the sign of the Pilgrim's Staff, for my wife was still in Zurich. There I have often dined for threepence; so that one can well imagine what sort of plenty I had. At that time I said to Henry Billing, the son of the burgomaster, that I had heard from Myconius that he did not like to stay longer in Zurich now that Ulrich Zuinglius had been killed. He said, "Do you think that he could be persuaded to come here to us?" I related my conversation with him respecting the preacher's office at St. Alban's. He informed his father, the burgomaster, of it; and he in turn told it to the gentlemen deputies, who sent for me to come to the convent of the Augustines, in order to converse with me. After they had heard me they sent me to Zurich to fetch Myconius. The travelling expences I had however to bear myself. On the journey to Basle, four horsemen met us in the field above Mumpf, and as that was not in the jurisdiction of the confederacy Myconius said, "What if those men should take us prisoners, and carry us to Ensen?" I comforted him however when they came nearer, by saying, "Do not be afraid, they are Baslers." They were the cadets Wolfgang von Landenberg, Eglin Offenberg, Landenberg's son, and a horse-soldier. When they were come nearer I said, "I know that they are Baslers, for I have often seen them at [Oe]colompadius's sermons." At Mumpf they turned in at the Bell Inn, for it was near night, and we also turned in there. When we came into the room, cadet Wolfgang asked, "Whence do you come?" Myconius answered, "From Zurich." The cadet said, "What news in Zurich?" Myconius replied, "They are in great trouble because Master Ulrich Zuinglius has been killed." Cadet Wolfgang continued, "Who are you?" Myconius answered, "My name is Myconius, and I am schoolmaster in Zurich, at the Frauenmunster." Thereupon he also asked him who he was? He said, "I am Wolfgang von Landenberg." A little while afterwards Myconius taking me by the coat, led me aside, and said, "Now I see how industriously you go to church in Basle: it appears to me that this cadet did not take up much room in the church." This he said because he had heard him much talked of. Whilst we sat, the cadet Eglin also came into the room, together with the two others. After supper they began to drink immoderately, and the horseman brought Myconius a glass full to the brim. Myconius drank a little out of the glass; then the horseman said, "O, Sir, you must not put me off so." As he continued importuning him, Myconius became angry, and said, "Hark ye, comrade, I was able to drink before you were able to count five -- leave me alone." The cadet Eglin, who sat at the top of the table, heard that, and asked, "What is the matter with you there?" Myconius answered, "That young fellow there wants to force me to drink." On that Eglin became very angry with the horseman; so that we thought that he would beat him; he spoke very sharply to him: "Thou miserable fellow, wilt thou force an old man to drink?" and the like. Thereupon he asked Myconius, "Dear sir, who are you?" "My name is Oswald Myconius." "Were you not once schoolmaster at St. Peter's in Basle?" "Yes." The cadet said, "My dear sir, then you were my preceptor: had I minded you then I should have become an honest man; whereas at present I can scarcely say what I am." They then went on drinking immoderately. The cadet Wolf, however, had not taken any part whatever in the quarrel. When Elgin had had enough, he laid himself down with his elbows on the table. On this his father began to scold him harshly, as if he had committed the greatest crime. After supper Myconius and I went to bed: they however drank more before they went to bed, and made an abominable noise with singing and shouting. We heard afterwards that they had been about fourteen days in Zurich, and had, with those who felt rather joy than sorrow, assisted at the funeral of Zuinglius, and others who had been killed. Next morning, as we were going over the Melifeld, Myconius said to me, "How did you like the education of those gentlemen yesterday? To make a person drink till he is sick, is no shame; but to lay the elbows a little on the table deserves all that cursing and scolding!" On our arrival in Basle, Myconius went to Dr. Oporinus, but I to the college. Several days after, Myconius was to preach the council-sermon. I do not know whether he had been told of it or not. When I came to him he was still in bed; I said, "Father, get up; you are to preach." "What," replied he, "must I preach?" and raising himself up quickly, he turned to me with these words: "Tell me what I shall preach." "I do not know," I said. He continued, "I am determined you shall tell me." Thereupon I proposed to him to shew in his sermon whence and wherefore the misfortune came that had befallen us. He required me to make a note of it on a slip of paper. That I did, and gave him my little Testament, into which he put the slip of paper, and so entered the pulpit; and expounded the question to the learned people who had assembled to hear him, as one who had never before preached a sermon. They were however all so surprised at his sermon, that I heard amongst others Dr. Grynaus say to a student of the name of Sultzer, after the sermon, "O Simon, let us pray to God that that man may be spared to us, for that man CAN teach." So then he was received as preacher at St. Alban's. I accompanied him again to Zurich, and then went back again to Basle to my studies. After he had received his honourable dismissal he came with his wife to Basle, and my wife also came with him. When however he began to preach at St. Alban's, so many people went to hear him, that it was determined to elect him, in place of Dr. [Oe]colompadius, to the office of Antistes, or chief pastor, of which situation Mr. Thomas Gyrenfalk had hitherto done the duties. I immediately got the professorship of the Greek language in the Paedagogium, and lectured upon Ceporins' Grammar and Lucian's Dialogues: but Oporinus received the professorship of Poetry. Not long after, there was an attack of an infectious disease, and Dr. Heerwag's corrector of the press -- Jacob Rubert, the beloved friend of Oporinus and myself -- died; thereupon Dr. Sultzer came for a while in his stead into Dr. Heerwag's service: but when he saw that the work rather hindered than helped him in his studies, he persuaded me to undertake it. I was indeed fearful that it would be too much for me; but Dr. Heerwag never ceased to press me, until I complied with his request. This business I attended to for four years, with much trouble and labour; for there never was a burden taken off my shoulders but another was laid on in its place.


Chapter VII.

Master Thomas Turns Printer.


In the mean time it happened that at the diet at Sitten, in St. Gall, it was resolved to call me to the situation of chief teacher; and the captain, "Simon in Alben," was commanded to write to me, and tell me to come. It was Christmas-time that the resolution was passed, the execution was delayed till Shrovetide. Now at that time there was one Herbert, provost in the lower college: he had been first at Basle, and then went to Friburg, where he gave out that he could not hold out any longer among the heretics in Basle. After that he came again to Basle, where they were unwilling to receive him, unless he assured them on oath that he was devoted heartily to the Reformed Confession. This oath he took at once, and said he could not endure the idolatrous doings at Friburg. This man had boarders from St. Gall, from whom he learned that they wished to have me there as teacher. As I had to superintend Dr. Heerwag's printing-office while he was in Frankfort at the fair, and could not therefore immediately obey the call I had received, Herbert availed himself of the opportunity and hastened to Sitten to the Bishop, whom he informed falsely that I would not come; for that I had said that I should not like to plunge into the midst of idolatry; and also that I was in the habit of eating meat on forbidden days, and the like. The Bishop readily believed it; for I was already suspected by him as to my religion: so Herbert was received. When he came again to Basle I went to him into the college, and asked him, "What have you been doing in St. Gall?" (for I already knew of the matter.) He answered, that he had had private business. Then I said, "You have had the business of a rogue, and a wicked fellow. You have no doubt slandered me; but I will also go there, and if you have lied about me I will convict you of your wickedness." I really took the journey to St. Gall, for I had private business besides. When I arrived at Visp, the Bishop happened to be there just then for the purpose of confirming. I also met the Captain, Simon, who had a house in Visp, and visited him. At first he expressed his dissatisfaction that I had not come at the right time, and told me that on that account another had been already appointed. He also told me what crooked artifices Herbert had employed with the Bishop, and how only the day before, he had written and sent a messenger to say that I was coming, and that they should not believe me. The Captain finished with these words: "Well! the priests have chosen for themselves a teacher, and him they shall have."

I would gladly have waited on the Bishop, but could not manage it till he came to Gusten. There he gave me an audience, and as I entered said, "Thomas, while Esau was following the chase Jacob took his blessing away." I answered, "Has then your princely Grace only one blessing?" He then bade me welcome, and said that he had been informed that I would not come, also that I was suspected as to my faith; and that at Basle I was in the habit of eating meat on forbidden days. Thereupon I answered, "Yes, my lord, and he that has told that of me has also eaten meat often enough on forbidden days;" which was true, for we had very often dined at Dr. Phrygius's when the Doctor invited me, and the little man came to see what he could get. Also when I said that, there were three Canons standing by, and the Governor, Anthony Venetz, and they intimated that if that was the case with the little man, they would let him go about his business and take me. But I said, "No; for then between two stools he would fall to the ground, and I have a good service already;" so I went back to Basle. And here it occurs to me, that some time before, my very faithful and dear friend Henry Billing, son of the burgomaster in Basle, had requested me to take a journey with him into the country of the Confederacy, and then he would go with me into St. Gall. We went therefore first to Shaffhousen, Constance; after that to Lindau, where he had business; and from thence to St. Gall, Toggenburg, Rapperschwyl, Zuge, Schweitz, and Uri. We were treated with great respect, when it was known that we were from Basle. After that we went into the valley of Urseron to Realp; but when in the evening Henry saw the mountains he was terrified, and hesitated about crossing the mountain on the morrow. He was so cast down, that the landlady said, "If the Baslers are all so faint-hearted, they will not go to war with the St. Gallians. I am a feeble woman, yet I would take the child to-morrow by the hand and go over the mountains with him." Henry did not sleep much during the night. We had engaged a strong Alpine guide to shew us the way: he took a staff over his shoulder, went forward in the snow, and sang so loud that the mountains echoed again. He however slipped a little in the plain, as it was pretty dark; and Henry seeing him fall, would not go a single step farther, but said, "Do you go to St. Gall, I will go back to Basle." I would not however separate from him in the wilds, but determined to accompany him out again. This made me so spiritless that we conversed but little together that day. We came again to Uri, and from thence to the lake. There a little wind arose, so that Henry was very much afraid, and said to the boatman, "Get ashore, I will not sail any further." The boatman said, "There is no danger." But Henry behaved himself so outrageously that we were obliged to get to land not far from the place where William Tell sprang on shore. We came to a little village, where we slept on straw. In the morning we went to Berkenried, then to Unterwalden, and over the Brunig into the valley of Hasli. Then I said to him, "Now you have a good road to Thun, and from thence to Berne and Basle." So we parted, and I crossed the Grimsel to St. Gall. When I came to Visp, Captain Simon was there, who was very favourably inclined towards me. He was Master of Arts at Cologne; had read Cicero's Officia at the Academy at Basle; afterwards had business ten years in Rome with the Pope, and was well versed in the Latin language. He said to me, "I shall take the bath at Briegen to cure the gout; bathe with me, and I will pay for you." I went with him; for the bath is not half a mile distant from Visp. At first several of us had to carry him into the bath; but when he had bathed about two hours he could walk out on two crutches. There came thither also the Captain of the Guard of the Duke of Milan, who had physicked away nine hundred ducats on one leg without being any the better: he also bathed, and in three days his ankle was well, and remained so from that hour. That I saw with my own eyes, and other things besides; so that I could relate wonders enough concerning it. The bath did me a great deal of good, except that I lost all appetite, and could scarcely eat any thing but rye bread; neither could I drink any wine, for it was too strong for me. I complained of that to the host. Captain Peter Oweling, who was a wonderfully fine man, and had also studied in Milan; and he said to him, "Oh! if you only had sour wine!" He ordered wine for me from Morrill, which was dreadfully sour; for it is there very wild, and is the highest wine that grows in that country. When the wine came, the host said to me, "Platter, I will make you a present of that wine." It was about two saum. He then gave me a pretty crystal glass, which held nearly a measure of wine: with this I went into the cellar, and drank the largest draught I ever remember to have swallowed in my life before, for I had been a long time very thirsty, because I drank nothing but warm bath water, and there was also an eruption on my skin. When I had taken that draught I lost all wish for any more of that wine; but my appetite for eating and drinking had returned again. Captain Simon received many presents in the bathing place, and amongst others seventy and odd pheasants, some feathers of which I brought to Basle. As I had no opportunity of sending letters to Basle, and remained away nine weeks, they said that I had certainly perished on the mountain. When the bath cure was over I went again to Basle, and became, as before, corrector of the press to Dr. Heerwag, and professor at the Paedagogium. I afterwards, in partnership with Dr. Oporinus, Balthasar Ruch, and Ruprecht Winter, bought the printing establishment of Andrew Cratander, and became a master-printer. That trade I followed several years with much sorrow and trouble, particularly on account of the debts I had to contract, because I had no property of my own to advance. One day, as Oporinus and I were still professors, it happened that the Town Secretary invited me into his house, and asked me how it was that the University did not rightly prosper. I said, "Methinks that there are too many professors; for there are often more of them than students. It would be enough if there were four eminent men, who must however be well remunerated, and four with inferior salaries, that would be eight persons; if each were to read industriously only one lecture a day, there would be students enough." He then said, "What shall we do with our Baslers?" I said, "If you will attend to that, and not rather care for the youth, then I can advise nothing more; I have always had the idea that the Baslers should be preferred if they can be found; but if not, then the best that can be had ought to be taken, in order that youth may be assisted." This advice was at once followed with respect to me and Dr. Oporinus; for as we had engaged in the printing, it was expected either that we should give up the printing, and apply ourselves to the professorship, or else give up the professorship. The latter happened; for we were so deeply engaged in that trade, that we could not have given it up without great loss.


Chapter VIII.

Master Thomas Becomes Professor Again -- Dies.


I therefore went on with the printing, and had a bad time of it, as also my wife and children; for the children were often obliged to fold paper till their little fingers bled. But yet my circumstances were improved; for with the printing alone I was able to gain 200 florins a year, improve my printing-office and household furniture, and always found people to advance me money when I wanted it. Notwithstanding, from various circumstances, I got tired of my business after some time; -- and was also requested from different quarters to become schoolmaster again: for in a few years they had had I several schoolmasters, and the school had almost entirely fallen into decay. I one day called on Mr. Rudolph Frey; he was chief deputy, and constable in the town. He said, "Pray become schoolmaster; by so doing you will oblige the council, and serve God and the world." Dr. Grynaeus said to me, "Become schoolmaster! there is no office more heavenly! There is nothing I would rather be, if only I had not to say a thing twice over." They went on persuading me, until at last I consented. I got a salary of 200 florins, of which I had to pay 100 to the assistants; and thus I turned professor again; but I had to get through a great deal of disputing with the University, because they did not wish me to be independent, and to read lectures, the right to which they claimed for themselves exclusively. When my wife and I had attained a considerable age, a dreadful sickness came, which spared no age, and also seized us both. But our heavenly Father allowed us to remain yet a little longer here below on earth. The Lord grant us grace that it may serve to the glory of God and salvation of our souls! Amen! And to the glory of God I cannot conceal, that during the whole of my sickness I did not experience the least pain; although my wife and others had to bear great suffering. That also I ascribe to the mercy of God! May he deliver us all from everlasting torment, through his Son Jesus Christ. Amen.

<eob>

The Story Of A Nodding Donkey

By

Laura Lee Hope



Chapter I

The Santa Claus Shop


The Nodding Donkey dated his birth from the day he received the beautiful coat of varnish in the workshop of Santa Claus at the North Pole. Before that he was just some pieces of wood, glued together. His head was not glued on, however, but was fastened in such a manner that with the least motion the Donkey could nod it up and down, and also sidewise.

It is not every wooden donkey who is able to nod his head in as many ways as could the Donkey about whom I am going to tell you. This Nodding Donkey was an especially fine toy, and, as has been said, his first birthday was that on which he received such a bright, shiny coat of varnish.

"Here, Santa Claus, look at this, if you please!" called one of the jolly workmen in the shop of St. Nicholas. "Is this toy finished, now?" and he held up the Nodding Donkey.

Santa Claus, who was watching another man put some blue eyes in a golden-haired doll, came over to the bench where sat the man who had made the Nodding Donkey out of some bits of wood, glue, and real hair for his mane and tail.

"Hum! Yes! So you have finished the Nodding Donkey, have you?" asked Santa Claus, as he stroked his long, white beard.

"I'll call him finished if you say he is all right," answered the man, smiling as he put the least tiny dab more of varnish on the Donkey's back. "Shall I set him on the shelf to dry, so you may soon take him down to Earth for some lucky boy or girl?"

"Yes, he is finished. Set him on the shelf with the other toys," answered dear old St. Nicholas, and then, having given a last look at the Donkey, the workman placed him on a shelf, next to a wonderful Plush Bear, of whom I shall tell you more in another book.

"Well, I'm glad he's finished," said Santa Claus' worker, as he took up his tools to start making a Striped Tiger, with a red tongue. "That Nodding Donkey took me quite a while to finish. I hope nothing happens to him until his coat of varnish is hard and dry. My, but he certainly shines!"

And the Nodding Donkey did shine most wonderfully! Not far away, on the same shelf on which he stood, was a doll's bureau with a looking glass on top. In this looking glass the Nodding Donkey caught sight of himself.

"Not so bad!" he thought. "In fact, I'm quite stylish. I'm almost as gay as some of the clowns." And his head bobbed slowly up and down, for it was fastened so that the least jar or jiggle would move it.

"I must be very careful," said the Nodding Donkey to himself. "I must not move about too much nor let any of the other toys rub against me until I am quite dry. If they did they would blur or scratch my shiny varnish coat, and that would be too bad. But after I am dry I'll have some fun. Just wait until to-night! Then there will be some great times in this workshop of Santa Claus!"

The reason the Nodding Donkey said this, was because at night, when Santa Claus and his merry helpers had gone, the toys were allowed to do as they pleased. They could make believe come to life, and move about, having all sorts of adventures.

But, presto! the moment daylight came, or any one looked at them, the toys became as straight and stiff and motionless as any toys that are in your playroom. For all you know some of your toys may move about and pretend to come to life when you are asleep. But it is of no use for you to stay awake, watching to see if they will, for as long as any eyes are peeping, or ears are listening, the toys will never do anything of themselves.

The Nodding Donkey knew that when Santa Claus and the workers were gone he and the other toys could do as they pleased, and he could hardly wait for that time to come.

"But while I am waiting I will stay here on the shelf and get hard and dry," said the Nodding Donkey to himself.

Once more he looked in the glass on the doll's bureau, and he was well pleased with himself, was the Nodding Donkey.

Such a busy place was the workshop of Santa Claus at the North Pole, where the Nodding Donkey was drying in his coat of varnish!

The place was like a great big greenhouse, all made of glass, only the glass was sheets of crystal-clear ice. Santa Claus needed plenty of light in his workshop, for in the dark it is not easy to put red cheeks and blue eyes on dolls, or paint toy soldiers and wind up the springs of the toys that move.

The workshop of Santa Claus, then, was like a big greenhouse, only no flowers grew in it because it is very cold at the North Pole. All about was snow and ice, but Santa Claus did not mind the cold, nor did his workmen, for they were dressed in fur, like the polar bears and the seals.

On each side of the big shop, with its icy glass roof, were work benches. At these benches sat the funny little men who made the toys.

Some were stuffing sawdust into dolls, others were putting the lids on the boxes where the Jacks lived, and still others were trying the Jumping Jacks to see that they jerked their legs and arms properly.

Up and down, between the rows of benches, walked Santa Claus himself. Now and then some workman would call:

"Please look here, Santa Claus! Shall I make this Tin Soldier with a sword or a gun?"

And St. Nicholas would answer:

"That Soldier needs a sword. He is going to be a Captain."

Then another little man would call, from the other side of the shop:

"Here is a Calico Clown who doesn't squeak when I press on his stomach. Something must be wrong with him, Santa Claus."

Then Santa Claus would put on his glasses, stroke his long, white beard and look at the Calico Clown.

"Humph! I should say he wouldn't squeak!" the old gentleman would remark. "You have his squeaker in upside down! That would never do for some little boy or girl to find on Christmas morning! Take the squeaker out and put it in right."

"How careless of me!" the little workman would exclaim. And then Santa Claus and the other workmen would laugh, for this workshop was the jolliest place in the world, and the man would fix the Calico Clown right.

"I'm glad I was born in this place," said the Nodding Donkey to himself, as his head swayed to and fro. "This is really the first day of my life. I wish night would come, so I could move about and talk to the other toys. I wonder how long I shall have to wait?"

Not far from the doll's bureau, which held the looking glass, was a toy house, and in it was a toy clock. The Donkey looked in through the window of the toy house and saw the toy clock. The hands pointed to four o'clock.

"The men stop work at five," thought the Donkey. "After that it will be dark and I can move about -- that is if my varnish is dry."

Santa Claus was walking up and down between the rows of work benches. The dear old gentleman was pulling his beard and smiling.

"Come, my merry men!" he called in his jolly voice, "you must work a little faster. It is nearly five, when it will be time to stop for the day, and it is so near Christmas that I fear we shall never get enough toys made. So hurry all you can!"

"We will, Santa Claus," the men answered. And the one who had made the Nodding Donkey asked:

"When are you going to take a load of toys down to Earth?"

"The first thing in the morning," was the answer. "Many of the stores have written me, asking me to hurry some toys to them. I shall hitch up my reindeer to the sleigh and take a big bag of toys down to Earth to-morrow. So get ready for me as many as you can.

"Yes," went on Santa Claus, and he looked right at the Nodding Donkey, "I must take a big bag of toys to Earth to-morrow, as soon as it is daylight. So hurry, my merry men!"

And the workmen hurried as fast as they could.

Ting! suddenly struck the big clock in the workshop. And ting! went the little toy clock in the toy house.

"Time to stop for supper!" called Santa Claus, and all the little men laid aside the toys on which they were working. Then such a bustle and hustle there was to get out of the shop; for the day had come to an end.

Night settled down over North Pole Land. It was dark, but in the house where Santa Claus lived with his men some Japanese lanterns, hung from icicles, gave them light to see to eat their supper.

In the toy shop it was just dimly light, for one lantern had been left burning there, in case Santa Claus might want to go in after hours to see if everything was all right.

And by the light of this one lamp the Nodding Donkey saw a curious sight. Over on his left the Plush Bear raised one paw and scratched his nose. On the Donkey's right the China Cat opened her china mouth and softly said:

"Mew!"

And then, on the next shelf, a Rolling Elephant, who could wheel about, spoke through his trunk, and said:

"The time has come for us to have some fun, my friends!"

"Right you are!" mewed the China Cat.

"And we have a new toy with us," said the Plush Bear. "Would you like to play with us?" he asked the Nodding Donkey.

The Nodding Donkey moved his head up and down to say "yes," for he was afraid of speaking aloud, lest he might wrinkle his new varnish.

"All right, now for some jolly times!" said the Rolling Elephant, and he began to climb down from the shelf, using his trunk as well as his legs.

"Ouch! Look out there! You're stretching my neck!" suddenly cried a Spotted Wooden Giraffe, and the Nodding Donkey, looking up, saw that the Elephant had wound his trunk around the long neck of the Giraffe.

"Oh, I'm going to fall! Catch me, somebody!" cried the Spotted Giraffe. "Oh, if I fall off the shelf I'll be broken to bits! Will no one save me?"



Chapter II

A Wonderful Voyage


"Goodness me! this is a lot of excitement for one who has just come to life and had his first coat of varnish!" thought the Nodding Donkey as he saw what seemed to be a sad accident about to happen. "I wonder if I could do anything to help save the Spotted Giraffe? I must try to do all I can. It will be the first time I have ever moved all by myself."

"Stand aside, if you please! I'll save the Spotted Giraffe!" suddenly called a voice, and from a shelf just underneath the one from which the Rolling Elephant had pulled the long-necked creature there stepped a Jolly Fisherman. This toy fisherman had a large net for catching crabs or lobsters, and he held it out for the Spotted Giraffe to fall into.

Down the Giraffe fell, but he landed in the net of the Jolly Fisherman, just as a circus performer falls into a net from a high trapeze, and he was not harmed.

"Dear! I'm glad you caught me," said the Giraffe, after he had managed to climb out of the net to the top of a work table which ran under all the shelves.

"Yes, I got there just in time," replied the Jolly Fisherman, as he slung his net over his shoulder again.

"And I'm very sorry I pulled you from the shelf," said the Rolling Elephant. "I didn't mean to do it, Mr. Giraffe."

"Well, as long as no harm is done, we'll forget all about it and have some fun," put in the Plush Bear. "This doesn't happen every night," the Bear went on, speaking to the Nodding Donkey. "You must not get the idea that it is dangerous here."

"Oh, no, I think it's a very nice place," the Nodding Donkey answered. "It's my first day here, you see."

"Oh, yes, it's easy to see that," said the China Cat. "You are so new and shiny any one would know you were just made. Well, now what shall we do? Who has a game to suggest or a riddle to ask?" and, as she spoke, she put out her paw and began to roll a red rubber ball on the shelf near her. For, though she was very stiff in the daytime, being made of china like a dinner plate, the Cat could easily move about at night if no human eyes watched her.

"Let's play a guessing game," suggested the Rolling Elephant, who, by this time had managed to get down to the table without upsetting any more of the toys. "If we play tag or hide and go seek, I'm so big and clumsy I may knock over something and break it."

"That's so -- you might," growled the Plush Bear, but, though he spoke in a growling voice he was not at all cross. It was just his way of talking. "Well, what sort of a guessing game do you want to play, Mr. Elephant?"

"I'll think of something, and you must all see if you can guess what it is."

"That's too hard a game," objected the China Cat. "There are so many things you might think of."

"Well, I'll give you a little help," returned the Rolling Elephant. "I'm thinking of something that goes up and down and also sideways."

For a moment none of the toys spoke. Then, all of a sudden, the Plush Bear cried:

"You're thinking of the Nodding Donkey! His head goes up and down and also sideways."

"That's right!" admitted the Rolling Elephant. "I didn't imagine you'd guess so soon. Now it's your turn to think of something."

"Let's have the Nodding Donkey give the next question," suggested the China Cat. "It's his birthday, you know, and we ought to help him remember it."

"Go ahead! Give us something to guess, Nodding Donkey!" growled the Plush Bear.

"Let me think," said the new toy, slowly. "Ah, I have it! What am I thinking of that is like a snowball and has two eyes?"

"A snowman!" guessed a wax doll.

"No," said the Nodding Donkey, laughing.

"A Polar Bear," suggested the Rolling Elephant.

"No," said the Donkey again.

Then the toys thought very hard.

"Is it a rubber doll?" asked a Jack in the Box. "No, it couldn't be that," he went on, "for a rubber doll isn't as white as a snowball. I give up!"

"But I don't!" suddenly cried a Tin Soldier. "You were thinking of our White China Cat, weren't you?" he asked.

"Yes," answered the Nodding Donkey, "I was. You have guessed it!"

"Now it's the Tin Soldier's turn to give us something to guess," said the Elephant. "Oh, we're having lots of fun!"

And so the toys were. All through the night they played about in the North Pole workshop of Santa Claus. When it was nearly morning the Nodding Donkey spoke to the Plush Bear, asking:

"Where is this Earth place, that Santa Claus said he was going to take some of us?"

"Oh, my! don't ask me," said the Plush Bear. "I've never been down to Earth, though I know packs and packs of toys have been taken there. But it must be a real jolly sort of place, for every time Santa Claus goes there he comes back laughing and seems very happy. Then he loads up some more toys to take there."

"I think I should like to go," murmured the Nodding Donkey. "How does one go -- in one of the toy trains of cars I see on the shelves?"

"Oh, my, no!" laughed the Plush Bear. "Santa Claus takes the toys to Earth in his sleigh, drawn by reindeer."

"Oh, how wonderful!" brayed the Donkey. "I wonder if I shall soon take that wonderful voyage. I hope I may!"

"Hush!" suddenly called the Rolling Elephant. "Santa Claus and the workmen are coming in and they must not see us at our make-believe play. Quick! To your shelves, all of you!"

Such a scramble as there was on the part of the toys! Some helped the others to climb up, and just as the last of them, including the Nodding Donkey, were safely in place, the door of the shop opened and in came Santa Claus and his men.

Then such a bustling about as there was! And from outside the shop could be heard the jingle of bells.

"Those must be the reindeer," thought the Nodding Donkey. "Oh, what a jolly time I shall have if I ride in the sleigh with Santa Claus!"

Never was there such a busy time in the shop of Santa Claus! Jolly St. Nicholas himself hurried here and there, helping his men pick up different toys which were put in a big bag. One of the men stopped in front of the Nodding Donkey.

"Shall I put this chap in, Santa Claus?" the man inquired.

"Is the varnish dry?" asked St. Nicholas.

"Yes," answered the little man, testing it lightly with his finger.

"Then put him in," said Santa Claus. "I'll take the Nodding Donkey to Earth with me."

"Oh, joy! Now I shall have some adventures! Now I shall see what the Earth is like!" thought the Nodding Donkey.

A moment later he was picked up, wrapped in soft paper, and thrust into a bag.

"Oh, how very dark it is here," said the Donkey in a whisper.

"Hush!" whispered a Jumping Jack near him. "Don't talk! Santa Claus might hear you. He has very sharp ears. You'll be all right. It is no darker than night."

More toys, all carefully wrapped, came tumbling into the bag, and the merry jingle of bells grew louder. Then the voice of Santa Claus could be heard shouting:

"Hi there, Dasher! Stand still, Prancer! Whoa, Blitzen! What's the matter, Comet? Are you anxious to get to Earth again? Well, we'll soon start. Steady there, Cupid! Whoa!"

"He's talking to his reindeer," whispered the Jumping Jack.

Suddenly the toys in the big sack felt themselves being picked up. Santa Claus had slung them over his back to carry out to the sleigh. A moment later the Nodding Donkey felt a breath of cold air strike him, but he did not mind, as he had on a warm coat of varnish.

Up and down, and from side to side the toys in the bag felt themselves being jostled, until they were set down in the big sleigh.

"All aboard!" called Santa Claus, as he took his seat and gathered up the reins. "Come, Dasher! On, Prancer! Hi, Donner and Blitzen! Down to Earth you go with the Christmas toys!"

There was another jolly jingle of bells, and the toys felt themselves being whisked away over the snow. There was a little hole in the bag near the Nodding Donkey, and also a hole in the paper in which he was wrapped. He could look out, and on every side he saw big piles of snow. Snow was also falling from the clouds.

On and on rushed the sleigh of Santa Claus, drawn by the eight reindeer. Over the clouds and drifts of snow, and through the white flakes they rushed, the sleigh-bells playing a merry tune.

"Oh, this is a wonderful voyage!" thought the Nodding Donkey. "I wonder when I shall reach the Earth?"

Suddenly there was a hard shock. The sleigh stopped as Santa Claus shouted, and then, all at once, the Nodding Donkey felt himself shooting out of the hole in the bag. Into a deep snowdrift he fell, and there he stuck, head down and feet up in the air!



Chapter III

The Jolly Store


"Dear me," thought the Nodding Donkey to himself, as he felt the cold, chilly snow all about him, "this is most dreadful! I hope Santa Claus has not become angry with me and sent me back to the North Pole. I did so much want to go down to Earth and be in a big store for Christmas. I hope I'm not back at the North Pole."

The Nodding Donkey said this aloud, and, as he spoke, he wobbled his head from side to side and tried to turn over so he could stand on his feet.

"Here! Don't do that!" suddenly whispered a voice in one of the Donkey's large ears. "Don't you know it isn't allowed for you to move when any one is looking at you?"

"I didn't know any one was looking at me," the Nodding Donkey answered. "I thought Santa Claus had tossed me back to the North Pole."

"Hush! No! Nothing like that has happened," the voice went on, and, by turning his loose head to one side, the Nodding Donkey saw that a large Jumping Jack was whispering to him.

"There has been an accident," went on the Jumping Jack. "The sleigh of Santa Claus banged into a hard, frozen snow cloud, and we were thrown out into a snowdrift. I am not hurt, and I hope you are not. But we must not talk or move much more, for I see Santa Claus coming this way, and even he is not allowed to see us pretend to be alive, so that we move and talk. He is coming to pick us up, I guess."

And then both toys had to keep quiet, for Santa Claus came stalking along in his big leather boots. St. Nicholas was wiping some snowflakes out of his eyes, his breath made clouds of steam in the frosty air and his cheeks were as red as the reddest apple you ever saw.

"Oh, ho! Here are some of my toys!" cried the jolly old gentleman as he saw the Nodding Donkey and the Jumping Jack. "I was afraid I had lost you. We nearly had a bad accident," he went on, speaking to himself, but loudly enough for the Nodding Donkey to hear. "My reindeer got off the road and ran into a snow cloud and the sleigh was upset."

"It's just as the Jumping Jack told me," thought the Nodding Donkey.

"Steady there, Comet! Keep quiet, Prancer!" called St. Nicholas to his animals, who, stamping their legs, made the bells jingle. "We shall soon be on our way again. Nothing is broken."

Santa Claus picked up the Donkey and the Jumping Jack and carried them back to the sleigh. There the two toys could see their friends, some lying on the seat of the sleigh and others resting in the big bag, through the hole of which the Nodding Donkey had slipped out, falling into the snow.

"Ha! I must fix that hole in the bag," cried Santa Claus, as he noticed it.

St. Nicholas tied some string around the hole in the sack, and then, having again wrapped the tissue paper around the Donkey, the Jumping Jack, and the other toys that had fallen out, the red-cheeked old gentleman put them in the bag and fastened it shut.

"Now we're off again!" cried Santa Claus, as he took his seat in the sleigh. "Trot along, Comet! Fly away, Prancer! Lively there, Donner and Blitzen! We must get down to Earth with these toys, and then back again to North Pole Land for another load! Trot along, my speedy reindeer!"

The reindeer shook their heads, which made the bells jingle more merrily than before, they stamped their feet on the hard, frozen road that led from the North Pole to Earth, and then away they darted. Santa Claus drove them carefully, steering away from snow clouds, and soon the motion was so swift and smooth that the Nodding Donkey went to sleep, and so did most of the other toys in the big sack.

And what a funny dream the Nodding Donkey had! He imagined that he was tumbling around a feather bed and that a Blue Dog was chasing him with a yellow feather duster.

"Don't tickle me with that feather duster!" he thought he cried.

"I won't if you'll sing a song through your ears," said the Blue Dog.

"I can't sing through my ears," wailed the Nodding Donkey, and then of a sudden he seemed to roll over and the dog and the feather bed came down on top of him. Then he seemed to give a sneeze and that blew the dog away and sent the feathers of the bed out into one big snowstorm!

It was dark when the Nodding Donkey awoke. He did not hear the jingle of the bells, nor could he feel the sleigh being drawn along by the reindeer. He could see nothing, either, for it was very black and dark. But he heard some voices talking, and one he knew was that of Santa Claus.

"Now I have brought you a whole sleighful of toys," said St. Nicholas.

"Yes, and I am glad to get them," another voice answered. "The stores are almost empty and it is near Christmas time. I shall send a lot of the toys to the stores the first thing in the morning."

Santa Claus had arrived, in the night, at a large warehouse, where boxes, bales and bags of toys were kept until they could be sent around to the different stores. The Nodding Donkey, the Jumping Jack and the others felt themselves being lifted out of the bag and placed on the floor or on shelves. But they could see nothing, for Santa Claus always comes to Earth in the darkness, so no one sees him. And it was the Earth that the toys had now reached.

"Dear me, this isn't much fun!" complained the Nodding Donkey, as he stood on a shelf in the darkness. Faint and far off he could hear the bells of Santa Claus' reindeer jingling as jolly St. Nicholas drove back to North Pole Land. "I thought the Earth was such a wonderful place," went on the Nodding Donkey. "But I don't like it here at all."

"Hush!" begged the Jumping Jack. "It is night. You have seen nothing yet. Wait until morning."

And, after a while, streaks of light began to come in through the windows of the warehouse where the toys had been left. The sun was rising. From a window near him the Nodding Donkey caught a glimpse of snow outside, but the land was very different from the North Pole where he had been made.

The Nodding Donkey was turning his head to speak to the Jumping Jack, and he was going to take a look and see what other toys were near him, when, all of a sudden, three or four men came into the room. They had hammers, nails and boards in their hands.

"Hurry now!" cried one of the men. "We must box up a lot of these toys and send them to the different stores. It will be Christmas before we know it."

Suddenly one of the men caught hold of the Nodding Donkey, and also of a large doll that had been on the same shelf.

"I'll pack these in a box," said the man. "I just need them to fill one corner. Then I'll ship them off."

The Nodding Donkey wished his friend the Jumping Jack might go in the same box with him, but it was not to be. The Donkey gave one last look at his companion of the snowdrift, and a moment later he was being wrapped in tissue paper again, and was packed down in a corner of a large box. The doll was treated the same way.

Then the board cover was put on the box, and nailed shut with a loud hammering noise.

"Dear me, in the dark again!" said the Nodding Donkey. "I don't seem to be having a good time at all."

"Never mind! It will not last long," said the Doll, who was made of cloth, so it did not matter how much she was squeezed. "We will soon be in the light again."

The toys in the box could hear loud talking going on in the warehouse where they had been left by Santa Claus. They could also hear men moving about and the bang and rattle of boxes, like theirs, as the cases were nailed up and taken away.

Finally the Nodding Donkey, the doll, and other toys who were packed together, felt their box being tilted up on one end. By this time the Nodding Donkey was getting used to being stood on his head, or turned over on his back, and he did not mind it.

"Hurry up! Load this box on a truck and take it to the Mugg store!" cried a voice.

"The Mugg store! I wonder where that is!" thought the Nodding Donkey.

And then he felt the box in which he lay being lifted up and carried along. There were bumps, thumps, turnings and twistings, and then the Nodding Donkey felt himself gliding along.

But he soon noticed that this ride was not as smooth as had been the one from North Pole Land to the Earth. Instead of riding in a sleigh drawn by reindeer, the Nodding Donkey was riding on an automobile truck, and as it went out in the street it bumped and rattled along.

There was so much noise and confusion, and it was so warm and cosy in the box where he was packed, that, before he knew it, the Nodding Donkey had fallen asleep. And, as he slept, the Nodding Donkey dreamed.

He dreamed that he was back in the workshop of Santa Claus at the North Pole and on a shelf with other toys. Suddenly a Wooden Soldier began beating on the Donkey's back with the end of a gun.

"Rub-a-dub-dub!" drummed the Soldier, and the Donkey's head nodded so hard that he feared it would be shaken off.

"Stop! Stop!" cried the Donkey in his dream, and then he suddenly awakened. He heard a hammering, but it was not on his back. It was outside the case in which he was packed, and he soon noticed that some one was knocking off the boards that formed the cover.

With a wrench and a squeak one of the cover boards was raised, letting in a flood of light. The Nodding Donkey blinked his eyes, coming out of the darkness into the glare of the light. Then he felt himself being lifted up and set on a shelf. At the same time he heard a pleasant voice saying:

"Here is the case of new toys, Daughters. And see, one of the very newest is a Nodding Donkey! I'm sure he will please some little boy or girl!"

The Nodding Donkey looked around him. He was on a shelf in the jolliest toy store he had ever imagined. It was almost as nice as the workshop of Santa Claus. Standing in front of the shelf was a white-haired old man and two ladies, one on either side of him. The three were looking at the Nodding Donkey, who bowed his head at them as if saying:

"How do you do? I am very glad to meet you!"



Chapter IV

The China Cat


The Nodding Donkey stood straight and stiff on his four legs, with his shiny, new coat of varnish -- the one he had received in the workshop of Santa Claus at the North Pole. The Donkey wished he might move about and talk with some of the other toys he saw all around him, but he dared not, as the old gentleman and the two ladies were standing in front of him and looking straight at the toy. All the Donkey dared do was to nod his head, for, being made on purpose to do that, it was perfectly proper for him to do so, just as the Jumping Jack jumped, or some of the funny Clowns banged together their brass cymbals.

"Isn't he the dearest Donkey you ever saw, Angelina?" said one of the ladies to the other.

"He certainly is, Geraldine," was the answer. "But something seems to be the matter with his head. It is loose!"

"Tut! Tut! Nonsense! It is made that way, just the same as the moving head of the Fuzzy Bear," said the old gentleman, whose name was Horatio Mugg. At first the Nodding Donkey had taken this old gentleman for a relative of Santa Claus, for he had the same white hair and whiskers and wore almost the same sort of glasses. But a second look showed the Nodding Donkey that this was not any relation of St. Nicholas. Besides, this toy store was not at all like the workshop of Santa Claus.

The Nodding Donkey was at last on Earth in a toy store, and there, it was hoped, some one would see him and buy him for some boy or girl for Christmas.

The toy store was kept by Mr. Horatio Mugg and his two daughters, one being named Angelina and the other Geraldine.

Mr. Horatio Mugg was the jolliest toy-store man you can imagine! Since his own two daughters had grown up he seemed to think he must look after all the other children in his neighborhood. He was always glad to see the boys and girls in his store. He liked to have them look at the toys, and sometimes he showed them how steam engines or flying machines worked.

Of course there were many dolls, big and little -- Sawdust Dolls, Bisque Dolls, Wooden Dolls, some very handsomely dressed, with silk or satin dresses and white stockings and white kid shoes. And some had the cutest hats, and some even had gloves, think of that!

And then the animals -- Lions and Tigers, and a Striped Zebra, and funny Monkeys and Goats, Dogs, Spotted Cows and many kinds of Rocking Horses. And even funny little Mice, that ran all around the floor when they were wound up.

And then the other toys -- trains of cars, fire engines, building blocks, and oh! so many, many things! It was truly a wonderful place, was that store. It was a place where you could spend an hour or two and the time would fly so fast you would scarcely know where it had gone to.

Mr. Mugg knew all about toys, which kind were the best for boys, which the girls liked the best, and he knew which to put in his window so the children would stop and press their noses flat against the glass to look and see the playthings.

"Yes, the Nodding Donkey will be a fine toy for Christmas," said Mr. Mugg, looking over the tops of his glasses at the new arrival. "This last box of playthings I received are the best we ever had. Santa Claus and his men certainly are preparing a fine Christmas this year."

"I think I shall dust off the Donkey," said Geraldine. "He will be much shinier then, and look better."

"And I must dust the China Cat," said her sister Angelina. "She is so white that the least speck shows on her. Real white cats are very fussy about keeping themselves clean, so I do not see why a white China Cat should not be treated the same way. You dust the Nodding Donkey, Geraldine, and I'll dust the Cat."

"That China Cat seems to act as if she wanted to speak to me," thought the Donkey. "Perhaps, after the store is closed to-night, as the workshop of Santa Claus is closed, I may speak to her."

Up and down and to and fro the head of the Nodding Donkey moved as Geraldine Mugg dusted him. Then she set him back on the shelf, as her sister did the China Cat.

"Come here, Daughters, and see this set of Soldiers," called Mr. Mugg, who was unpacking more toys from the box. "They are the nicest we ever had."

"Oh, what fine red coats they wear!" said Angelina.

"And how their guns shine!" exclaimed Geraldine. "Our store will look lovely when we get all the toys placed in it."

"I think the store looks very well as it is," thought the Nodding Donkey to himself, as he stood straight and stiff on his shelf, his coat of varnish glistening in the light. "I never saw such a wonderful place."

And, indeed, the toy store of Mr. Horatio Mugg was a place of delight for all boys and girls. I could not begin to tell you all the things that were in it. Mr. Mugg kept only toys. All the different sorts that were ever made were there gathered together, ready for the Christmas trade.

And as the Nodding Donkey, standing beside the white China Cat, looked on and listened, he saw boys and girls, with their fathers or mothers, coming in to look at the toys. Some were ordered to be put away until Christmas should come. Others were taken at once, to be mailed perhaps to some far-off city.

As the Nodding Donkey watched he saw a little boy with blue eyes and golden hair come in and point to a Jack in the Box.

"Please, Mother, will you tell Santa Claus to bring me that for Christmas?" begged the little boy.

"Yes, I will do that," his mother promised. "And now, Sister, what would you like?" the lady asked.

The Nodding Donkey looked down and saw a little girl, with dark hair and brown eyes standing beside the little boy. This girl pointed to a large doll, and, to his surprise, the Donkey saw that it was the same one he had spoken to in the packing case.

"You may put that Doll aside for my little girl for Christmas, Mr. Mugg," said the lady.

"Very well, Madam, it shall be done," replied the toy man, and he lifted the Cloth Doll down off the shelf.

"Oh, dear! she is going away, and I shall never see her again," thought the Nodding Donkey. "That is the only sad part of life for us toys. We make friends, but we never know how long we may keep them. We are so often separated."

Mr. Mugg put the doll down under the counter, where no other little girl might see her and want her. Then the toy man reached up and gently touched the head of the Donkey, so that it nodded harder than ever.

"Here is a new toy that just came in," said Mr. Mugg. "It is one of the latest. It is called a Nodding Donkey, and once you start his head going it will move for hours."

"Oh, it is nice!" said the lady. "Would you rather have that than your Jack in the Box, Robert?" she asked the little boy.

The boy stood first on one foot and then on the other. He looked first at the Jack in the Box and then at the Donkey.

"They are both nice," he said; "but I think I would rather have the Jack. I'll have the Donkey next Christmas."

The Jack in the Box was set aside with the Cloth Doll, and then the lady and the little boy and girl passed on. But all that day there were many other boys and girls who came into the store to look at the toys. Some only came to look, while others, as before, bought the things they wanted, or had them set aside for Christmas.

After a while it began to grow dark in the store, just as it had grown dark in the workshop of Santa Claus.

"Now I will soon be able to move about and talk to the other toys," thought the Nodding Donkey. But this was not to be -- just yet.

"Turn on the lights, Angelina," called Mr. Mugg to his daughter, and soon the store was glowing brightly.

"Hum! It seems they work at night here, as well as by day," thought the Nodding Donkey. "It was not so at North Pole Land. But it is very jolly, and I like it."

During the evening, when the lights were glowing, many other customers came in, but there were not so many boys and girls. The Nodding Donkey had been taken down more than once and made to do his trick of shaking his head, but, so far, no one had bought him. And though the China Cat had also been looked at and admired, no one had bought her.

At last Mr. Mugg stretched his arms, yawned as though he might be very sleepy, and said:

"Turn out the lights, Angelina! It is time to close the shop and go to bed."

Soon the toy shop was in darkness, all except one light that was kept burning all night. The place became very still and quiet, the only noise being made by a little mouse, who came out to get some crumbs dropped by Mr. Mugg, who had eaten his lunch in the store.

"Ahem!" suddenly said the Nodding Donkey. "Do you mind if I speak to you?" he asked the China Cat, who stood near him on the shelf.

"Not at all," was the kind answer. "I was just going to ask how you came here."

"I came direct from the workshop of Santa Claus at the North Pole," answered the Nodding Donkey. "And I suppose, just as we toys could do there, that we are allowed to move about and talk while here."

"Oh, yes," answered the China Cat. "We can make believe we are alive as long as no one sees us. But tell me, how is everything at the North Pole? It is some time since I was there, as I was made early in the season."

"Well, Santa Claus is as happy and jolly as ever," said the Nodding Donkey, "and his men are just as busy. We had a dreadful accident though, coming down to Earth!"

"You did?" mewed the China Cat. "Tell me about it," and she moved her tail from one side to the other.

Before the Nodding Donkey could speak in answer to this request, a voice suddenly asked:

"I say, Nodding Donkey, do you kick?"

"Kick? Of course not," the Nodding Donkey answered. "Why do you ask such a question? Who are you, anyhow?" and he looked all around.

"Hush! Don't get him started," whispered the China Cat. "It's the Policeman with his club, and if he begins to tickle you he'll never stop. Oh, here he comes now! Here comes the Policeman!"



Chapter V

The Lame Boy


When the China Cat said: "Here comes the Policeman!" the Nodding Donkey, who did not know just what a policeman was, was quite curious to see who was coming. So he walked to the edge of the shelf and bent his head as far down as he could in order to see.

"Be careful! You might fall!" mewed the China Cat.

"Ha! If he falls, then I'll pick him up! That's what I'm here for, to help in case of accident. I could ring for the ambulance!" suddenly came in the same voice that had asked if the Nodding Donkey kicked.

"On second thought perhaps it will be just as well to have an accident. It will give us something to talk about," the voice went on. "Go ahead, Nodding Donkey. Fall off the shelf. I'll pick you up and send you to the toy hospital in the toy ambulance with the clanging bell."

"Indeed I am not going to fall!" brayed the Donkey. "Who is he, anyhow?" he whispered to the China Cat.

"That's the Policeman I was telling you about," was the answer. "Here he comes now!"

And suddenly the Policeman's voice went on, saying:

"Come now! Move along! Don't block up the sidewalk! Move on! Don't loiter here!"

The Nodding Donkey looked to one side and there he saw a toy Policeman, dressed just as a real one would be, with blue coat, brass buttons, a white helmet and a club that swung on the end of a leather string. The Policeman walked along, for he could do that when a spring inside him was wound up. And as he walked he swung his club to and fro, and said, just like a real policeman:

"Come now, move along! Don't block up the sidewalk." Then he added, in a different tone: "There is no accident now, but if that Nodding Donkey would only fall off the shelf we might have one."

"Indeed, and I'm not going to fall off the shelf just for fun!" brayed the Donkey.

"Oh, aren't you? Then we must make fun in some other way," said the toy Policeman. "How are you feeling?" and with that he jumped up on the shelf beside the Donkey and tickled him in the ribs with the club.

"Oh, don't do -- ha! ha! -- Don't -- ha! ha! -- do that!" laughed the Donkey. "You make me feel so funny I may fall!"

The Nodding Donkey is Tickled by the Toy Policeman. Page 50

"Well, if you do, I'll pick you up," said the Policeman, and he twisted his club around on the Donkey's ribs in such a funny way that the nodding creature laughed "ha! ha!" and "ho! ho!"

"I thought I'd stir things up and make them rather lively!" said the Policeman, with a jolly grin on his red face. "How are you feeling?" he asked, turning to the China Cat.

"I feel quite good enough without having you tickle me," she answered, as she got up to move away.

"Oh, you'll feel ever so much better after I tickle you!" cried the Policeman, and he reached out his club toward the Cat. But he was not quick enough. She slipped behind a Jack in the Box, where the Policeman could not see her.

"Well, I guess I'll tickle you again," said the toy with the club, as he turned back toward the Nodding Donkey.

"Oh, no, don't, please!" begged the long-eared chap. "I've had quite enough. When you tickle me I laugh, and when I laugh my head nods harder than it ought to, and maybe it might nod off."

"Oh, I wouldn't want that to happen!" exclaimed the Policeman. "That would be too bad an accident. I guess I'll walk down the shelf and see if there's a fire anywhere," he went on, and away he stalked, swinging his club from side to side.

"Oh, I hope there isn't a fire here," said the Nodding Donkey, as the China Cat came out from behind the Jack's box. "I am not used to being hot. I came from the cold North Pole."

"No, there isn't any fire. If there were you would soon see the toy Fireman and the Fire Engine starting out," replied the China Cat. "I don't like fires myself, and I detest the water they squirt on them. We cats don't like water, you know."

"So I have heard," said the Nodding Donkey.

"Dear me! there's a speck of dirt on my tail," suddenly mewed the China Cat, and she leaned over, and with her red tongue washed her tail clean.

Meanwhile the Policeman walked on down the counter, as though it were a street, and he swung his club and said:

"Move on now! Don't crowd the sidewalk! Everybody must keep moving!"

"Isn't he funny?" asked the Nodding Donkey.

"He is when he doesn't tickle you," said the China Cat, as she looked in a Doll's mirror to see if she had any more specks of dirt on her white coat. But she was nice and clean, was the China Cat.

Then the toys in the store of Horatio Mugg began to have lots of fun. They told stories, sang songs, made up riddles for one another to guess and played tag and hide-and-go-seek. They were allowed to do all this because it was night and no one was watching them. But as soon as daylight came and Mr. Mugg or Miss Angelina or Miss Geraldine or any of the customers came into the store, the toys must be very still and quiet.

"Is this the only store you were ever in?" asked the Donkey of the Cat, as they sat near each other after a lively game of tag.

"No, I was in one other," was the answer. "It was a store in which there lived a Sawdust Doll, a Lamb on Wheels, a Monkey on a Stick and many other playthings."

"Why did you leave?" asked the Donkey. "Was it because there were no other cats there for you to mew to?"

"No, it was not that," was the answer.

"Then why did you leave?" asked the Nodding Donkey.

"Well, one Christmas I was bought by a gentleman who sent me to a lady," was the answer. "She was a lady who was always changing things that came to her from the store. She would buy a thing one day and change it, or send it back, the next.

"And when I came to her as a Christmas present, she happened to have a little China Dog. I guess she thought the dog might bark at me. Anyhow, she sent me back to the store, only she sent me here instead of to the store where the Calico Clown and the other toys lived, and the mistake was never found out. Mr. Mugg and his daughters took me in, and I have been here ever since."

"Do you ever see your friend, the Monkey on a Stick, or hear from the Sawdust Doll?" asked the Donkey.

"Once in a while," was the answer. "Sometimes, when the grown folk buy toys for children they pick out the wrong ones, and the toys are brought back or exchanged. These toys that come back tell us of the houses where they have spent a few days.

"Once a Jumping Jack who was brought back in this way told about being in a house where the Sawdust Doll lived, and where there was also a White Rocking Horse I used to know."

"I should like to meet the White Rocking Horse," said the Nodding Donkey. "He might be a distant relation of mine."

"Perhaps," agreed the China Cat. "But now I think it is time we got back on our shelves. I see daylight beginning to peep in the window, and it would never do for Mr. Mugg or Miss Angelina or Miss Geraldine to see us moving about."

"I suppose not," said the Nodding Donkey, somewhat sadly.

"Move along, everybody! Move back to your places! Daylight is coming!" called the Policeman, as he walked past swinging his club.

And, a little later, when all the toys were back on the shelves, the sun rose, and in came Mr. Mugg to open the store for the day.

All that day people came and went in the toy store, some coming to look, and others to buy. Some of the toys were taken away, and the Nodding Donkey wondered when it would be his turn. But, though he was often taken up, shown and admired, no one purchased him.

"I know what I will do, so that Donkey will be sold!" said Mr. Mugg in the afternoon.

"What?" asked Miss Angelina.

"I will put him in the show window," answered her father.

"Oh, let me decorate the show window!" begged Miss Geraldine. "I'll make up a scene with a Christmas tree, and put the Nodding Donkey under it."

"Very well," agreed Mr. Mugg. "I will leave the show window to you, Geraldine. Make it look as pretty as you can."

And Miss Geraldine did. She got a little Christmas tree and set it up in a box. Then she put some tiny electric lights on it, and also some toys. Other toys were put under the tree, and one of these was the Nodding Donkey.

"Oh, now I can see things!" said the Donkey to himself, as he found he could look right out into the street. It was a scene he had never observed before. All his life had been spent in the workshop of Santa Claus or in the toy store. He was most delighted to look out into the street.

It was snowing, and crowds were hurrying to and fro, doing their Christmas shopping. After the show window in the store of Mr. Horatio Mugg had been newly decorated by Miss Geraldine, many boys and girls and grown folk, too, stopped to peer in. They looked at the Nodding Donkey, at the Jumping Jacks, at the Dolls, the toy Fire Engines, at the Soldiers and at the Policeman.

Toward evening, when the lights had just been set aglow, the Nodding Donkey saw, coming toward the window, a little lame boy. He had to walk on crutches, and with him was a lady who had hold of his arm.

"Oh, Mother, look at the new toys!" cried the lame boy. "And see that Donkey! Why, he's shaking his head at me! Look, he's making his head go up and down! I guess he thinks I asked you if you'd buy him for me, and he's saying 'yes'; isn't he, Mother?"

"Perhaps," answered the lady. "Would you like that Nodding Donkey for Christmas, Joe?"

"Oh, I just would!" cried the lame boy. "Let's go in and look at him. Maybe I can hold him in my hands! Oh, I'd just love that Nodding Donkey!"



Chapter VI

A New Home


For a minute or two longer the lame boy and his mother stood in front of the show window of the toy shop of Mr. Horatio Mugg and his two daughters. The lame boy looked at the Nodding Donkey and the Nodding Donkey bobbed his head in such a funny fashion that the lame boy smiled.

"I'm glad I could make him do that," thought the Donkey. "He doesn't look so sad when he smiles. I wonder what is the matter with him that he walks in such a funny way?"

Of course the Nodding Donkey did not know what it meant to be lame. His own wooden legs were straight and stiff, and he did not need crutches, as did the lame boy.

"Be sure it is the Nodding Donkey you want, and not some other toy," said the boy's mother, as they looked at the things in the window.

"Yes, Mother, I'd rather have him than anything else," the boy answered, and into the store they went. Mr. Mugg came out from behind the counter.

"Would you like to look at some toys?" asked the storekeeper.

"My little boy thinks he would like the Nodding Donkey in the window," said the lady, whose name was Mrs. Richmond.

"Ah, yes, that is a very fine toy!" said Mr. Mugg, with a smile for the lame boy. "It is one of the very latest from the shop of Santa Claus. Geraldine, please show the boy the Nodding Donkey," Mr. Mugg called, and as Joe, the lame boy, walked along with Miss Geraldine, Mr. Mugg said to Mrs. Richmond:

"I am very sorry to see that your boy has to go on crutches."

"Yes, his father and I feel very sad about it," Joe's mother answered. "We have already had the doctors do almost everything they can to cure him, but now we fear he must have another and worse operation. I dread it, and that is why I would get him almost anything to make him happy. He seemed very pleased with the Nodding Donkey."

"I'm sure Joe will like that toy," said Mr. Mugg.

And when Joe had the wooden animal in his hands, and saw how much faster the head nodded at him, the lame boy smiled and said:

"Oh, this is the nicest toy I ever had!"

"I am glad you like it," said the storekeeper. "Geraldine, please wrap up the Nodding Donkey for Joe."

All this while the Nodding Donkey had said nothing, of course, and he had done nothing, except to shake his head. He took one last look around the toy store as he was being wrapped up in paper by Miss Geraldine. The Nodding Donkey saw the Jack in the Box and the China Cat peering at him.

"I wish I might say good-by to them," thought the four-legged toy, "but I suppose it isn't allowed. I shall be lonesome without them."

The China Cat wished she might wave her paw, or even the tip of her tail, at her friend, the Nodding Donkey, and the Jack in the Box did seem to nod a farewell, but perhaps that was because he was on a spring, and could move so easily. As for the China Cat, she had to keep straight and stiff.

With the Nodding Donkey safely wrapped in paper under his arm, Joe left the store of Mr. Mugg with his mother. Joe limped along on his crutches, and he had to go slowly. But he was smiling happily, and for the first day in a long time he forgot about his lameness. And when his mother saw her son smiling, she, too, smiled. But she was worried about another operation that Joe must go through. The doctor had said that one of his legs had grown so crooked that the only way to fix it was to break it, and let it grow together again, straight.

But now, with his Nodding Donkey, Joe thought nothing about operations, or his crutches, or about being lame. All his mind was on the Nodding Donkey, and he even tore a little hole in the paper so he could look through and make sure his toy was all right.

His mother saw him tearing this hole as they sat in the street car riding home, and as she looked down at him sitting beside her she smiled and asked:

"Aren't you afraid your Nodding Donkey will take cold?"

"Oh, no, Mother," Joe answered. "It is nice and warm in this car. But I'll hold my hand over the hole if you want me to, and that will keep out the wind when we walk along the street."

Soon Joe and his mother left the car, to walk toward their home, which was not far from the corner. The weather was getting colder now, and even inside the wrapping paper the Nodding Donkey could feel it, though the lame boy did hold his hand over the hole.

"I wonder what sort of place I am coming into?" thought the Nodding Donkey, as he felt himself being carried inside a house. Wrapped up as he was, of course he could see nothing. But he could feel that the house was warm, for being out in the cold air was almost like the time he had been tossed from the sleigh of Santa Claus into the snowdrift.

"Now I'll have some fun!" cried Joe, as he took the paper off his toy. "Will you please get me my Noah's Ark, Mother? I'll take the animals and have a circus."

Joe sat down to a table and placed the Nodding Donkey in front of him. Up and down and sidewise bobbed the loose head of the toy. And, as he nodded, the Donkey had a chance to look about him. His new home was quite different from the gay toy store he had been taken from. Here was only a plain house, though it was neat and clean and pretty.

"I think I shall like it here," said the Donkey to himself. "I believe Joe will be good and kind to me. I am going to be lonesome at first, but that cannot be helped."

However, the Nodding Donkey was not lonesome now, for Joe's mother set on the table in front of the boy a rather battered old Noah's Ark. From this Joe took out an elephant, a tiger, a lion, a camel and many other animals. They were not as large or as fine as the Nodding Donkey, and they looked at him in a rather queer way, did these animals from the Noah's Ark. Of course they did not dare say or do anything as long as Joe was looking at them.

"Now I will pretend that this table is the circus ring," said Joe, talking to himself, as he often did. "I will put the Nodding Donkey in the middle and all the other animals around him. Then I'll be the Ringmaster and make believe they are doing tricks."

So Joe put the Nodding Donkey in the very center of the table, where the new toy bobbed his head up and down and sidewise, just as he had done in the store of Mr. Mugg and in the workshop of Santa Claus.

"Now comes the Tiger," said Joe, going on with his circus play, and he set that striped animal down near the Donkey. "And then the Lion. I hope they don't bite my new Donkey."

But the Noah's Ark animals were very good and kind, and they did not so much as open their mouths at the Nodding Donkey. Joe played away and had lots of fun at his pretend circus, while his mother got the supper ready. Once when she came into the room where the lame boy sat at the table, Mrs. Richmond said:

"I just saw some friends of yours going past, Joe."

"Who were they?" asked Joe.

"Arnold and Sidney," was the answer. "Arnold had his Bold Tin Soldier, and Sidney was carrying his Calico Clown."

"Oh, I want to see them!" cried Joe. "They have such fun with their toys, and I want them to come in and see mine."

"I'm afraid it is too late -- they have gone on home," answered Mrs. Richmond, but Joe took his crutches, which stood near his chair, and hobbled into the front room, where he could look out in the street to see the boys of whom his mother had spoken.

The Nodding Donkey was left on the table with the other animals from the Noah's Ark. As Mrs. Richmond, as well as Joe, was out of the room, and there was no one to look at them, the animals could do as they pleased.

"How do you do?" politely asked the Lion. "We are glad you have come to live here, Mr. Nodding Donkey. But where is the Noah's Ark that you belong in? It must be very large."

"I did not come out of a Noah's Ark," the Donkey answered, with a friendly nod of his head. "I came first from the workshop of Santa Claus, at the North Pole, and just now I came from a toy store."

"Yes, we, too, were in each of those places, years ago," said the Tiger. "But we have belonged to the little lame boy for a long while. He is very good to us, and you will like it here."

"I heard the boy's mother speak of a Bold Tin Soldier and a Calico Clown," said the Donkey. "Do they belong here?"

"No; they are toys that belong to boys who sometimes come to play with Joe," answered the Elephant. "Then we have jolly times! You ought to see that Calico Clown! He is so funny! And you ought to hear him tell about the time in the toy store when his trousers caught fire!"

"That never happened in the toy store where I was -- not in Mr. Mugg's store," said the Donkey.

"No, that was another store," said the Elephant. "You'll like the Calico Clown, I know you will, and the Bold Tin Soldier, too. Arnold and Sidney will bring them over some day."

"Now that I think of it, I believe I have heard those toys spoken of in the workshop of Santa Claus," said the Donkey. "The China Cat also mentioned them. Yes, I should like to see them. But we had better stop talking. I think I hear Joe or his mother coming back."

There was a noise at the door, but it was not made by the lame boy or his mother. They were both at the front window, looking down the street at Arnold and Sidney, who were going home, one with his Bold Tin Soldier and the other with his Calico Clown.

And then, all of a sudden, something covered with fur and with a big, bushy tail, like a dustbrush, jumped up on the table and sprang at the Nodding Donkey.



Chapter VII

The Flood


"Look out there!" roared the Noah's Ark Lion.

"Here! What are you going to do?" snarled the Noah's Ark Tiger.

Of course neither of these animals made very much noise, being quite small, but they did the best they could.

"Come over by me, Mr. Nodding Donkey, if you are afraid!" called the Elephant through his trunk. He was the largest animal in the Noah's Ark, but even he was not as big as the Donkey. As for that nodding toy, he reared back on his hind legs when he saw the strange animal, covered with fur and with the big tail like a dustbrush, jump on the table. The toy animals could move and talk among themselves now, as long as no human being was in the room.

The furry animal stood on the table in the midst of the toys. He sat up on his hind legs and seemed to be eating something that he held in his forepaws.

"Are you a cat?" asked the Noah's Ark Camel, sort of making his two humps shiver.

"No, I'm not a cat," was the answer. "I am a Chattering Squirrel, and I am eating a nut. I live in a hollow tree just outside this house, and, seeing a window open and all you toys on the table, I jumped in to see what fun you were having."

"Oh, that's all right," said the Nodding Donkey politely. "We are glad to see you. But even I was scared, at first. We were just talking among ourselves while the lame boy is away. He was playing circus with us."

"We Are Glad to See You," Said the Nodding Donkey. Page 73

"I know the lame boy," said the Chattering Squirrel. "He is very kind to me. He puts nuts out for me to eat. I am eating one now. Will you have a nibble?" and the squirrel held out the nut to the Nodding Donkey.

"No, thank you; I don't eat nuts," returned the new toy.

"I eat other things, too," went on the Squirrel. "I take them right out of the lame boy's hand, and I never nip him, for I like him and he likes me. I am sorry he is lame."

"So am I," said the Nodding Donkey. "I felt sorry for him when he looked in the store window of Mr. Mugg's shop, and I nodded to him so that he smiled. But hush! Here he comes now!"

And this time it was the lame boy and his mother coming back into the room where the Nodding Donkey and the Noah's Ark toys had been left on the table. Instantly each toy became stark and stiff and no longer moved or spoke. But the Chattering Squirrel, not being a toy, could do as he pleased. So he frisked his tail and nibbled the nut.

"Oh, Mother! See! There is Frisky, my tame Squirrel!" cried Joe. "He must have come in through the window to see my Nodding Donkey. Hello, Frisky!" cried the lame boy, and then when he put down his hand the Chattering Squirrel scrambled across the table and let Joe rub his soft fur.

"I guess he is looking for something to eat," said Mrs. Richmond, with a smile. "He wants his supper, as you want yours, Joe, and as your father will, as soon as he gets home. You had better put away your toys now -- your Nodding Donkey and the Noah's Ark animals -- and get ready for supper. I think there are a few more nuts left which you may give Frisky."

"Oh, he'll love those, Mother!" cried Joe. And when he had put away his toys he brought out some more nuts for the Squirrel, who liked them very much.

The Nodding Donkey was put up on the mantel shelf in the dining room, but the Noah's Ark toys, being older, were set aside in a closet.

"I want Daddy to see my Donkey as soon as he comes in," said Joe, and he waited for his father. Soon Mr. Richmond's step was heard in the hall, and Joe hobbled on his crutches to meet him. Frisky, the Chattering Squirrel, had skipped out of the open window in the kitchen as soon as he had eaten the nuts Joe gave him.

"How is my boy to-night?" asked Mr. Richmond, as he hugged Joe.

"Oh, I'm fine!" was the answer. "And look what Mother bought me!"

Joe pointed to the Nodding Donkey on the mantel.

"Well, he is a fine fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Richmond. "Where did he come from?"

"From the toy shop," Joe answered, and then, even though supper was almost ready, he had to show his father how the Donkey nodded his head.

"He surely is a jolly chap!" cried Daddy Richmond, when he had taken up the Donkey and looked him all over. "And now how are your legs?" he asked Joe.

"They hurt some; but I don't mind them so much when I have my Donkey," was the answer.

After supper Joe again played with his toy, and, noticing that their son was not listening, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond talked about him in low voices.

"He doesn't really seem to be much better," said the father sadly.

"No," agreed the mother. "I am afraid we shall have to let the doctor break that one leg and set it over again. That may make our boy well."

"I hope so," said Mr. Richmond, and both he and his wife were sad as they thought of the lame one.

But Joe was happier than he had been in some time, for he had his Nodding Donkey to play with. When the time came to go to bed, Joe put the Donkey away in the closet with the Noah's Ark, his toy train of cars, the ball he tossed when his legs did not pain him too much, and his other playthings.

"Well, how do you like it here?" asked the toy Fireman of the toy train, when the house was all quiet and still and the toys were allowed to do as they pleased.

"I think I shall like it very much," was the Donkey's answer.

"I would give you a ride on this toy train," said the Engineer in the cab across from the Fireman, "but you are too large to get in any of the cars."

"But we aren't!" cried the Tiger. "Come on, Mr. Lion, let's go for a ride while we have the chance!"

"All right!" agreed the Lion from the Noah's Ark.

So then, in the closet where they had been put away for the night, the small animals rode up and down the floor in the toy train. The Fireman made believe piles of coal under the boiler, and the Engineer turned on the steam and made the cars go. The Fireman rang the bell, and the Engineer tooted the whistle.

The Nodding Donkey, being rather large, could not fit in the train, but the other toys were just right, and they had a fine time.

"Perhaps if you climbed up on top of the cars I might give you a ride," said the Engineer after he had taken all the Noah's Ark animals on short trips around the closet floor.

"Oh, thank you; but I might fall off and get my head out of order so it would not nod," answered the Donkey. "I think I'll just keep quiet this evening."

"Perhaps you could tell us a story," suggested the Camel. "Tell us the latest news from North Pole Land, where Santa Claus lives. It is a long time since we were there."

"Yes, I could do that," agreed the Nodding Donkey. "And I'll tell you how we ran into a snow bank."

So the Nodding Donkey did this, telling the Noah's Ark animals the same story that I have told you, thus far, in this book. The night passed very happily for the toys in the closet.

When morning came the toys had to become quiet, for it was not allowed for them to be heard talking or to be seen at their make believe fun.

Then began many happy days for the Nodding Donkey. Joe, the lame boy, made a little stable for his new toy, building it out of pieces of wood. He put some straw from the chicken coop in it, so the Donkey would have a soft bed on which to sleep.

Joe played all sorts of games with his new toy. Sometimes it would be a circus game, and again the lame boy would tie little bundles of wood on his Donkey's back, making believe they were gold and diamonds which the animal was carrying down out of pretend mines.

One day Arnold and Sidney, two boys who lived not very far from the home of Joe, came over with their playthings. Arnold brought his Bold Tin Soldier and his company and Sidney his Calico Clown. The three boys looked at the Nodding Donkey and admired him very much, and Joe had fun playing with the Soldier and the Clown.

After a while Mrs. Richmond called to Joe and his chums:

"Come out into the kitchen, boys, and I'll give you some bread and jam," and you can easily believe the boys did not take long to hurry out, Joe stumping along on his crutches.

Meanwhile the Donkey, the Clown, and the Soldier and his men, being left by themselves in the other room, had a chance to talk.

"I am so glad to meet you," brayed the Donkey. "I have heard so much about you."

"Did you hear how once I burned my trousers?" asked the Calico Clown.

"I heard it mentioned," the Donkey said; "but I should like to hear more about it."

"I'll tell you," offered the funny chap. So he related that tale, just as it is told in another of these books.

"Well, that was quite an adventure," said the Donkey, when all had been told. "I suppose you have had adventures, too?" he went on, looking at the Bold Tin Soldier.

"Oh, a few," was the answer.

"Tell them about the time, in the toy shop, when you drew your sword and frightened away the rat that was coming after the Sawdust Doll and the Candy Rabbit," suggested the Clown.

"All right, I will," said the Soldier, and he did. You may read, if you like, about the Candy Rabbit and the Sawdust Doll in the books written especially about those toys.

So the Nodding Donkey listened to the stories told by the Soldier and the Clown, and he was just wishing he might have adventures such as they had had, when back into the room came Joe and his friends. They had finished eating the bread and jam. Then the boys played again with their toys until it was time for Arnold and Sidney to go home.

And now I must tell you of a wonderful adventure that befell the Nodding Donkey about a week after he had come to live with the lame boy, and how he saved Joe's home from being flooded with water.

Joe had been playing with his Nodding Donkey all day, but toward evening the little lame boy's legs pained him so that he had to be put to bed in a hurry. And in such a hurry that he forgot all about the Nodding Donkey and left him on the floor in the kitchen, under the sink, which Joe had pretended was a cave of gold.

"I wonder if I am to stay here all night! It is growing bitterly cold, too!" thought the Donkey, as Joe's father and mother took their boy up to bed. "They must have forgotten me."

And that is just what had happened. After Joe had gone to sleep his father and mother sat in the dining room talking about him.

"I think we shall have to have the doctor come and see Joe to-morrow," said Mr. Richmond. "His legs seem to be getting worse."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Richmond. "Something must be done."

They were both very sad, and sat there silent for some time.

Meanwhile, out in the kitchen, at the sink, something was happening. Suddenly a water pipe burst. It did not make any noise, but the water began trickling down over the floor in a flood. Right where the Nodding Donkey stood, in the pretend cave, the water poured. It rose around the legs of the Donkey, and he felt himself being lifted up and carried across the kitchen toward the dining room door.

The burst pipe had caused a flood, and the Nodding Donkey was right in it!



Chapter VIII

A Broken Leg


Had Mr. and Mrs. Richmond not been in the next room, the Nodding Donkey might have kicked up his heels and have jumped out of the stream of water that was running from the burst pipe of the sink across the floor. But knowing people were so close at hand, where they might catch sight of him, the Donkey dared not move.

All he could do was to float along with the stream of water, which was now getting higher and higher and larger and larger. The water felt cold on the legs of the Donkey, for this was now winter, and the water was like ice. So the Nodding Donkey shivered and shook in the cold water of the flood, and wondered what would happen.

Out in the dining room, next the kitchen, sat Joe's father and mother. They were silent and sad, thinking of their lame boy.

They were thinking so much about him, and what the doctors would have to do to him to make him well and strong, that neither of them paid any heed to the running water. If they had not been thinking so much about Joe they might have heard the hissing sound.

But suddenly Mrs. Richmond, who was looking at the floor, gave a start, and half arose from her chair.

"Look!" she cried to her husband. "There is Joe's Nodding Donkey!"

"Why!" exclaimed Mr. Richmond, "it is floating along on a stream of water! The frost has made a pipe burst in the kitchen and the water is spurting out! Quick! We must shut off the running water!"

It did not take Joe's father long to shut off the water from the burst pipe. That was all that could be done then, as no plumber could be had. Mrs. Richmond lifted the Donkey up off the floor and out of the water, drying him on a towel. And you may well believe that the Donkey was very glad to be warm and dry again. He was afraid his varnish coat would be spoiled, but I am glad to say it was not.

"It's a lucky thing we sat here talking, and that I saw the Donkey come floating in," said Mrs. Richmond, when the water had been mopped up. "If I had not, the whole house might have been flooded by morning."

"Yes," agreed her husband. "Joe's Nodding Donkey did us a good turn. He saved a lot of damage. The water in the kitchen will not do much harm, but if it had flooded the rest of the house it would."

Then the Donkey was put away in the closet where he belonged, together with the animals from the Noah's Ark.

"How cold and shivery you are, Mr. Donkey," said the Noah's Ark Lamb, when the Donkey had been placed on the closet shelf, after the flood.

"I guess you'd be cold and shivery, too, if you had been through such an adventure as just happened to me!" answered the Donkey.

"Oh, tell us about it!" begged the Lion. "We have been quite dull here all evening, wondering where you were."

So the Donkey told his story of the burst pipe, and after that the animals went to sleep.

Joe was quite surprised when, the next morning, he was told what had happened. And when the plumber came to fix the broken pipe Joe showed the man the Nodding Donkey who had first given warning of the flood.

"He is a fine toy!" said the plumber.

After this Joe's Nodding Donkey had many adventures in his new home. I wish I had room to tell you all of them, but I can only mention a few.

The weather grew colder and colder, and some days many snowflakes fell. The Donkey, looking out of the window, saw them, and he thought of Santa Claus and North Pole Land.

Joe was not as lively as he had been that day he went to Mr. Mugg's store and bought the toy. There were days when Joe never took the Nodding Donkey off the shelf at all. The wooden toy just had to stay there, while Joe lay on a couch near the window and looked out.

"This is too bad!" thought the Donkey. "Joe ought to run about and play like Arnold and Sidney. They have lots of fun in the snow, and they take out the Calico Clown and the Bold Tin Soldier, too. I wish Joe would take me out. I don't mind the cold of the snow as much as I minded the cold water."

But Joe seemed to have forgotten about his Nodding Donkey. The toy stood on a shelf over the couch where the lame boy lay. Once in a while Joe would ask his mother to hand him down the Donkey, but more often the lame boy would lie with his eyes closed, doing nothing.

Then, one day, a sad accident happened. Mrs. Richmond was upstairs, getting Joe's bed ready for him. Though it was not yet night, he said he felt so tired he thought he would go to bed. On the shelf over his head was the Nodding Donkey.

Suddenly, in through a kitchen window that had been left open came Frisky, the Chattering Squirrel. Over the floor scampered the lively little chap, and he gave a sort of whistle at Joe.

"Oh, hello, Frisky!" said the lame boy, opening his eyes. "I'm glad you came in!"

Of course Frisky could not say so in boy language, but he, too, was glad to see Joe.

"Come here, Frisky!" called Joe, and he held out his hand.

"I guess he has some nuts for me," thought the squirrel, and he was right. In one pocket Joe had some nuts, and now he held these out to his little live pet.

Frisky took a nut in his paw, which was almost like a hand, and then, as squirrels often do, he looked for a high place on which he might perch himself to eat. Frisky saw the shelf over Joe's couch, the same shelf on which stood the Nodding Donkey.

"I'll go up there to eat the nut," said Frisky to himself.

Up he scrambled, but he was such a lively little chap that in swinging his tail from side to side he brushed it against the Nodding Donkey.

With a crash that toy fell to the floor near Joe's couch!

"Oh, Frisky! Look what you did!" cried Joe. But the squirrel was so busy eating the nut that he paid no attention to the Donkey.

Joe picked up his plaything. One of the Donkey's varnished legs was dangling by a few splinters.

"Oh! Oh, dear!" cried Joe. "My Donkey's leg is broken! Now he will have to go on crutches as I do! Mother! Come quick!" cried Joe. "Something terrible has happened to my Nodding Donkey!"



Chapter IX

A Lonesome Donkey


"What is the matter, Joe? What has happened?" asked Mrs. Richmond, hurrying downstairs, leaving her son's bed half made.

Mrs. Richmond, hurrying into the room where she had left Joe lying on the couch, saw him sitting up and holding his Nodding Donkey in his hands.

"Oh, look, Mother!" and Joe's voice sounded as if he might be going to cry. "Look what Frisky did to my Donkey! Knocked him off the shelf, and his left hind leg is broken."

"That is too bad," said Mrs. Richmond, but her face showed that she was glad it was not Joe who was hurt. "Yes, the Donkey's leg is broken," she went on, as she took the toy from her son. "Frisky, you are a bad squirrel to break Joe's Donkey!" and she shook her finger at the chattering little animal, who, perched on the shelf, was eating the nut the boy had given him.

"Oh, Mother! Frisky didn't mean to do it," said Joe. "It wasn't his fault. I guess the Nodding Donkey was too close to the edge of the shelf. But now his leg is broken, and I guess he'll have to go on crutches, the same as I do; won't he, Mother?"

The Nodding Donkey did not hear any of this. The pain in his leg was so great that he had fainted, though Joe and his mother did not know this. But the Donkey really had fainted.

"No, Joe," said Mrs. Richmond, after a while, "your Donkey will not have to go on crutches, and I hope the day will soon come when you can lay them aside."

"What do you mean, Mother?" Joe asked eagerly. "Do you think I will ever get better?"

"We hope so," she answered softly. "In a few days you are going to a nice place, called a hospital, where you will go to sleep in a little white bed. Then the doctors will come and, when you wake up again, your legs may be nice and straight so, after a while, you can walk on them again without leaning on crutches."

"Oh, won't I be glad when that happens!" cried Joe, with shining eyes. "But what about my Nodding Donkey, Mother? Can I take him to the hospital and have him fixed, too, so he will not need crutches?"

"Well, we shall see about that," Mrs. Richmond said. "I'll tie his leg up now with a rag, and when your father comes home he may know how to fix it. I never heard of a donkey on crutches."

"I didn't either!" laughed Joe. He felt a little happier now, because he hoped he might be made well and strong again, and because he hoped his father could fix the broken leg of the Nodding Donkey.

Mrs. Richmond got a piece of cloth, and, straightening out the Donkey's leg as best she could, she tied it up. Then she put the toy far back on the shelf, laying it down on its side so it would not fall off again, or topple over.

Frisky scampered out of the window, back to his home in the hollow tree at the end of the yard. Frisky never knew what damage he had done. He was too eager to eat the nut Joe had given him.

"Now lie quietly here, Joe," his mother said. "I will soon have your bed ready for you, and then you can go to sleep."

"I don't want to go until Daddy comes home, so he can fix my Donkey," said the boy, and his mother allowed him to remain up until Mr. Richmond came from the office.

"Oh, ho! So the Donkey has a broken leg, has he?" asked Mr. Richmond in his usual jolly voice, when he came in where Joe was lying on the couch. "Well, I think I can have him fixed."

"How?" asked the little lame boy.

"I'll take him back to the same toy store where you bought him," answered his father. "Mr. Mugg knows how to mend all sorts of toys."

By this time the Donkey had gotten over the fainting fit, as his leg did not hurt him so much after Mrs. Richmond had tied the rag around it. And now the Donkey heard what was said.

"Take me back to the toy store, will they?" thought the Donkey to himself. "Well, I shall be glad to have my leg mended, and also to see the China Cat and some of my other friends. But I want to come back to Joe. I like him, and I like it here. Besides, I am near the Calico Clown and the Bold Tin Soldier. Yes, I shall want to come back when my leg is mended."

Mr. Richmond, still leaving on the Donkey's leg the rag Mrs. Richmond had wound around it, put the toy back on the shelf. Then he carried Joe up to bed.

"When will the doctors operate on our boy, to make him better?" asked Mrs. Richmond of her husband, when Joe was asleep.

"In about a week," was his answer. "I stopped at the hospital to-day, and made all the plans. Joe is to go there a week from to-day."

"Will his Nodding Donkey be mended by that time?" asked Mrs. Richmond. "I think Joe would like to take it to the hospital with him."

"I'll try to get Mr. Mugg to finish it so Joe may have it," said Mr. Richmond. "Poor boy! He has had a hard time in life, but if this operation is a success he will be much happier."

All night long the Nodding Donkey lay on the shelf, his broken leg wrapped in the cloth. He did not nod now, for, lying down as he was, his head could not shake and wabble. Besides, the toy felt too sad and was in too much pain to nod, even if he had stood on his feet. But of course he couldn't stand up with a broken leg. Indeed not!

In the closet, where they were kept, the animals from Noah's Ark talked among themselves that night.

"Where is the Nodding Donkey?" asked the Lion. "Why is he not here with us?"

"I hope he hasn't become too proud, because he is a new, shiny toy and we are old and battered," said the Tiger sadly.

"Nonsense!" rumbled the Elephant. "The Nodding Donkey is not that kind of toy. He would be here if he could. Some accident has happened, you may depend on it."

"Well, I'm glad my train didn't run over him," said the Engineer of the toy locomotive.

"It was some kind of accident, I'm sure," insisted the Elephant. "I heard Joe cry out, and his mother came running downstairs."

And it was an accident, as you know. All night the Nodding Donkey lay on the shelf in the dining room. He had no other toys to talk to, and perhaps it was just as well, for he did not feel like talking with his broken leg hurting him as it did.

Early the next morning Mr. Richmond was on his way to the office, taking the Nodding Donkey with him.

"Let me see him once more before you take him to the toy shop to be fixed!" begged Joe, who had been told what was to be done with his plaything.

Joe's father put the Nodding Donkey into his son's hands.

"Poor fellow!" murmured Joe, gently touching the broken leg. "You are a cripple like me, now. I hope they make you well again."

Then, with another kind pat, Joe gave the Donkey back to his father, and, a little later, Mr. Richmond walked into Mr. Mugg's store with the toy.

"Hum! Yes, that is a bad break, but I think I can fix it," said the jolly old gentleman.

"Let me see," begged Miss Angelina, peering over her father's shoulder, with a dustbrush under her arm. She had been dusting the toys ready for the day's business.

"The leg isn't broken all the way off," said Miss Geraldine, who was washing the face of a China Doll, that, somehow or other, had fallen in the dust.

"Yes, that is a good thing," observed Mr. Mugg. "I can glue the parts together and the Donkey will be as strong as ever. Leave it here, Mr. Richmond. I'll fix it."

"And may I have it back this week?" asked the other. "My boy is going to the hospital to have his legs made strong, if possible, and I think he would like to take the Donkey with him."

"You may have it day after to-morrow," promised the toy man.

The Nodding Donkey was still in such pain from his broken leg that he did not pay much attention to the other toys in the store. But Mr. Mugg lost no time in getting to work on the broken toy.

"Heat me the pot of glue, Geraldine," he called to his daughter, "and get me some paint and varnish. When I mend the broken leg I'll paint over the splintered place, so it will not show."

The Nodding Donkey was taken to a work bench. Mr. Mugg, wearing a long apron and a cap, just like the workmen in the shop of Santa Claus, sat down to begin.

With tiny pieces of wood, put in the broken leg to make it as strong as the others that were not broken, with hot, sticky glue, and with strands of silk thread, Mr. Mugg worked on the Nodding Donkey. The toy felt like braying out as loudly as he could when he felt the hot glue on his leg, but he was not permitted to do this, since Mr. Mugg was looking at him. So he had to keep silent, and in the end he felt much better.

"There, I think you will do now," said Mr. Mugg, as he tightly bound some bandages on the Donkey's leg. "When it gets dry I will paint it over and it will look as good as new."

The mended Donkey was set aside on a shelf by himself, and not among the toys that were for sale. All day and all night long he remained there. He was feeling too upset and in too much pain to be lonesome. All he wished for was to be better.

In the morning he was almost himself again. Mr. Mugg came, and, finding the glue hard and dry, took off the bandages. Then with his knife he scraped away little hard pieces of glue that had dried on the outside, and the toy man also cut away some splinters of new wood that stuck out.

"Now to paint your leg, and you will be finished," said Mr. Mugg.

The smell of the paint and varnish, as it was put on him, made the Nodding Donkey think of when he had first come to life in the workshop of Santa Claus. He was feeling quite young and happy again.

"There you are!" cried Mr. Mugg, as he once more set the Donkey on the shelf for the paint and varnish to dry. And this time the Donkey was allowed to be among the other toys, though he was not for sale.

That night in the store, when all was quiet and still, the Nodding Donkey shook his head and spoke to the China Cat, who was not far away.

"Well, you see I am back here again," said the Nodding Donkey.

"Have you come to stay?" asked the China Cat. "You can't imagine how surprised I was when I saw you brought in! But what has happened?"

Then the Donkey told of his accident, and how he had been mended.

"Your leg looks all right now," said the China Cat, glancing at it in the light of the one lamp Mr. Mugg left burning when he closed his store.

"Yes, I am feeling quite myself again," said the Donkey. "But I am not here to stay. I must go back to Joe, the lame boy."

"At least we shall have a chance to talk over old times for a little while," said the China Cat. "I came near being sold yesterday. A lady was going to buy me for her baby to cut his teeth on. Just fancy!"

"I don't believe you would have liked that," said the Donkey.

"No, indeed!" mewed the China Cat. Then she and the Donkey and the other toys talked for some hours, and told stories. On account of his paint not being dry the Donkey did not walk around, jump or kick as he had used to do.

In the morning the toys had to stop their fun-making, for Mr. Mugg and his daughters came to open the store for the day. And in the afternoon Mr. Richmond called to get the mended toy.

And you can imagine how glad Joe was to get his Donkey back again.

"I'll never let Frisky break any more of your legs," said Joe, as he hugged the Donkey to him. "I'll take you to bed with me to-night."

But though Joe was allowed to take his Donkey to bed with him, it was thought best not to send the toy to the hospital with the little boy, when he went early the next week.

"Good-by, Nodding Donkey!" called Joe to his toy, as he was driven away; and when Mrs. Richmond put the mended Donkey away on the closet shelf, there were tears in her eyes.

The Nodding Donkey knew that something was wrong, but he did not understand all that was happening. He had seen Joe taken away, and he saw himself put in the closet with the Noah's Ark animals.

"What is the matter?" asked the Lion. "Is Joe tired of playing with you, as he grew tired of us?"

"I hope not," said the Nodding Donkey sadly.

But as that day passed, and the next, the Nodding Donkey grew very lonesome for Joe, for he had learned to love the little lame boy.



Chapter X

Joe Can Run


About a week after Joe had been taken to the hospital, where he had been put in a little white bed, with a rosy-cheeked nurse to look after him, there came a knock on the door of the house where Joe lived, and where the Nodding Donkey also had his home.

"Is Joe here?" asked a little girl named Mirabell, who carried in her arms a toy Lamb on Wheels.

"Joe? No, dear, he isn't here. He is in the hospital having his lame legs fixed," answered Mrs. Richmond. "Didn't you hear about his going away?"

"No," answered Mirabell, "I didn't. But Sidney said Joe had a Nodding Donkey, and I brought my Lamb on Wheels to see the Donkey."

"That is very kind of you," said Mrs. Richmond. "Come in. We are quite worried about Joe, and we hope he will get well and strong so he can run about. But it will be some time yet before he comes from the hospital."

Mirabell entered the house with her Lamb on Wheels. The little girl looked sad when she heard about Joe, but a smile came over her face when she saw the Nodding Donkey, which Joe's mother brought from the closet.

"Oh, what a lovely Donkey!" cried Mirabell. "See, Lamb!" and she held up her toy. "Meet Mr. Nodding Donkey!"

The Donkey nodded his head, but the Lamb could not do that. However, she looked kindly at the nodding toy.

While Mirabell was playing with her Lamb and the Donkey there came another knock on the door of Joe's house.

"It is Herbert with his Monkey on a Stick," said Mrs. Richmond. "Come in," she added, as she opened the door.

"Is Joe back yet?" asked Herbert, after he had said "hello" to Mirabell and put his Monkey toy on the table.

"No, Joe is still in the hospital," answered the lame boy's mother. "He will be home in about three weeks, we hope. Here is his Nodding Donkey toy."

"Oh, that's fine!" cried Herbert. "Arnold told me about it, and I wanted to see it. My mother told me about Joe going to the hospital, and I came to see how he was."

"It is very kind of you," said Joe's mother. "Now I'll leave you children to play with your toys awhile, until I call up the hospital on the telephone and see how Joe is to-day. I have not had a chance to visit him yet."

Herbert and Mirabell had fun playing together, and with the Lamb on Wheels, the Monkey on a Stick, and the Nodding Donkey. After a while the children were given some bread and jam by Mrs. Richmond, who called them into another room to eat it.

"I heard from the hospital that Joe is much better to-day," said Mrs. Richmond, as she spread more bread and butter for her little visitors.

While they were left in the room by themselves, the toys spoke to one another.

"You are a new one, aren't you?" asked the Lamb of the Donkey.

"Yes," was the answer. "Joe got me only a little while before he was taken to the hospital, wherever that is. I guess I was in the hospital myself, when I had my broken leg mended."

"Oh, tell us about it!" begged the Monkey, as he climbed to the top of his stick and slid down again.

So the Donkey told how Frisky had knocked him off the shelf, breaking his leg.

"And Joe had something the matter with his legs, too, so that's why he had to go to the hospital," added the Donkey, as he finished his story. "I do hope he comes back soon, for I am lonesome without him."

The toys spent a happy half hour together, and then when Mirabell and Herbert came back into the room, having finished their bread and jam, the Donkey, the Lamb, and the Monkey had to become quiet.

"We'll come over again, when Joe gets home," said Mirabell, as she and Herbert left.

"And we'll get the other boys and girls and give him a toy party," added the owner of the Monkey.

"Oh, that will be lovely!" said Mrs. Richmond.

The Nodding Donkey was put back in the closet, where he told the Noah's Ark animals all about the visit of the Monkey and Lamb.

"I have heard of those toys," said the Elephant. "They know the Sawdust Doll, the White Rocking Horse, the Candy Rabbit, and the Bold Tin Soldier."

"My, what a lot of jolly toys there are!" said the Donkey. And then he grew silent, thinking of poor little Joe in the hospital.

Joe did not have an easy time. He was very ill and in great pain, but the kind doctors and nurses looked well after him, and his father and mother went to see him almost every day. One afternoon, when Joe had been in the hospital for what seemed to him a whole year, his father and the doctor came into the room. There was also a nurse, and she began to put on Joe the clothes he wore in the street.

"What is going to happen?" asked the boy.

"I am going to take you home, and give your mother a joyful surprise," said his father.

"Oh, how glad I am!" cried Joe. "And then I can see my Nodding Donkey, can't I? Is he all right, Daddy?"

"As right and as fine as ever," answered Mr. Richmond.

Joe could hardly sit still during the ride home. He got out of the automobile and went through the snow up to the front door. His father opened it, and Joe saw his mother standing at the end of the hall.

For a moment Mrs. Richmond could hardly believe what she saw.

"Joe! Joe, my little boy!" she cried. "Oh, you have come home again! Are you all right? Are your legs better? Can you walk?"

"Can I walk, Mother!" cried Joe, in a happy voice. "Of course I can! I can walk without my crutches, and I can run! I can run! See!"

And with that Joe ran down the hall and into his mother's arms.

Oh, what a joyful happy time there was! Joe's legs were straight and strong again, and he did not need his crutches any more.

"And now where is my Nodding Donkey?" he asked. "I want to see him!"

"I'll get him for you," offered his mother, and when the toy was set on the table near Joe, it nodded its head to welcome him home.

"Oh, my dear Donkey! how I missed you while I was in the hospital," said Joe.

"And I missed you, too," thought the Donkey.

Two or three days after this, when Joe had gotten used to being at home again, there came a knock at the door. Outside happy voices were talking and laughing.

When Joe opened the door there stood Dorothy with her Sawdust Doll, Dick with his White Rocking Horse, Arnold with his Bold Tin Soldier, Mirabell with her Lamb, Madeline, who had a Candy Rabbit, Herbert, who carried a Monkey on a Stick, and Sidney with the Calico Clown.

"Surprise on Joe! Surprise on Joe!" cried the children. "We have come to make a Toy Party for you and your Nodding Donkey!"

"Oh, how glad I am!" Joe laughed. "Look at my legs!" he went on. "They are straight now, and I don't have to go on crutches. And my Nodding Donkey, who had a broken leg, is well, too! He doesn't have to go on crutches, either!"

"Hurray!" cried Dick, and all the other boys and girls said: "Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!"

Then the Toy Party began, and the children and the toys had so much fun that it would take three books just to tell about half of it. Joe and his Nodding Donkey were the guests of honor, and all the others tried to make them feel happy. And Joe was happy! One look at his smiling face told that.

As for the Nodding Donkey, you could tell by the way he moved his head that never, in all his life, had he had such a good time.

When Mrs. Richmond called the children to the dining room to eat, the toys were left by themselves in a playroom.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," said the Calico Clown in his jolly voice, "we have all met together, after a long time of being apart. We have all had good times together, and now I hope you will all agree with me when I say that we are glad to welcome the Nodding Donkey among us."

The Nodding Donkey is Welcomed by the Calico Clown. Page 118

"Yes, he is very welcome," said the Sawdust Doll. "We are glad he has come to live in this part of the world."

"I am glad of it myself," said the Nodding Donkey. "I never knew, while I was in the workshop of Santa Claus, that so many things could happen down here. Yes, I am very happy that I came. There is only one thing I wish."

"What is that?" asked the Monkey.

"I wish the China Cat were here," said the Donkey. "She lives in Mr. Mugg's store, and I'm sure you would all like her, she is so clean and white."

"Three cheers for the China Cat!" called the Bold Tin Soldier, waving his sword.

And the toys cheered among themselves.

"Tell me more about this China Cat," begged the Candy Rabbit to the Donkey. "Is she anything like me?"

The Nodding Donkey was just going to tell about the China Cat when Joe and the other children came trooping back into the room, having finished their lunch.

"Now let's play circus!" cried Joe. "We have a lot of toys and animals now. Let's play circus."

And so they did. But as there is a story to tell about the China Cat, and as I have no room in this book, I will make up another, and it will be all about the Nodding Donkey's friend, the white China Cat, and how she had many adventures, but managed to keep herself clean.

As for Joe and his friends, they had a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and the Nodding Donkey lived for a long while after that, happy and contented, and he never even had so much as a pain in the broken leg that Mr. Mugg had mended so nicely.

<eob>

Five Little Peppers Midway

By

Margaret Sidney



I

Phronsie's Pie


"Jefferson," said Phronsie, with a grave uplifting of her eyebrows, "I think I will go down into the kitchen and bake a pie; a very little pie, Jefferson."

"Bless you, Miss," replied the cook, showing his white teeth in glee, "it is the making of the kitchen when you come it."

"Yes, Jefferson," said Phronsie slowly, "I think I will go down make one. It must be very, very full of plums, you know," looking up at him anxiously, "for Polly dearly loves plums."

"It shall be that plummy," said Jefferson convincingly, "that you'd think you never saw such a one for richness. Oh, my! what a pie that shall be!" exclaimed the cook, shutting up one eye to look through the other in a spasm of delight at an imaginary pie; "so it's for Miss Mary, is it?"

"Yes," said Phronsie, "it is. Oh, Jefferson, I'm so glad you like to have me make one," she clasped her hands in silent rapture, and sat down on the lowest stair to think it over a bit, Jefferson looking at her, forgetful that the under cook was fuming in the deserted domains over his delay to return. At last he said, bowing respectfully, "If you please, Miss, it's about time to begin. Such a pie ain't done without a deal of care, and we'd best have it a-baking as soon as may be."

"Yes," said Phronsie, getting off from her stair, and surrendering her hand to his big black palm, "we ought to go right this very minute. But I must get my apron on;" she stopped and looked down at her red dress.

"Oh! you can take one of my aprons," said the cook, "they're as fine, and big, and white, and I'll just put you in one of 'em and tie you up as snug; you'll come out as clean and sweet when we're through, as you are now, Miss."

"Tie me up?" laughed Phronsie in glee. "Oh! how nice, Jefferson. Do you know I love you very much, Jefferson, you're so very good to me?"

The big fellow drew a long breath. "No, Miss, I'm big and black, and just fit to stay downstairs," he managed to say.

"But I love you better because you are black, Jefferson," insisted Phronsie, "a great deal better. You are not like everybody else, but you are just yourself," clinging to his hand.

"Well, Miss, I ain't just fit for a lily to touch and that's the truth," looking down at his palm that the small white hand grasped closely. "It's clean, Miss," he added with pardonable pride, "but it's awful black."

"I like it better black, Jefferson," said Phronsie again, "really and truly I do, because then it's your very, very own," in a tone that thrilled him much as if a queen had knighted him on the spot.

This important declaration over, the two set forth on their way toward the kitchen, Phronsie clinging to his hand, and chatting merrily over the particular pie in prospect, with varied remarks on pies in general, that by and by would be ventured upon if this present one were a success -- and very soon tied up in one of the cook's whitest aprons she was seated with due solemnity at the end of the baking table, the proper utensils and materials in delightful confusion before her, and the lower order of kitchen satellites revolving around her, and Jefferson the lesser sphere.

"Now all go back to your work," said that functionary when he considered the staring and muttered admiration had been indulged in long enough, "and leave us."

"I want you," said his assistant, touching his elbow.

"Clear out," said Jefferson angrily, his face turned quite from Phronsie.

But she caught the tone and immediately laid down the bit of dough she was moulding.

"Do go," she begged, "and come back quickly," smiling up into his face. "See, I'm going to pat and pat and pat, oh! ever so much before you come back."

So Jefferson followed the under cook, the scullery boy went back to cleaning the knives, Susan, the parlor maid who was going through the kitchen with her dustpan and broom, hurried off with a backward glance or two, and Phronsie was left quite alone to hum her way along in her blissful culinary attempt.

"Bless me!" exclaimed a voice close to her small ear, as she was attempting for the fifth time to roll out the paste quite as thin as she had seen Jefferson do, "what is this? Bless my soul! it's Phronsie!"

Phronsie set down the heavy rolling-pin and turned in her chair with a gleeful laugh.

"Dear, dear Grandpapa!" she cried, clasping her floury hands, "oh! I'm so glad you've come to see me make a pie all by myself. It's for Polly, and it's to be full of plums; Jefferson let me make it."

"Jefferson? And where is he, pray?" cried Mr. King irately. "Pretty fellow, to bring you down to these apartments, and then go off and forget you. Jefferson!" he called sharply, "here, where are you?"

"Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Phronsie in dire distress, "I sent him; Jefferson didn't want to go, Grandpapa dear, really and truly, he went because I asked him."

"If you please, sir," began Jefferson, hurrying up, "I only stepped off a bit to the cellar. Bassett sent down a lot of turnips, they ain't first-rate, and" -- 

"All right," said Mr. King, cutting him short with a wave of his hand, "if Miss Phronsie sent you off, it's all right; I don't want to hear any more elaborate explanations."

"Little Miss hasn't been alone but a few minutes," said Jefferson in a worried way.

"And see," said Phronsie, turning back to her efforts, while one hand grasped the old gentleman's palm, "I've almost got it to look like Jefferson's. Almost, haven't I?" she asked, regarding it anxiously.

"It will be the most beautiful pie," cried Mr. King, a hearty enthusiasm succeeding his irritability, "that ever was baked. I wish you'd make me one sometime, Phronsie."

"Do you?" she cried in a tremor of delight, "and will you really have it on the table, and cut it with Aunt Whitney's big silver knife?"

"That I will," declared Mr. King solemnly.

"Then some day I'll come down here again, Jefferson," cried Phronsie in a transport, "and bake one for my dear Grandpapa. That is, if this one is good. Oh! you do suppose it will be good, don't you?" appealingly at him.

"It shall," said Jefferson stoutly, and seizing the rolling-pin with extreme determination. "You want a bit more butter worked in, here," a dab with skillful fingers, and a little manipulation with the flour, a roll now and then most deftly, and the paste was laid out before Phronsie. "Now, Miss, you can put it in the dish."

"But is isn't my pie," said Phronsie, and, big girl as she felt herself to be, she sat back in her chair, her lower lip quivering.

"Not your pie?" repeated the cook, bringing himself up straight to gaze at her.

"No," said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head gravely, "it isn't my pie now, Jefferson. You put in the things, and rolled it."

"Leave your fingers off from it, can't you?" cried Mr. King sharply. "Goodness! this pie isn't to have a professional touch about it. Get some more flour and stuff, whatever it is you make a pie of, and let her begin again. There, I'll sit down and watch you; then there'll be some chance of having things straight." So he drew up a chair to the side of the table, first calling off Pete, the scullery boy, from his knives to come and wipe it off for him, and Mrs. Tucker who was in kitchen dialect "Tucker," to see that the boy did his work well.

"Lor' bless you, sir," said Tucker, bestowing a final polish with her apron, "'twas like satin before, sir -- not a wisp of dust."

"I don't want any observations from you," said the old gentleman, depositing himself in the chair. "There, you can go back to your work, Mrs. Tucker, and you too, Pete. Now I'll see that this pie is to your liking, Phronsie."

But Phronsie still sat back in her chair, thoughtfully surveying Jefferson.

"Grandpapa," she said at last slowly, "I think I'd rather have the first pie, I really would, Grandpapa, may I?" She brought her yellow head forward by a sudden movement, and looked deep into his keen eyes.

"Bless my soul! Rather have the first pie?" repeated the old gentleman in astonishment, "why, I thought you wanted to make one all yourself."

"I think I'd rather do part of it," said Phronsie with great deliberateness, "then Polly'll like it, and eat it, and I'll do yours, Grandpapa dear, just as Jefferson fixed mine, all alone. Please let me." She held him fast with her eyes, and waited for his answer.

"So you shall!" cried Mr. King in great satisfaction, "make mine all alone. This one would better go as it is. Put away the flour and things, Jefferson; Miss Phronsie doesn't want them."

Phronsie gave a relieved little sigh. "And, Jefferson, if you hadn't showed me how, I couldn't ever in all this world make Grandpapa's. Now give me the little plate, do."

"Here 'tis, Miss," said the cook, all his tremor over the blunder he had made, disappearing, since, after all, things were quite satisfactory. And the little plate forthcoming, Phronsie tucked away the paste lovingly in its depths, and began the important work of concocting the mixture with which the pie was to be filled, Mr. King sitting by with the gravity of a statue, even to the deliberate placing of each plum.

"Where's Phronsie?" called a voice above in one of the upper halls.

"Oh! she's coming, Polly is!" cried Phronsie, deserting a plum thrust in endwise in the middle of the pie, to throw her little sticky fingers around Jefferson's neck; "oh! do take off my apron; and let me go. She'll see my pie!"

"Stop!" cried Mr. King, getting up somewhat stiffly to his feet, "I'll take off the apron myself. There, Phronsie, there you are. Whew! how hot you keep your kitchen, Jefferson," and he wiped his face.

"Now we'll run," said Phronsie softly, "and not make a bit of noise, Grandpapa dear, and, Jefferson, please put on my top to the pie, and don't let it burn, and I'll come down very, very soon again, and bake one all alone by myself for Grandpapa."

The old gentleman kept up very well with the soft patter of her feet till they reached the foot of the staircase. "There, there, child," he said, "there's not the least need of hurry now."

"But she will come down," said Phronsie, in gentle haste pulling at his hand, "then if she should see it, Grandpapa!"

"To be sure; that would indeed be dreadful," said Mr. King, getting over the stairs very creditably. "There, here we are now. Whew! it's terribly warm in this house!"

But there was no danger from Polly; she was at this very instant, not being able to find Phronsie, hurrying off toward the library in search of Mrs. Whitney.

"We want to do the very loveliest thing!" she cried, rushing in, her cheeks aflame. "Oh! pray excuse me." She stopped short, blushing scarlet.

"Don't feel badly, Polly dear," said Mrs. Whitney, over in the dim light, where the divan was drawn up in the east window, and she held out her hand and smiled; the other lady whose tete-a-tete was thus summarily disturbed was elderly and very tall and angular. She put up her eyeglass at the intrusion and murmured "Ah?"

"This is Polly Pepper," said Mrs. Whitney, as Polly, feeling unusually awkward and shy, stumbled across the library to get within the kind arms awaiting her.

"One of the children that your kindness received in this house?" said the tall lady, making good use of the eyeglass. The color mounted steadily on Polly's already rosy cheek, at the scrutiny now going on with the greatest freedom.

"One of the dear children who make this house a sunny place for us all," said Mrs. Whitney distinctly.

"Ah? I see. You are extremely good to put it in that way." A low, well-bred laugh followed this speech. Its sound irritated the young girl's ear unspeakably, and the brown eyes flashed, and though there was really no occasion to feel what was not addressed to her, Polly was quite sure she utterly disliked the lady before her.

"My dear Mrs. Chatterton," said Mrs. Whitney in the gentlest of accents, "you do not comprehend; it is not possible for you to understand how very happy we all are here. The house is quite another place, I assure you, from the abode you saw last before you went abroad."

Mrs. Chatterton gave another low, unpleasant laugh, and this time shrugged her shoulders.

"Polly dear," said Mrs. Whitney with a smile, "say good-morning to Mrs. Chatterton, and then run away. I will hear your wonderful plan by and by. I shall be glad to, child," she was guilty of whispering in the small ear.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Chatterton," said Polly slowly, the brown eyes looking steadily into the traveled and somewhat seamed countenance before her.

"Good-morning," and Polly found herself once more across the floor, and safely out in the hall, the door closed between them.

"Who is she?" she cried in an indignant spasm to Jasper, who ran up, and she lifted her eyes brimming over with something quite new to him. He stopped aghast.

"Who?" he cried. "Oh, Polly! what has happened?"

"Mrs. Chatterton. And she looked at me -- oh! I can't tell you how she looked; as if I were a bug, or a hateful worm beneath her," cried Polly, quite as much aghast at herself. "It makes me feel horridly, Jasper -- you can't think. Oh! that old" -- He stopped, pulling himself up with quite an effort. "Has she come back -- what brought her, pray tell, so soon?"

"I don't know, I am sure," said Polly, laughing at his face. "I was only in the room a moment, I think, but it seemed an age with that eyeglass, and that hateful little laugh."

"Oh! she always sticks up that thing in her eye," said Jasper coolly, "and she's everlastingly ventilating that laugh on everybody. She thinks it high-bred and elegant, but it makes people want to kill her for it." He looked and spoke annoyed. "To think you fell into her clutches!" he added.

"Well, who is she?" cried Polly, smoothing down her ruffled feathers, when she saw the effect of her news on him. "I should dearly love to know."

"Cousin Algernon's wife," said Jasper briefly.

"And who is he?" cried Polly, again experiencing a shock that this dreadful person was a relative to whom due respect must be shown.

"Oh! a cousin of father's," said Jasper. "He was nice, but he's dead."

"Oh!" said Polly.

"She's been abroad for a good half-dozen years, and why she doesn't stay there when everybody supposed she was going to, astonishes me," said Jasper, after a moment. "Well, it will not be for long, I presume, that we shall have the honor; she'll be easily tired of America, and take herself off again."

"She doesn't stay in this house, does she, Jasper?" cried Polly in a tone of horror.

"No; that is, unless she chooses to, then we can't turn her off. She's a relative, you know."

"Hasn't she any home?" asked Polly, "or any children?"

"Home? Yes, an estate down in Bedford County?-Dunraven Lodge; but it's all shut up, and in the hands of agents who have been trying for the half-dozen years she was abroad, to sell it for her. She may have come back to settle down there again, there's no telling what she will do. In the meantime, I fancy she'll make her headquarters here," he said gloomily.

"Oh, Jasper!" exclaimed Polly, seizing his arm, feeling that here was need of comfort indeed, "how very dreadful! Don't you suppose something will happen to take her away?"

"I don't see what can," said Jasper, prolonging the gloom to feel the comfort it brought. "You see she has nobody who wants her, to step in and relieve us. She has two nephews, but oh! you ought to see them fight!"

"Fight?" repeated Polly aghast.

"Yes; you can't dignify their skirmishes by any other name," said Jasper, in disgust. "So you see our chances for keeping her as long as she condescends to stay are really very good."

Polly clung to his arm in speechless dismay. Meanwhile conversation fast and brisk was going on between the two shut up in the library.

"It is greatly to your discredit, Marian," said Mrs. Chatterton in a high, cold voice, "that you didn't stop all this nonsense on your father's part, before the thing got to such a pass as to install them in this house."

"On the contrary," said Mrs. Whitney with a little laugh, "I did everything I could to further the plan that father wisely made."

"Wisely!" cried Mrs. Chatterton in scorn. "Oh, you silly child! don't you see what it will all tend to?"

"I see that it has made us all very happy for five years," said Mrs. Whitney, preserving her composure, "so I presume the future doesn't hold much to dread on that score."

"The future is all you have to dread," declared Mrs. Chatterton harshly. "The present may be well enough; though I should think existence with that low, underbred family here, would be a"?

"You may pause just where you are, Mrs. Chatterton," said Marian, still with the gentlest of accents, but with a determination that made the other look down at her in astonishment, "not another word shall you utter in that strain, nor will I listen to it." And with fine temper undisturbed in her blue eyes, she regarded her relative.

"Dear me, Marian! I begin to notice your age more now. You shouldn't fly into such rages; they wear on one fearfully; and especially for a stranger too, and against your own people -- how can you?"

Mrs. Chatterton drew out a vinaigrette, then a fan from a silken bag, with clasps that she was always glad to reflect were heirlooms. "It's trying, I must confess," she declared, alternately applying the invigorating salts and waving the combination of gauze and sandalwood, "to come home to such a reception. But," and a heavy sigh, "I must bear it."

"You ought to see father," cried Mrs. Whitney, rising. "I must go at once and tell him of your arrival."

"Oh! I don't know that I care about seeing Cousin Horatio yet," said Mrs. Chatterton carelessly. "He will probably fall into one of his rages, and my nerves have been upset quite enough by you. I think I'll go directly to my apartments." She rose also.

"Father must at once be informed of your arrival," repeated Marian quietly. "I'll send him in to see you."

"And I shall go to my apartments," declared Mrs. Chatterton determinedly.

"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed Mr. King's voice, and in he came, with Phronsie, fresh from the kitchen, clinging to his hand.



II

Cousin Eunice Chatterton


Phronsie dropped one small hand by her side, and stood quite still regarding the visitor.

"Oh, my goodness me," ejaculated Mrs. Chatterton, startled out of her elegance, and not pausing to adjust the glass, but using her two good eyes to the best advantage.

"Hoity-toity! So you are back again!" exclaimed Mr. King by way of welcome. "Well, and if I may ask, what brought you now, Eunice?"

Mrs. Chatterton gathered herself up and smiled in a superior way.

"Never mind my reasons, Cousin Horatio. What a fine child you have there;" now the glass came into play; "pray tell me all about her."

"You have well said," observed Mr. King, seating himself with the utmost deliberateness, and drawing Phronsie to her accustomed place on his knee, where she nestled, regardless of his immaculate linen and fine waistcoat, "Phronsie Pepper is indeed a fine child; a very fine child, Madam."

"Oh, my, and Oh, my!" cried Mrs. Chatterton, holding up her hands, "to think that you can so demean yourself; why, she's actually mussing your shirt-front with her dirty little hands!"

"Phronsie Pepper's hands are never dirty, Madam," said the old gentleman gravely. "Sit still, child," as Phronsie in a state of alarm struggled to slip down from his lap, thrusting the two members thus referred to, well out before her.

Mrs. Chatterton burst into a loud laugh. "To think I have come to see Horatio King in such a state! Jasper Horatio King!" she repeated scornfully. "I heard about it through the Bascombs' letters, but I wouldn't believe it till I used my eyes. It's positively dreadful!"

Mr. King put back his head and laughed also; so heartily, that Phronsie ceased to struggle, and turned to regard him in silent astonishment; and Mrs. Whitney, charmed that the rage usually produced by conversation with Cousin Algernon's wife was not forthcoming, began to laugh, too, so that the amusement of the tall lady was quenched in the general hilarity.

"What you can find in my words to cause such an unseemly outburst, I cannot see," she cried in a passion.

"I'm under the impression that you led off the amusement yourself," said Mr. King, wiping his eyes. "Phronsie, it's all very funny, isn't it?" looking down into the little wondering face.

"Is it really funny?" asked Phronsie. "Does the lady like it?"

"Not particularly, I suspect," said Mr. King carelessly.

"And that you can talk with that chit, ignoring me, your cousin's wife, is insufferable." Mrs. Chatterton now arose speedily from the divan, and shook out a flounce or two with great venom. "I had intended to make you a visit. Now it is quite impossible."

"As you like," said the old gentleman, also rising, and placing Phronsie on her feet, observing ostentatious care to keep her hand. "My house is open to you, Eunice," with a wave of his disengaged hand in old-time hospitality, "but of course you must suit yourself."

"It's rather hard upon a person of sensibility, to come home after a six years' absence," said Cousin Eunice with a pathetic sniff, and once more seeking her vinaigrette in the depths of the silken bag, "to meet only coldness and derision. In fact, it is very hard."

"No doubt, no doubt," said the old gentleman hastily, "I can imagine such a case, but it has nothing to do with you. Now, if you are going to stay, Eunice, say so at once, and proceed to your room. If not, why you must go, and understand it is no one's fault but your own."

He drew himself up and looked long and hard into the thin pale face before him. Phronsie pulled at his hand.

"I want to ask the lady to stay, Grandpapa dear."

"She doesn't need urging," said old Mr. King quite distinctly, and not moving a muscle.

"But, Grandpapa dear, she isn't glad about something."

"No more am I."

"Grandpapa," cried Phronsie, moving off a bit, though not deserting his hand, and standing on her tiptoes, "I want her to stay, to see me. Perhaps she hasn't any little girls."

"To see you?" cried Mr. King irately. "Say no more, child, say no more. She's been abusing you right and left, like a pick-pocket."

"What is a pick-pocket?" asked Phronsie, getting down from her tiptoes.

"Oh! a scoundrel who puts his hands into pockets; picks out what doesn't belong to him, in fact."

Phronsie stood quite still, and shook her head gravely at the tall figure. "That was not nice," she said soberly.

"Now do you want her to stay?" cried the old gentleman.

"Insufferable!" repeated Mrs. Chatterton between her teeth, "to mix me up with that chit!"

"Yes, I do," said Phronsie decidedly, "I do, Grandpapa. Now I know she hasn't any little girls -- if she had little girls, she wouldn't say such very unnice things; I want the poor lady to stay with me."

Mrs. Chatterton turned and went abruptly off to the door, hesitated, and looked back.

"I see your household is in a very chaotic state, Cousin Horatio. Still I will remain a few days," with extreme condescension, "on condition that these Peppers are not thrust upon my attention."

"I make no conditions," said the old gentleman coolly. "If you stay, you must accept my household as you find it."

"Come, Marian," said Mrs. Chatterton, holding out her hand to Mrs. Whitney. "You may help me to my apartments if you like. I am quite unstrung by all this," and she swept out without a backward glance.

"Has she gone?" cried Jasper, hurrying in with Polly running after. "It's 'stay,' isn't it, father?" as he saw the old gentleman's face.

"Yes," said Mr. King grimly, "it is 'stay' indeed, Jasper."

"Well, now then, you've a piece of work on your hands about the biggest you ever did yet, Polly Pepper!" cried Jasper, "to make things comfortable in this house. I shall be just as cross as can be imagined, to begin with."

"You cross!" cried Polly.

"Cross as a bear; Marian will fight against the prevailing ill wind, but it will finally blow her down to a state of depression where her best friend wouldn't recognize her, and" -- 

"You don't mention me, my boy," said Mr. King dryly.

Jasper looked into his father's eyes, and they both laughed.

"And if you, Polly Pepper, don't keep things bright, why, we shall all go to the dogs," said the old gentleman, sobering down. "So mind you do, and we'll try to bear Cousin Algernon's relict."

"I will," said Polly stoutly, though "relict" sounded very dreadful to begin with.

"Give us your hand, then," said Jasper's father, putting out his palm. "There!" releasing it, "now I'm much more comfortable about matters."

"And give me your hand, Polly," cried Jasper, his own brown hand flying to meet hers. "There! and now I'm comfortable too! So it's a compact, and a sure one!"

"And I want to give my hand," cried Phronsie, very much aggrieved. "Here, Jasper."

"Bless my soul, so you must!" cried old Mr. King; "to think we didn't ask you first. There -- and there!"

"And, Phronsie darling," cried Polly in a rapture, "you must promise with me, after you have with the others. I couldn't ever get along in all this world without that."

So the ceremony of sealing the compact having been observed with great gravity, Phronsie drew a long breath, and now felt that the "poor lady" might come down at any time to find all things prepared for her.

"Now tell our plan," cried Jasper to Polly, "and put this disagreeable business out of our heads. It's a fine one," he added to his father.

"Of course it is," cried the old gentleman.

"Well, you know Joel and Davie and Van and Percy are coming home from school next week for the Christmas holidays," began Polly, trying to still the wild beating of her heart.

"Bless me! so they are," said Mr. King. "How time flies, to be sure! Well, go on, Polly."

"And we ought to do something to celebrate," said Polly, "at least don't you think so?" she asked anxiously, looking up in his face.

"To be sure I do," cried the old gentleman heartily. "Well, what would you do, Polly child, to show the youngsters we're proud of them, and glad to get them back -- hey?"

"We want to get up a little play," said Polly, "Jasper and I, and act it."

"And have music," cried Jasper. "Polly shall play on the piano. The boys will be so delighted to see how she has improved."

"And Jasper will play too," cried Polly eagerly. "Oh, Jasper! will you play that concerto, the one you played when Mary Gibbs was here at tea last week? Do, Jasper, do."

"That nearly floored me," said Jasper.

"No; you said it was Mary's watching you like a lynx -- you know you did," said Polly, laughing merrily.

"Never mind," said the old gentleman. "What next, Polly? The play is all right."

"I should think it was," cried Jasper. "It's the Three Dragons, and the Princess Clotilde."

"Oh, my goodness," exclaimed Mr. King, "What a play for Christmas Eve!"

"Well, you'll say it's a splendid hit!" cried Jasper, "when you see it from the private box we are going to give you."

"So you are intending to honor me, are you?" cried his father, vastly pleased to find himself as ever, the central figure in their plans. "Well, well, I dare say it will all be as fine as can be to welcome these young scapegraces home. What next, Polly?"

"It must be kept a perfect surprise," cried Polly, clasping her hands while the color flew over her face. "No one must even whisper it to each other, the day before Christmas when the boys get here, for Joel is so very dreadful whenever there is a secret."

"His capacity certainly is good," said Mr. King dryly. "We will all be very careful."

"And Phronsie is to be Princess Clotilde," cried Jasper, seizing her suddenly, to prance around the room, just like old times.

"Oh, Jasper! I'm eight years old," she cried, struggling to free herself.

"Nonsense! What of it -- you are the baby of this household." But he set her on her feet nevertheless, one hand still patting the soft yellow waves over her brow. "Go on, Polly, do, and lay the whole magnificence before father. He will be quite overcome."

"That would be disastrous," said Mr. King; "better save your effects till the grand affair comes off."

"Jasper is to be one of the dragons," announced Polly, quite in her element, "that is, the head dragon; Ben is to be another, and we haven't quite decided whether to ask Archy Hurd or Clare to take the third one."

"Clare has the most 'go' in him," said Jasper critically.

"Then I think we'll decide now to ask him," said Polly, "don't you, Jasper?"

"A dragon without 'go' in him would be most undesirable, I should fancy. Well, what next do you propose to do, Polly?" asked Mr. King.

"Now that we know that you will allow us to have it," cried Polly in a rapture, "why, we can think up splendid things. We've only the play written so far, sir."

"Polly wrote the most," said Jasper.

"Oh, no, Jasper! I only put in the bits," said Polly. "He planned it? -- every single bit, Jasper did."

"Well, she thought up the dragons, and the cave, and"? -- 

"Oh! that was easy enough," said Polly, guilty of interrupting, "because you see something has to carry off the Princess Clotilde."

"Oh, now! you are not going to frighten my little girl," cried Mr. King. "I protest against the whole thing if you do," and he put out his hand. "Come, Phronsie," when, as of old, she hurried to his side obediently.

"Oh! we are going to show her the boys, and how we dress them up just like dragons," cried Polly, "and while they are prancing around and slashing their tails at rehearsal, I'm going to keep saying, 'That's nothing but Jasper and Ben and Clare, you know, Phronsie,' till I get her accustomed to them. You won't be frightened, will you, pet, at those dear, sweet old dragons?" she ended, and getting on her knees, she looked imploringly into Phronsie's brown eyes.

"N -- no," said Phronsie, slowly, "not if they are really Jasper and Ben and Clare."

"They really will be," cried Polly, enchanted at her success, "Jasper and Ben and Clare; and they will give you a ride, and show you a cave, oh! and perfect quantities of things; you can't think how many!"

Phronsie clapped her hands and laughed aloud in glee.

"Oh! I don't care if they are true dragons, Polly, I don't," she cried, dreadfully excited. "Make 'em real big live ones, do; do make them big, and let me ride on their backs."

"These will be just as real," said Polly comfortingly, "that is, they'll act real, only there will be boys inside of them. Oh! we'll have them nice, dear, don't you fear."

"But I'd really rather have true ones," sighed Phronsie.



III

The Rehearsal


"Now, Phronsie," said Polly, on her knees before the Princess, who was slowly evolving into "a thing of beauty," "do hold still just a minute, dear. There," as she thrust in another pin, then turned her head critically to view her work, "I do hope that is right."

Phronsie sighed. "May I just stretch a wee little bit, Polly," she asked timidly, "before you pin it up? Just a very little bit?"

"To be sure you may," said Polly, looking into the flushed little face; "I'll tell you, you may walk over to the window and back, once; that'll rest you and give me a chance to see what is the matter with that back drapery."

So Phronsie, well pleased, gathered up the embyro robe of the Princess and moved off, a bewildering tangle of silver spangles and floating lace, drawn over the skirt of one of Mrs. Whitney's white satin gowns.

"There ought to be a dash of royal purple somewhere," said Polly, sitting on the floor to see her go, and resting her tired hands on her knees. "Now where shall I get it, and where shall I put it when I do have it?" She wrinkled up her eyebrows a moment, lost in thought over the momentous problem. "Oh! I know," and she sprang up exultingly. "Phronsie, won't this be perfectly lovely? we can take that piece of tissue paper Auntie gave you, and I can cut out little knots and sashes. It is so soft, that in the gaslight they will look like silk. How fine!"

"Can't I be a Princess unless you sew up that purple paper?" asked Phronsie, pausing suddenly to look over her shoulder in dismay at Polly.

"Why, yes, you can be, of course," said Polly, "but you can't be as good a one as if you had a dash of royal purple about you. What's a bit of tissue paper to the glory of being a Princess?" she cried, with sparkling eyes. "Dear me, I wish I could be one."

"Well, you may have it, Polly," said Phronsie with a sigh, "and then afterwards I'll rip it all off and smooth it out, and it will be almost as good as new."

"I think there won't be much left of it when the play is over," cried Polly with a laugh; "why, the dragons are going to carry you off to their cave, you know, and you are to be rescued by the knight, just think, Phronsie! You can't expect to have such perfectly delightful times, and come out with a quantity of tissue paper all safe. Something has to be scarified to royalty, child."

Phronsie sighed again. But as Polly approved of royalty so highly, she immediately lent herself to the anticipations of the pleasure before her, smothering all lesser considerations.

"When you get your little silver cap on with one of Auntie's diamond rings sewed in it, why, you'll be too magnificent for anything," said Polly, now pulling and patting with fresh enthusiasm, since the "purple dash" was forthcoming.

"Princesses don't wear silver caps with diamond rings sewed in them," observed Phronsie wisely.

"Of course not; they have diamonds by the bushel, and don't need to sew rings in their caps to make them sparkle," said Polly, plaiting and pinning rapidly, "but in dressing up for a play, we have to take a poetic license. There, turn just one bit to the right, Phronsie dear."

"What's poetic license?" demanded Phronsie, wrenching her imagination off from the bushel of diamonds to seize practical information.

"Oh! when a man writes verses and says things that aren't so," said Polly, her mind on the many details before her.

"But he ought not to," cried Phronsie, with wide eyes, "say things that are not so. I thought poets were always very good, Polly."

"Oh! well, people let him," said Polly, carelessly, "because he puts it into poetry. It would never do in prose; that would be quite shocking."

"Oh!" said Phronsie, finding the conversation some alleviation to the fitting-on process.

"Now this left side," said Polly, twisting her head to obtain a good view of the point in question, "is just right; I couldn't do it any better if I were to try a thousand times. Why won't this other one behave, and fall into a pretty curve, I wonder?"

Phronsie yawned softly as the brown eyes were safely behind her.

"I shall gather it up anyway, so," and Polly crushed the refractory folds recklessly in one hand; "that's the way Mary Gibbs's hat trimmings look, and I'm sure they're a complete success. Oh! that's lovely," cried Polly, at the effect. "Now, that's the treatment the whole drapery needs," she added in the tone of an art connoisseur. "Oh!"

A rushing noise announced the approach of two or three boys, together with the barking of Prince, as they all ran down the wide hall.

"O dear, dear!" exclaimed Polly, hurriedly pulling and pinning, "there come the boys to rehearse. It can't be four o'clock," as the door opened and three members of the cast entered.

"It's quarter-past four," said Jasper, laughing and pulling out his watch; "we gave you an extra fifteen minutes, as you had such a lot to do. Dear me! but you are fine, Phronsie. I make my obeisance to Princess Clotilde!" and he bowed low to the little silver and white figure, as did the other two boys, and then drew off to witness the final touches.

"It's a most dreadful thing," cried Polly, pushing back the brown waves from her brow, as she also fell off to their point of view, "to get up a princess. I had no idea it was such a piece of work."

"You have scored an immense success," said Jasper enthusiastically. "Oh, Phronsie! you will make the hit of the season."

"You'll think it is even much nicer when it is done," said Polly, vastly relieved that Jasper had given such a kind verdict. "It's to have a dash of royal purple on that right side, and in one of the shoulder knots, and to catch up her train."

"That will be very pretty, I don't doubt," said Jasper, trying to resolve himself into the cold critic, "but it seems to me it is almost perfect now, Polly."

"Oh! thank you so much," she cried, with blooming cheeks. "How do you like it, Clare and Bensie?"

"I can't tell," said Ben, slowly regarding the Princess on all sides; "it's so transforming."

"It's tiptop!" cried Clare. "It out-princesses any princess I've ever imagined."

"Well, it's a perfect relief," said Polly, "to have you boys come in. I've been working so over it that I was ready to say it was horrid. It's too bad, isn't it, that Dick can't be here to-day to rehearse his part?"

"To be sure," exclaimed Jasper, looking around, "where is the Princess's page?"

"He's gone to the dentist's," said Polly, making a wry face. "Auntie had to make the appointment for this afternoon, and we couldn't put off the rehearsal; Clare can't come any other time, you know."

Phronsie turned an anxious face to the window. "I hope he's not being hurt very much," she said slowly.

"I don't believe he is," Polly made haste to answer most cheerfully, "it was only one tooth, you know, Phronsie, to be filled. Auntie says Dr. Porter told her the rest are all right."

But a cloud rested on the Princess's face. "One tooth is something," she said.

"Just think how nice it will be when it is all over, and Dick comes scampering in," cried Jasper, with great hilarity.

"Do climb up on the sofa, Phronsie," urged Polly, looking into the pale little face, "you must sit down and rest a bit, you're so tired."

"I will read the prologue while she rests," said Jasper.

"So you can," said Polly. "Take care, child," in alarm, "you mustn't curl up in the corner like that; princesses don't ever do so."

"Don't they?" said Phronsie, flying off from the lovely corner, to straighten out again into the dignity required; "not when they are little girls, Polly?"

"No, indeed," said Polly, with a rescuing hand among the silver spangles and lace; "they must never forget that they are princesses, Phronsie. There now, you're all right."

"Oh!" said Phronsie, sitting quite stiffly, glad if she could not be comfortable, she could be a princess.

"'Gentle ladies and brave sirs,'" began Jasper in a loud, impressive tone, from the temporary stage, the large rug in front of the crackling hearth fire.

Clare burst into a laugh. "See here now," cried Jasper, brandishing his text at him, "if you embarrass me like that, you may leave, you old dragon!"

"You ought to see your face," cried Clare. "Jap, you are anything but a hit."

"You'll be yet," declared Jasper with a pretended growl, and another flourish of the manuscript.

"Go on, do," implored Polly, "I think it is lovely. Clare, you really ought to be ashamed," and she shook her brown head severely at him.

"If I don't quench such melodrama in the outset," said Clare, "he'll ruin us all. Fair ladies and brave sirs," mimicking to perfection Jasper's tones.

"Thank you for a hint," cried Jasper, pulling out his pencil. "I didn't say 'fair'; that's better than 'gentle.' I wish critics would always be so useful as to give one good idea. Heigho! here goes again:

"'Fair ladies and brave sirs, The player's art is to amuse, Instruct, or to confuse By too much good advice, But poorly given: That no one follows, because, forsooth, 'Tis thrown at him, neck and heels. The drama, pure and simple, is forgot In tugging in the moral'"?

"I thought you were going to alter 'tugging in' to something more elegant," said Polly.

"Lugging in," suggested Clare, with another laugh.

"Morals are always tugged in by the head and shoulders," said Jasper. "Why not say so?"

"We should have pretty much the whole anatomy of the human form divine, if you had your way," cried Clare. "Listen!

"'Because, forsooth, 'tis thrown at him, neck and heels' and 'Tugging in the moral, head and shoulders.' Now just add 'by the pricking of my thumbs,' etc., and you have them all."

Jasper joined as well as Polly and Ben in the laugh at the prologue's expense, but Phronsie sat erect winking hard, her royal hands folded quite still in her lap.

"You're bound for a newspaper office, my boy," said Jasper at length. "How you will cut into the coming poet, and maul the fledgling of the prose writer! Well, I stand corrected.

"'The drama pure and simple, Is forgot, in straining at the moral.'" "Is that any better?" (To the audience.)

"Yes, I think it is," said Polly, "but I do believe it's time to talk more elegantly, Jasper. It is due to the people in the private boxes, you know."

"Oh! the boxes are to have things all right before the play is over; never you fear, Polly," said Jasper.

"'A poor presentment, You will say we give; But cry you mercy, Sirs, and'"?

"I don't like 'cry you mercy,'" announced Ben slowly, "because it doesn't seem to mean anything."

"Oh! don't cut that out," exclaimed Polly, clasping her hands and rushing up to Ben. "That's my pet phrase; you mustn't touch that, Bensie."

"But it doesn't mean anything," reiterated Ben in a puzzled way.

"Who cares?" cried Jasper defiantly. "A great many expressions that haven't the least significance are put in a thing of this sort. Padding, you know, my dear sir."

"Oh!" said Ben literally, "I didn't know as you needed padding. All right, if it is necessary." "It's antique, and perfectly lovely, and just like Shakespeare," cried Polly, viewing Ben in alarm.

"Oh! let the Bard of Avon have one say in this production," cried Clare. "Go on, do, with your 'cry you mercy.' What's next, Jap?"

"Are you willing, Ben?" asked Jasper, with a glance at Polly.

"Ye -- es," said Ben, also gazing at the rosy face and anxious eyes, "it can go as padding, I suppose."

"Oh! I am so glad," exclaimed Polly in glee, and dancing around the room. "And you won't be sorry, I know, Bensie; the audience will applaud that very thing I'm almost sure," which made Jasper sternly resolve something on the spot.

"Well, I shall never be through at this rate," he said, whirling over the manuscript to find his place. "Oh! here I am:

"'But cry you mercy, Sirs and ladies fair, We aim but to be dragons, Not mortals posing for effect. We have a princess, to be sure'"?

"I should think we have," interrupted Clare with a glance over at the sofa. "Goodness me, she's fast asleep!"

"Poor little thing, she is tired to death," cried Polly remorsefully, while they all rushed over to the heap of lace and spangles, blissfully oblivious of "prologues."

"Do let her sleep through this piece of stupidity," said Jasper, bundling up another satin skirt that Mrs. Whitney had loaned for Polly to make a choice from. "There," putting it under the yellow head, "we'll call her when the dragons come on."

"Take care," cried Polly, with intercepting hand, "that's Auntie's lovely satin gown."

"Beg pardon," said Jasper, relinquishing it speedily. "Here's the sofa pillow, after all," dragging it from its temporary retirement under the theatrical debris. "Now let's get back to work; time is going fast." In a lowered voice:

"'We have a princess, to be sure, A sweet and gracious Clotilde, And a knight who does her homage, But the rest of us Are fishy, scaly, Horny and altogether horrid, And of very low degree Who scarce know why we are upon the boards, Except for your amusement, So prithee'"?

"Hold!" cried Clare, "what stuff."

"Give me an inch of time," cried Jasper, hurrying on, "and I'll end the misery:

"'So prithee, be amused; We're undone, if you are not, And all our labor lost. Pray laugh, and shake your sides, And say "'tis good; I' faith, 'tis very good." And we shall say "Your intellects do you credit." And so we bid you a fond adieu, And haste away to unshackle the dragons, Who even now do roar without.'"

Clare threw himself into the part of the dragons, and forgetful of Phronsie, gave a loud roar. Polly clapped her hands and tossed an imaginary bouquet as Jasper bowed himself off.

"Hush!" said Ben, "you'll wake up Phronsie," but it was too late; there she sat rubbing her eyes in astonishment.

"Oh! you darling," cried Polly, running over to her, to clasp her in her arms, "I'm so sorry I tired you all out, Phronsie dear, do forgive me."

"I'm not tired," said Phronsie, with dewy eyes. "Has Jasper got through reading? What was it all about, Polly?"

"Indeed and I have finished," he cried with a yawn and throwing the manuscript on the table, "and I don't know in the least what it is all about, Phronsie."

"Just a lot of dreadful words," said Clare over in the corner, pulling at a heap of costumes on the floor. "Never mind; the horrible spell is broken; come on, you fellows, and tumble into your dragon skins!"

With that the chief dragon deserted Phronsie, and presently there resounded the rattle of the scales, the clanking of chains, and the dragging about of the rest of their paraphernalia.

"Now, Phronsie," said Jasper, coming back, half-within his dragon skin and gesticulating, "you see that it's only I in this thing. Look, dear! here goes in my head," and he pulled on the scaly covering, observing great care to smile reassuringly the last thing before his countenance was obscured.

Phronsie screamed with delight and clapped her hands. "Oh, Jasper! let me have one on, do, Jasper! I'd much rather be a dragon than a princess. Really and truly I would, Jasper."

"I don't agree with you," said Jasper, in a muffled voice. "Phew! this is no end stuffy, fellows. I can't stand it long."

"I'm all coming to pieces," said Ben, turning around to regard his back where the scales yawned fearfully.

"I'll run and ask Mamsie to come and sew you up," cried Polly, flying off. "She said she would help, if we wanted her."



IV

Welcome Home!


"Marian," said old Mr. King, putting his head in at the door of her little writing-room, "can't you get her comfortably out of the way this morning? I want your services without interruption."

"She's going down to Pinaud's," said Mrs. Whitney, looking up from the note she was writing.

"Capital! when she once gets there, she'll stay the morning," declared Mr. King, greatly pleased. "Now, then, after she's cleverly off, you may come to me."

"I will, father," said Marian, going back with a smile to her correspondence.

Half an hour later Thomas, with the aid of the horses and the shopping coupe having carried off Mrs. Chatterton, Mrs. Whitney pushed aside her notes, and ran down to her father's study.

She found him in his velvet morning-gown seated before his table, busy with a good-sized list of names that was rapidly growing longer under his pen.

"Oh! I forgot," he said, looking up; "I intended to tell you to bring some of your cards and envelopes. I want some invitations written."

"Are you going to give a dinner?" asked Marian, looking over his shoulder. "Oh, no! I see by the length of your list it's an evening affair, or a musicale."

"You run along, daughter," said the old gentleman, "and get what I tell you. This is my affair; it's a musicale and something else combined. I don't just know myself." And he laughed at the sight of her face.

"If father is only pleased, I don't care what it is," said Mrs. Whitney to herself, hurrying over the stairs and back again, never once thinking of Polly's and Jasper's surprise for the boys.

"You see, Marian," said Mr. King as she sat down by the table, and laid the cards and envelopes in front of him, "that I'm going to help out that affair that Jasper and Polly are getting up."

"Oh, father! how good of you!" exclaimed Mrs. Whitney in a delighted tone, which immensely pleased the old gentleman, to begin with.

"They've been working very hard, those two, at their studies this autumn. I've seen them," cried Mr. King with a shrewd air, "and I'm going now to give them a little pleasure."

Marian said nothing, but let him have the comfort of doing all the talking, which he now enjoyed to his heart's content.

"Whether the other chaps have done well, I don't know. Davie may have kept at it, but I suspect the rest of the boys haven't killed themselves with hard study. But they shall have a good home-coming, at any rate."

Mrs. Whitney smiled, and he proceeded:

"Now I'm going to send out these invitations" -- he pushed the list toward her -- "I shall have the drawing-room and music-room floors covered, and all extra seats arranged, give Turner carte blanche as to flowers, if he can't furnish enough out of our own conservatories -- and the evening will end with a handsome 'spread,' as Jasper calls it. In short, I shall recognize their attempt to make it pleasant for the boys' holiday, by helping them out on the affair all I can." The old gentleman now leaned back in his big chair and studied his daughter's face.

"And you'll never regret it, father," she cried, with an enthusiasm that satisfied him, "for these young people will all repay you a thousand-fold, I do believe, in the time to come."

"Don't I know it?" cried Mr. King, getting out of his chair hastily to pace the floor. "Goodness me! they repay me already. They're fine young things, every one of them -- Whitneys, Peppers and my boy -- as fine as they are made. And whoever says they're not, doesn't know a good piece of work when it's before his eyes. Bless me!" pulling out his handkerchief to mop his face violently, "I don't want to see any finer."

"I hope I shall have a sight of Jasper's and Polly's faces when you tell them what you intend to do," said Mrs. Whitney; "where are your cards, father?"

"Tell them? I shan't tell them at all," cried the old gentleman; "I'm going to have a surprise, too. No one must know it but you and Mrs. Pepper."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Whitney. "It was very stupid in me not to understand that. It will be all right, father; Mrs. Pepper and I will keep our secret, you needn't fear."

"If you can only keep HER out of the way," exclaimed Mr. King, pointing irascibly in the direction of Mrs. Chatterton's apartments, "all will be well. But I doubt if you can; her meddlesome ears and tongue will be at work as usual," he added in extreme vexation.

"Here comes Jasper," exclaimed Mrs. Whitney, which had the satisfactory result of bringing her father out of his irritation, into a flutter over the concealment of the party preparations.

"Jasper," cried Polly that evening, as they ran into the music-room to play a duet, "we're all right about everything now, as your father says we may invite the girls and your friends."

"And he said when I asked him if we ought not to have cake and coffee, 'I'll attend to that,'" said Jasper, "so everything is all straight as far as I can see, Polly."

"The private boxes trouble me, I must confess," said Polly, drumming absently on the keys, while Jasper spread the sheet of music on the rack. "You know there must be two; one for dear Mr. King and one for the boys as guests of honor. Now how shall we manage them?"

She took her hand off suddenly from the keys and folded it over its fellow on her knee, to study his face anxiously.

"It's pretty hard to get them up, that's a fact," said Jasper truthfully, "but then, you know, Polly, we've always found that when a thing had to be done, it was done. You know the little brown house taught us that."

"So it did," said Polly, brightening up. "Dear little old brown house, how could I ever forget it! Well, I suppose," with a sigh, "it will come to us as an inspiration when it's time to fix them."

"I suppose so too," said Mrs. Pepper, passing the door, as usual with her mending basket, "and when two people start to play a duet, I think they much better put their minds on that, and not waste precious time on all sorts of questions that will take care of themselves when the time comes."

"You are right, Mrs. Pepper," cried Jasper with a laugh, and seating himself before the piano. "Come, Polly!"

"Mamsie is always right, isn't she, Jasper?" cried Polly with pride, putting her hands down for the first chords.

"Indeed she is," responded the boy heartily. "Here now, Polly, remember, you slipped up a bit on that first bar. Now!"

The twenty-first of December came all too soon for Polly and Jasper, whose school duties had engrossed them till two days before, but after hard work getting up the stage properties, and the many rehearsals, everything was at last pronounced ready, the drawing-room and music-room locked, the keys given to Mrs. Whitney who promised faithfully to see that no one peeped in who should not, and Polly hurried into her hat and jacket, to go to the station with Jasper to meet the boys.

Thomas drove furiously, as they were a bit late, and they arrived only a minute before the train puffed in.

"Here they are!" cried Polly, and "Here they are!" cried Jasper, together, in great excitement, on the platform.

"Halloo, Polly!" cried Joel, prancing out of the car first, and "How d'ye do, Polly?" as they all hurried after. "Halloo, Jasper!"

"Oh, Polly! it's good to see you!" This from Davie, not ashamed to set a kiss on her red lips.

Van and Percy looked as if they wanted to, but contented themselves with wringing her hand nearly off, while Joel declared he would look after the luggage.

"No, I will," cried Van, dropping Polly's hand.

"You forget," said Percy quietly, "I hold the checks, I'll attend to it myself." He unclosed his brown traveling glove, and Van, at sight of them, turned back.

"Go along, do, then," he cried; "I don't want to, I'm sure; I'd much rather stay with Polly. How d'ye do, Thomas?" he called carelessly to the coachman on his box, who was continually touching his hat and indulging in broad smiles of content.

Polly was tiptoeing in very delight, holding Davie's hand closely while her eyes roved from one to the other of the boys, and her tongue ran fast indeed. A group of girls, who had also come down to the station to meet friends, stopped a bit as they came laughing and chatting by.

"How d'ye, boys?" they said carelessly to the three home-comers. "Oh, Polly! won't it be entrancing to-night?" cried one of them, seizing her arm as she spoke.

"Hush!" said Polly, as she tried to stop her.

"May I bring Elsie Fay? she's come on the train to stay over Christmas with her aunt. May I, Polly?" begged another girl eagerly.

"Yes, yes," said Polly in a paroxysm of fear lest Joel, who was crowding up between them, should catch a word; "do be still," she whispered. "Bring anybody; only stop, Alexia."

"He won't hear," said Alexia carelessly; "that boy doesn't mind our talking; his head's full of skating and coasting."

"You're going to have something to-night that you don't want me to know about," declared Joel, his chubby face set defiantly, and crowding closer; "so there; now I'm going to find out what it is."

"If we don't want you to know, you ought not to try to find out, Joel Pepper," cried Alexia. "And you shan't, either."

"There, now you see," cried Polly, unable to keep still, while her face grew red too. "O dear! what shall we do?"

"You are -- you are," cried Joel, capering up and down the platform, his black eyes shining with delight. "Now I know for certain, and it's at our house, too, for you asked Polly if you might bring some other girl, Elsie somebody or other, so! Oh! I'll soon know."

"Joel," exclaimed Jasper suddenly, clapping him on the shoulder, "I'm going round to the gymnasium; want to go with me?"

Joel stopped his capering at once, this new idea thrusting out the old one.

"Don't I, though!" he cried, with a nod at Polly and her friends. "But I'll find out when I do get home," the nod declared plainly.

But Jasper also nodded. He said, "He won't get home till late; depend on me." And then "Come on, Joe," he cried; "I'm going to walk," and they were off.

Alexia pinched Polly's gray woolen jacket sleeve convulsively. "What an escape," she breathed.

"Here comes Percy," cried Polly nervously, and she broke away from her and the other girls, and ran to meet him, and the two boys following.

"Where's Jasper?" asked Percy, rendered quite important in air and step, from his encounter with the baggage officials.

"Oh! he isn't going home with us," said Polly. "Come, do let us get in," and she scampered off to the carriage and climbed within.

"That's funny," said Percy, jumping in after.

Van opened his lips to tell where Jasper had gone, but remembering Percy's delight in such an expedition, he closed them quickly, and added himself to the company in the carriage. Davie followed, and closed the door quickly.

"Stop! where's Joel?" asked Percy. "Thomas, we've forgotten Joe," rapping on the glass to the coachman.

"No, we haven't; he isn't going to drive," said Polly.

"Oh!" and Percy, thinking that Joel had stolen a march on them on his good strong legs, now cried lustily, "Go on, Thomas; get ahead as fast as you can," and presently he was lost in the babel of laughter and chatter going on in the coach.

"I've a piece of news," presently cried Van in a lull. "Davie's bringing home a prize; first in classics, you know."

"Oh, Davie!" screamed Polly, and she leaned over to throw her arms around him; "Mamsie will be so glad. Davie, you can't think how glad she'll be!"

Davie's brown cheek glowed. "It isn't much," he said simply, "there were so many prizes given out."

"Well, you've taken one," cried Polly, saying the blissful over and over. "How perfectly elegant!"

Van drummed on the carriage window discontentedly. "I could have taken one if I'd had the mind to."

"Hoh-oh!" shouted Percy over in his corner. "Well, you didn't have the mind; that's what was wanting."

"You keep still," cried Van, flaming up, and whirling away from his window. "You didn't take any, either. Polly, his head was under water all the time, unless some of the boys tugged him along every day. We hardly got him home at all."

"No such thing," contradicted Percy flatly, his face growing red. "Polly, he tells perfectly awful yarns. You mustn't believe him, Polly, You won't, will you?" He leaned over appealingly toward her.

"Oh! don't, don't," cried Polly, quite dismayed, "talk so to each other."

"Well, he's so hateful," cried Van, "and the airs he gives himself! I can't stand them, Polly, you know" -- 

"And he's just as mean," cried Percy vindictively. "Oh! you can't think, Polly. Here we are," as Thomas gave a grand flourish through the stone gateway, and up to the steps.

"I'll help you out," and he sprang out first.

"No, I will," declared Van, opening the door on the other side, jumping out and running around the carriage. "Here, Polly, take my hand, do."

"No, I got here first," said Percy eagerly, his brown glove extended quite beyond Van's hand.

"I don't want any one to help me, who speaks so to his brother," said Polly in a low voice, and with her most superb air stepping down alone, she ran up the steps to leave them staring in each other's faces.

Here everybody came hurrying out to the porch, and they were soon drawn into the warm loving welcome awaiting them.

"Oh, Felicie! I don't want that dress," said Polly as she ran into her room after dinner, to Mrs. Whitney's French maid, "I'm going to wear my brown cashmere."

"Oh, Mademoiselle!" remonstrated Felicie, adjusting the ruffle in the neck of the white nun's veiling over her arm.

"Oh, no, Polly! I wouldn't," began Mrs. Pepper, coming in, "the white one is better for to-night."

"Mamsie!" cried Polly, breaking away from the mirror where she was pulling into place the bright brown waves over her forehead, "how lovely! you've put on your black silk; and your hair is just beautiful!"

"Madame has ze fine hair," said Felicie, "only I wish zee would gif it to me to prepaire."

"Yes, I have good hair," said Mrs. Pepper, "and I'm thankful for it. No one looks dressed up, in my opinion, with a ragged head. The finer the gown, the worse it makes careless hair look. No, Polly, I wouldn't wear the brown dress to-night."

"Why, Mamsie!" exclaimed Polly in surprise, "I thought you'd say it was just the thing when only the girls and Jappy's friends are coming to the play. Besides, I don't want to look too dressed up; the Princess ought to be the only one in a white gown."

"You won't be too conspicuous," said her mother; adding slowly, "you might wear the nun's veiling well enough as you haven't any part in the play, Polly," and she scanned the rosy face keenly.

"I don't want any part," cried Polly; "they all play better than I do. Somebody must see that everything goes off well behind the scenes; that's my place, Mamsie. Besides, you forget I am to play my sonata."

"I don't forget," said her mother; "all the more reason you should wear the white gown, then."

"All right," cried Polly, merrily dashing across the room to Felicie, "put it over my head, do. Well, I'm glad you think it is right to wear it, Mamsie," as the soft folds fell around her. "I just love this dress. Oh, Auntie! how perfectly exquisite!"

Mrs. Whitney came in smilingly and put a kiss on the tall girl's cheek. "Do I look nicely?" she asked naively, turning around under the chandelier.

"Nicely?" exclaimed Polly, lifting her hands, "why you are fresh from fairyland. You are so good to put on that lovely blue moire and your diamond cross, just for the boys and girls."

"I am glad you like it," said Mrs. Whitney hastily. "Now, Polly, don't you worry about anything; I'll see that the last things are done."

"Well, I am worrying," confessed Polly, quite in a tremble; "I must see to one corner of the private box for the boys. You know the last India shawl you lent me wasn't pinned up straight and I couldn't fix it, for Van wanted me just then, and I couldn't get away without his suspecting something. Oh, Auntie! if you would see to that."

"I will," said Mrs. Whitney, not daring to look at Mrs. Pepper, "and to all the other things; don't give a thought to them, Polly."

"How good you are," cried Polly with a sigh of relief. "Oh, Auntie! we couldn't do anything without you."

"And you don't need to go into the drawing-room at all," said Mrs. Whitney, going to the door. "Just keep behind the scenes, and get your actors and Phronsie ready, and your mother and I will receive your friends. Come, Mrs. Pepper."

"That is splendid," cried Polly, left behind with the maid, "now I can get ready without flying into a flurry, Felicie; and then for Phronsie and the rest!"

"There is a dreadful commotion in there among the audience," said Jasper, out in the green room; "I imagine every one who had an 'invite,' has come. But I don't see how they can make such a noise."

"Oh! a few girls and boys make just about as much confusion as a good many," observed Polly. "Jasper, wouldn't you like to see Joel's eyes when Aunt Whitney leads him into the private box?" she allowed herself time to exclaim. "Yes," laughed Jasper, pulling out his watch from beneath his dragon-skin; "well, we have only five minutes more, Polly. We must have the curtain up sharp."

"O dear, dear!" cried Polly, flying here and there to bestow last touches on the different members of her cast. "Now, Clare, you must remember not to give such a shriek when you go on, mustn't he, Jappy? Just a dull, sullen roar, your part is."

"Well, I'm nearly dead under here," cried Clare, glaring beneath his dragon face. "I'll shriek, or roar, just as I like, so!"

"Very well," said Polly, "I don't know but it's as well, after all, that you are cross; you'll be more effective," she added coolly. "Let me see -- oh! the door of the cave wants a bit more of gray moss; it looks thin where it hangs over. You get it, will you, Hannah?" to one of the maids who was helping.

"And just one thing more," scanning hastily the stage setting, "another Chinese lantern is needed right here," going toward the front of the stage, "and that green bush is tumbling over; do set it straight, somebody; there now, I believe everything is all ready. Now let us peep out of the curtain, and get one good look at the audience. Come, Phronsie, here's a fine place; come, boys!"

The different members of the cast now applied their eyes to as many cracks in the curtain as could be hastily managed.

There was a breathing space.

"What, what?" cried Polly, gazing into the sea of faces, and the dragons nearly knocked the Princess over as Mr. King gave the signal for the band stationed in the wide hall, to send out their merriest strains.



V

After The Play


It was all over. Phronsie had been swept off, a vision of loveliness, to the cave; the dragons had roared their loudest, and the gallant knight had covered himself with glory in the brilliant rescue of the Princess; the little page had won the hearts of all the ladies; Mr. King had applauded himself hoarse, especially during the delivery of the prologue, when "I cry you mercy, sirs, and ladies fair," rang out; the musical efforts of Polly and Jasper in the "Wait" between the two acts were over, and the crowded house, in every way possible, had expressed itself delighted with all things from beginning to end.

"Phronsie, Phronsie, they're calling you," whispered Polly excitedly, out in the green room.

"Come, Princess." The head dragon held out his hand. "Hurry dear! See the flowers!"

"They can't be for me," said Phronsie, standing quite still; "Polly has done all the work; they're hers."

"Nonsense, child!" cried Polly, giving her a gentle push forward. "Go on, and take them."

"Polly, you come too," begged Phronsie, refusing to stir, and holding her by the gown.

"I can't, Phronsie," cried Polly in distress; "don't you see they haven't called me. Go on, child, if you love me," she implored.

Phronsie, not being able to resist this, dropped Polly's gown and floated before the footlights.

"Thank you," she said, bowing gravely to the sea of faces, as her hands were filled with roses, "but I shall give these to Polly, because we couldn't any of us have done it without her." And so she brought them back to put into dismayed Polly's lap.

"The authors -- the authors of the play!" cried a strong voice, privately urged on by Mr. King.

"There, now's your turn," cried Clare to Polly. "And go ahead, old dragon," to Jasper, "make your prettiest bow."

So the chief dragon led up blushing Polly to the front of the stage, to hear a neat little speech from Mr. Alstyne, thanking them for the pleasure of the evening and congratulating them on its success; and the band played again, the camp chairs were folded up and removed, the green-room and stage were deserted, and actors and audience mingled in a gay, confusing throng.

Phronsie, in her little silver and white gown and gleaming cap, began to wander among the guests, unconscious that she had not on the red cashmere dress she had worn all day. Groups stopped their conversation to take her into their midst, passing her on at last as one might hand over a precious parcel to the next waiting hands. Polly, seeing that she was well cared for, gave herself up to the enjoyment of the evening.

"Well, sir, how did you like it?" asked Jasper, with a small pat on Joel's back.

"Well enough," said Joel, "but why didn't you make more of it? You could have crawled up on top of the cave, and slashed around there; and you old dragons were just three muffs in the last act. I'd rather have had Polly in the play; she's twice the go in her.

"So would we all have preferred Polly," cried Jasper, bursting into a laugh, "but she wouldn't act -- she directed everything; she was all the play, in fact."

Polly meanwhile was saying to Pickering Dodge, "No, not to-night; you must dance with one of the other girls."

"But I don't choose to dance with anybody but you," said Pickering, holding out his hand. "Come, Polly, you can't refuse; they're forming the Lancers. Hurry!"

Polly's feet twitched nervously under her white gown, and she longed more than ever after the excitement she had passed through, to lose herself in the witching music, and the mazy dance. She hesitated a bit, but just then glancing across the room, "Come," she said, "I want you to dance with Ray Simmons. You can't refuse," using his own words; and before he was conscious how it was done, he was by Ray's side, and asking for the pleasure of the dance.

Polly stood quite still and saw them go away and take the last places in the set, and a sorry little droop fell upon the curves of the laughing mouth. She was very tired, and the elation that had possessed her over the success of the evening was fast dropping out, now that everybody was enjoying themselves in their own way, leaving her alone. She felt left out in the cold; and though she fought against it, a faint feeling of regret stole over her for what she had done. She almost wished she was standing there by the side of Pickering Dodge, one of the bright group on whom the eyes of the older people were all turned, as they waited for the first figure to begin.

"Well, Polly" -- it was Mr. Alstyne who spoke, and he acted as if he had come to stay by her side -- "you've covered yourself with glory this evening."

"Have I, sir?" asked Polly absently, wishing there had been less of the glory, and a little more fun.

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Alstyne, his keen eyes searching her face. "Well, now, Polly, your dragons, although not exactly like any living ones extant, made me think of some I saw at the Zoo, in London. Do you want me to tell you how?"

"Oh! if you please," cried Polly, her color coming back, and beginning to forget the dance and the dancers.

"Let us sit down here, then," said Mr. Alstyne, drawing her off to two chairs in a corner, "and you shall have the tale. No pun, Polly, you know." And he plunged into it at once.

"Yes, Alstyne has her all right," Mr. King was saying at the further end of the drawing-room to Mrs. Pepper; he spied the whole thing; "he'll take care of her, you may depend."

And two more people had seen; one was Jasper. Nevertheless his partner, Alexia Rhys, thought it necessary to enlighten him.

"Just think, Polly's given up her chance with the best dancer in the room, and sent Pickering Dodge off with that horrid Ray Simmons."

Jasper pretended not to hear. "This is our figure," he said hastily, and they whirled off, finished it, and were back again.

"Isn't she a goose?" as he fanned her, and tried to introduce another subject.

"I suppose she best pleases herself," said the boy indifferently. "Why should any one else interfere in the matter?"

"But some one else ought to interfere," cried Alexia, with a little pout, provoked at his indifference; "that's just the way she does in school all the time. Oh! I'm vexed at her, I can tell you. She's so silly -- dear me, it's our turn again."

By the next interim she had forgotten all about Polly and whether she was having a nice time or the stupidest one imaginable, for Joel, who held dancing in great contempt, sauntered up.

"Aren't you glad now that you didn't find out about the secret?" cried Alexia radiantly. "Oh! you are such a nuisance, Joey," she added frankly.

"Phooh!" exclaimed Joel, "it wasn't worth finding out, that old secret. But it's as good as girls ever get up," he finished with a supercilious air.

"It was a perfectly splendid play!" cried Alexia, "and much too good for a lot of boys. Goodness, Joey, I wouldn't celebrate if you four were coming home from school to our house. I'd have the jollification the night before you went back."

"I wouldn't go home if 'twas to your house," declared Joel with equal candor. "I'd run off to sea, first."

"Come, come, you two, stop sparring," cried Jasper, holding out his hand; "its our turn again, Alexia. Joel, take yourself off."

Alexia flashing Joel a bright, making-up smile, dashed off into the figure.

"Good-by," said Joel with a smile as cheery, for he really liked her the best of all Polly's girl friends.

After the dance, supper was announced, and everybody marched out to the supper room; the dancers with their partners following.

"Will you allow me?" Mr. Alstyne seeing the movement, got out of his chair and offered his arm to Polly with a courtly bow.

"Oh! don't think of me, sir," she began, blushing very hard. "Joel will look out for me."

"I much prefer waiting upon Miss Polly Pepper to any other lady in the room," said Mr. Alstyne, with another bow, courtlier than the first, "since Mrs. Alstyne is provided for. See, Polly, Mr. King is taking her out. And your mother has her cavalier, in Mr. Cabot; and Mrs. Whitney has already gone out with Mr. Fairfax. So if you don't accept my services, I shall be entirely left out in the cold." He stood offering his arm, and Polly, laughing merrily, put her hand within it.

"It's very good of you, sir," she said simply, as they fell into step and joined the procession.

"I'm afraid if you had trusted to Joel's tender mercies, you would have fared hardly," said Mr. Alstyne, laughing. "Look, Polly, over yonder in the corner." They were just passing into the supper room, and now caught sight of Joel chatting away to a very pretty little creature, in blue and white, as busily and unconcernedly as if he had done that sort of thing for years.

"Why!" cried Polly quite aghast, "that can't be Joel. He just hates girls, you know, Mr. Alstyne, and never goes to parties."

"He seems to be able to endure it all very well to-night," said her companion dryly. "Shall I get you an ice, Miss Polly?"

"Yes, thank you," said Polly absently, not being able to take her eyes from Joel and his friend. At last, by the force of attraction, he turned and looked at her. But instead of showing self-consciousness, his round eyes surveyed her coolly, while he went on talking and laughing with the little blue-and-white thing.

"Polly, Polly," exclaimed Alexia Rhys, hurrying up, while Jasper was storming the supper table for her, "do look at Joel Pepper! He actually brought in a girl to supper!"

"I see," said Polly, gazing at the two in a fascinated way.

"On the other hand," said Alexia, sending swift, bird-like glances around the supper room, "there are Van and Percy moping off by themselves as if they hadn't a friend in the world. What a pity; they used to be so lively at parties."

Polly wrenched her gaze away from the astonishing sight on which it had been fixed, and following Alexia's glance, took a keen look over at the young Whitneys. "Oh! oh! I must go to them," she cried remorsefully. "Tell Mr. Alstyne, please, when he comes back, where I am," and without another word she dashed back of some gaily dressed ladies just entering the supper room, and was out of the door.

"If I ever did!" cried Alexia irritably to herself, "see anything so queer! Now she thinks she must race after those boys. I wish I'd kept still. Jasper, she's just as funny as ever," as he came up with a plate of salad, and some oysters. "Who?" said the boy; "is this right, Alexia?" offering the plate.

"Why, Polly," said Alexia; "yes, that's lovely," with a comforted glance at the plate and its contents. "Oh! she's gone off, Mr. Alstyne," to that gentleman, approaching with Polly's ice. "You can't expect her to stay for the goodies," beginning to nibble at her own.

"Where is she?" cried Mr. Alstyne, laughing, and sweeping the room with his brown eyes. "Oh! I see," his glance lighting on the Whitney boys' corner.

"Yes, she told me to tell you," said Alexia, between her mouthfuls of salad and oyster, "where she is," as he started.

"Oh, Percy and Van!" Polly was whispering hurriedly, "I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, only it was so very dreadful, you know, to hear you go on so to each other."

"We didn't mean anything," said Percy, pushing one foot back and forth in an embarrassed way, and looking as if he did not know what to do with his hands, which confused him more than anything else, as he had been quite sure of them on all previous occasions.

Van thrust his into his pockets, and seemed on the point of whistling, but remembering where he was, took his lips speedily out of their curves, and looked the other way.

Just then Mr. Alstyne came up.

"Oh!" cried Polly suddenly, the color rushing over her face. "Could you, Mr. Alstyne, give that to some one else? Percy and Van are going to wait upon me."

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Alstyne in a flash, "nothing easier;" and he disappeared as suddenly as he came.

"Now, boys," said Polly, turning back to them and whispering busily, "I know you won't ever say such perfectly dreadful things to each other again. And so I'm going to ask you both to get me something to eat, will you?"

"How do you know we won't?" cried Percy slowly. He was sorry enough for the episode in the coach, yet couldn't resist the temptation to show he was not to be driven.

"Because I shall then have nothing whatever to eat," said Polly merrily, "for of course I can't take a bit from anybody else after refusing Mr. Alstyne's kindness. Don't you see? Oh, Percy! you wouldn't quite do that?"

Van laughed. "She's got us, Percy," he said, "quite fast. You know you won't fight, and I won't again; we both said so a little while back; so what's the good of holding out now?"

Percy drew himself up very slowly and decidedly. "I won't trouble you so again, Polly," holding out his hand. "Now would you like oysters?" all in the same breath.

"And here's mine," cried Van, extending his brown one. "Can't I bring you some salad?"

"Yes, yes," cried Polly gaily, and she released their hands after a cordial grasp. "You may bring me everything straight through, boys," as they rushed off, heads erect, to the crowded supper-table.

"You've had a good time?" asked Mrs. Pepper slowly, with a keen glance into the flushed face and sparkling eyes, as they turned up the gas in Polly's bedroom. "Dear me! it is half-past eleven."

"Splendid," said Polly, shaking herself free from the white gown and beginning to braid her hair for the night. "Percy and Van were perfectly lovely, and Mr. Alstyne was so good to me. And oh! Mamsie, isn't dear Mr. King just the dearest dear, to give all this to the boys? We haven't thanked him half enough."

"He is indeed," said Mrs. Pepper heartily. "Why, where is Phronsie?" looking around the room.

"She was right back of you," said Polly. "She wanted to take off her things herself. Did you ever see such a sweet" -- she began, but Mrs. Pepper did not stop to hear, hurrying out to the adjoining room, shared by the mother and her baby.

"She isn't here," Polly heard her say in bewildered tones. So Polly, her long hair blown about her face, ran in, brush in hand.

"Why, where" -- she began laughingly.

"She wouldn't go downstairs, I don't think," said Mrs. Pepper, peering in all the corners, and even meditating a look under the bed.

"No, no," cried Polly, "the lights are all turned out," investigating all possible and impossible nooks that a mouse could creep into. "Where can she be? Phronsie -- Phronsie!"

"Well, of course she is downstairs," declared Mrs. Pepper at last, hurrying out of the room.

"Take a candle, Mamsie, you'll fall," cried Polly, and throwing on her bath wrapper, she seized the light from the mantel and hurried after her.

Half-way down she could hear Phronsie's gay little laugh, and catch the words "Good-night, my dear Grandpapa," and then she came slowly out from Mr. King's sitting-room, and softly closed the door.

"Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, sitting down on the middle of the stairs, the candle shaking ominously, "how could" -- 

"Hush!" said Mrs. Pepper, who had fumbled her way along the hall. "Don't say anything. Oh, Phronsie dear, so you went down to bid Grandpapa good-night, did you?"

Phronsie turned a glance of gentle surprise on her mother, and then looked up at Polly.

"No, not exactly to bid him good-night," she said slowly. "I was afraid he was sick; I heard him coughing, so I went down."

"He is quite well, isn't he?" asked Mrs. Pepper. "Here, give me your hand, child; we must get up to bed."

"Oh, yes! he is quite really and truly all well," declared Phronsie, breaking into another glad little laugh. "He said he never had such a beautiful time in his life, and he is just as well as he can be. Oh, Polly!" as she picked up her Princess gown and prepared to ascend the stairs, "how funny you look sitting there!"

"Funny?" said Polly grimly. "I dare say, and I feel funny too, Phronsie."



VI

The Little Brown House


They were all sitting around the library fire; Polly under the pretext of holding Phronsie's head in her lap, was sitting on the rug beside her, the boys on either hand; old Mr. King was marching up and down the long room, and looking at them. The merriest of stories had been told, Polly urging on all the school records of jolly times, and those not so enjoyable; songs had been sung, and all sorts of nonsense aired. At last Joel sprang up and ran over to pace by the old gentleman's side.

"Christmas was good enough," said the boy, by way of beginning conversation.

"Hey?" responded the old gentleman, looking down at him, "I should think it was. Well, and how about the wonderful play on the twenty-first? And that was good enough, too, I dare say."

"That was well enough," said Joel indifferently, "I don't care for such stuff, though."

"Tut -- tut!" cried Mr. King in pretended anger, "now I won't have anything said against that wonderful production. Not a thing, sir, do you hear?"

Joel laughed, his chubby face twinkling all over in secret amusement. "Well, I know something better, if you'll only let us do it, sir, than a hundred old plays."

"And pray what is it?" demanded Mr. King, "let's have it at once. But the idea of surpassing the play! Oh, no, no, it can't be done, sir!"

"It's to go and see the little brown house," said Joel, standing up on his tiptoes to a level with the old gentleman's ear, and one eye looking backward to see that nobody heard.

Mr. King started, pulled his handsome moustache thoughtfully, looked at Joel sharply, and then over at the group in the firelight.

"They don't know anything about it," cried the boy in a whisper, "don't tell them. It's my secret, and yours," he added generously. "Oh! if we might only go and look at it."

"It's winter," observed the old gentleman, and stepping to the window he put aside the draperies, to peer out into the black evening. "Yes, it really is winter," he added with a shiver, to the boy who was close behind, and as if no longer in doubt about it, he added most emphatically, "it really is winter, Joel."

"Well, but you never saw anything like it, how magnificent winter is in Badgertown," cried Joel in an excited whisper. "Such hills to coast down; the snow is always crisp there, sir, not like this dirty town mud. And the air is as dry as punk," he added artfully. "Oh! 'twould be such a lark;" he actually clasped his hands.

"Badgertown isn't so very far off," said Mr. King thoughtfully, "I'll think about it and see if we can manage it."

"Ugh-ow!" squealed Joel, utterly forgetful of his caution of secrecy, "we can, we can; we can open the little brown house, and build great fires there, and" -- But he got no further. Into the midst of Van's liveliest sally, came the words "little brown house," bringing all the young people to their feet, Phronsie running to the old gentleman's side, with, "What is it, Grandpapa? He said the little brown house."

"Get away!" cried Joel crossly to the besiegers, each and all wildly clamoring. "What is it? What are you talking about? It's my secret," he cried, "and his," pointing with a dismayed finger to Mr. King.

"Well, it isn't a secret any longer," cried Polly, flushing with excitement. "You said 'little brown house,' we heard you just as plainly; and you re getting up something, I know you are." "People don't usually select a roomful of listeners, and then shout out their secrets," said Jasper. "You are in for it now, Joe, and no mistake. Go ahead, old fellow, and give us the rest of it."

Joel whirled away from them all in desperation. "You might as well," laughed the old gentleman, "the mischief is done now, and no mistake."

So Joel, thus set upon, allowed the whole beautiful plan to be wrung from him, by slow and torturing installments; how they all were to go to Badgertown, open the little brown house, and stay there -- here he glanced at Mr. King -- "perhaps a week," he brought out suddenly, filling the time with all sorts of frolics, and playing they were there again, and really and truly living in the old home.

At last it was all out, to be received in different ways by the listeners.

"Oh, Joe!" cried Davie with shining eyes. "We never could come away again if we once get there, never!"

Polly stood quite still, a mist gathering before her glad eyes, out of which she dimly saw the little brown house arise and beckon to her.

Phronsie jumped up and down and clapped her hands in glee. "Oh, Grandpapa, Grandpapa!" she screamed, "please take us to the little brown house, please!"

That settled it. "I do not think we need to consider it longer," said Mr. King, glancing at Ben, whose face told what he thought, "children, we will go -- that is, if Mrs. Pepper says yes.

"I will ask her," cried Joel with a howl, springing off.

"Come on," cried Jasper, "let's all 'be in at the death.'" And the library was deserted in a twinkling.

But mother was nowhere to be found. "Upstairs, downstairs, and in the lady's chamber," they sought her wildly.

"Oh! I forgot," exclaimed Polly, when at last they gathered in the wide hall, disposing themselves on the chairs and along the stairs, all tired out. "She has gone to evening meeting with Auntie. How stupid of me not to remember that."

"Well, I declare!" cried a voice above them, and looking up they met the cold blue eyes of Mrs. Chatterton regarding them over the railing. "Cousin Horatio, do you keep a menagerie, or a well-ordered house, I beg to inquire?"

"A menagerie," said Mr. King coolly, leaning on the balustrade at the foot of the stairs, and looking up at her. "All sorts of strange animals wander in here, Cousin."

"Hum; I understand. I'm not so dull as you think. Well, you've changed, let me tell you, vastly, and not for the better either, in the last six years. Who would ever suppose I see before me fastidious Horatio King!" she exclaimed, lifting her long thin hands to show him their horror-stricken palms.

"I dare say, I dare say, Cousin Eunice," assented Mr. King carelessly, "but I consider all you say as a compliment."

"Compliment?" she repeated disdainfully, and added with a rising note of anger, forgetting herself, "there's no fool like an old fool."

"So I think," said Mr. King in the same tone as before. "Children, come into my room now, and close the door." And Cousin Eunice was left to air further opinions to her own ear.

But when Mother Pepper and Mrs. Whitney did come home from the meeting, oh! what a time there was. They all fell upon her, as soon as the door opened, and the whole air was filled with "little brown house." "May we -- may we?" "A whole week." "Two days, Mamsie, do say yes," and Phronsie's glad little chirp "Grandpapa wants to go, he does!" ending every other exclamation.

"What a babel," cried Mrs. Pepper, her black eyes roving over the excited group. "Now what is it all about? Baby, you tell mother first."

Phronsie was not too big to jump into the comfortable lap, and while her fingers played with the bonnet strings, she laid the whole delightful plan open, the others hanging over them in ill-suppressed excitement.

"Well, you see, Mamsie," she began deliberately.

"Oh! you are so slow, Phronsie," exclaimed Polly, "do hurry."

"Let her take her own time," said Mr. King, "go on, child."

"Dear Grandpapa," proceeded Phronsie, turning her yellow head to look at him, her hand yet among the bonnet strings, "is going to take us all, every single one, to see the little brown house, and just touch it once, and be sure it's there, and peek in the doors and windows and" -- 

"No, no," roared Joel, "we're going to stay, and a week too," hopping confidently up and down.

"Oh, Joe! not a week," corrected Polly with glowing cheeks, "perhaps two days; we don't know yet."

"Three -- three," begged Van, pushing his head further into the center of the group. "Mrs. Pepper, do say you want to stay three days," he begged.

"I haven't said I wanted to go yet," she answered with a smile.

"Now, every one of you keep quiet," commanded Mr. King, raising his hand, "or you'll spoil the whole thing. Phronsie shall tell her story as she likes."

Thereupon the rest, with the shadow of his warning that the whole might be spoiled, fell back to a vigorous restraint once more.

"Perhaps," cried Phronsie with shining eyes, and grasping the strings tighter she leaned forward and pressed her red lips on the mother's mouth, "we'll go in and stay. Oh, Mamsie!"

That "Oh, Mamsie!" carried the day, and every one hanging on the conversation knew as soon as they heard it that a victory had been won.

"It's no use to contend against the Fates," said Mrs. Whitney, laughing, "Mrs. Pepper, you and I know that."

"That's so," cried old Mr. King, "and whoever finds it out early in life, is the lucky one. Now, children, off with you and talk it over," he cried, dismissing them as if they were all below their teens. "I want to talk with Mrs. Pepper now."

And in two days they were ready to go. Mrs. Chatterton with nose high in the air, and plentiful expressions of disgust at such a mid-winter expedition, taking herself off to make a visit of corresponding length to some distant relatives.

"I hope and pray this may not get into a society paper," she cried at the last, as she was seated in the carriage, "but of course it will; outre things always do. And we shall be disgraced for life. One comfort remains to me, I am not in it."

Mr. King, holding the carriage door, laughed long and loudly. "No, Cousin Eunice," he said, "you are not in it. Take comfort in that thought. Good-by," and the carriage rolled off.

Mother Pepper and the five little Peppers were going back to the little brown house. "Really and truly we are," as Phronsie kept saying over and over again with every revolution of the car-wheels, in a crooning fashion, and making it impossible for Mr. King to shiver in apprehension at the step he was taking. Were not two cases of blankets and household comforts safely packed away in the luggage car? "It's not such a dreadful risk," said the old gentleman gruffly to himself, "it's quite a common occurrence nowadays to take a winter outing in the country. We're all right," and he re-enforced himself further by frequent glances at Mrs. Pepper's black bonnet, two seats off.

It was to be a three-days' frolic, after all. Not that the whole party were to stay in the little brown house. O dear, no! how could they? It was only big enough for the Peppers. So Mrs. Whitney and her three boys, with Mr. King, and Jasper, who concealed many disappointed feelings, planned to settle down in the old hotel at Hingham.

And before anybody imagined they could reach there so soon, there they were at Badgertown Center, to find Mr. Tisbett waiting there on his stage-box as if he had not stirred from it for five years.

"Sho, now!" he called out from his elevated position to Mrs. Pepper, as she stepped down from the car, "it's good to see you, though. Land! how many of ye be there? And is that Phronsie? Sho, now!"

"Did you get my letter?" exclaimed Mother Pepper to Mrs. Henderson, who was pressing up to grasp her hand, and preparing to fall on the young folks separately. The parson stood just back, biding his time with a smile.

"Is it possible?" he exclaimed; "are these tall boys and girls the five little Peppers? It can't be, Mrs. Pepper," as at last he had her hand. "You are imposing on us."

And then the village people who had held back until their pastor and his wife paid their respects, rushed up and claimed their rights, and it was high holiday indeed for Badgertown.

"My goodness!" exclaimed Mr. King at a little remove and viewing the scene with great disfavor, "this is worse than the danger of taking cold. Have they no sense, to carry on like this?"

"They're so glad to see the Peppers again, father," said Mrs. Whitney with bright eyes. "You took them away from all these good people, you know; it's but fair to give them up for one day."

The old gentleman fumed and fretted, however, in a subdued fashion; at last wisely turning his back, he began to stalk down the platform, under pretense of examining the landscape.

"Your friends will stay with us," Mrs. Henderson was saying in a gently decisive manner, "the old parsonage is big enough," she added with a laugh.

"Oh! you are so good and thoughtful, dear Mrs. Henderson," cried Mrs. Pepper with delight at the thought of the homelike warmth of the parsonage life awaiting the old gentleman, for whom she was dreading the dreary hotel.

"I'm good to ourselves," declared the parson's wife gaily.

Jasper gave a shout when the new arrangement was declared, as it presently was by Percy and Van, who flung themselves after him as he was seeing to the luggage with Ben, and his face glowed with the greatest satisfaction.

"That is jolly," he exclaimed, "and that's a fact! Now, Ben, we're but a stone's throw apart. Rather different, isn't it, old fellow, from the time when I used to race over from Hingham with Prince at my heels?"

Dr. Fisher's little thin, wiry figure was now seen advancing upon the central group, and everybody fell away to let him have his chance to welcome the Peppers.

"I couldn't get here before," he cried, his eyes glowing behind his spectacles. "I've left a very sick patient. This is good," he took them all in with a loving glance, but his hand held to Polly. "Now I'm going to drive you down in my gig," he said to her at last. "Will you come?"

"Yes, indeed," cried Polly in delight, as her mother smiled approval, and she ran off to let him help her in. "It's only yesterday since you took me to drive, Dr. Fisher, and you gave me my stove -- is it?" And so she rambled on, the little doctor quite charmed to hear it all.

But Mr. Tisbett had a truly dreadful time placing his party in the old stage, as the townsfolk, fearful that so good a chance for seeing the Peppers would not happen during the three days' stay, insisted on crowding up close to the ancient vehicle, and getting in everybody's way, thereby calling forth some exclamations from Mr. King that could not be regarded as exactly complimentary. And quite sure that he was a frightful tyrant, they fell back with many a pitying glance at the Pepper family whom he was endeavoring to assist into their places.

At last it was all accomplished in some way, and Mr. Tisbett cracked his whip, Mrs. Pepper and Phronsie leaned out of the window to bow right and left into smiling faces, Ben and Davie did the same over their heads.

"Good-by," sang out Joel, whom the stage driver had taken up beside him. "Here we are, off for the little brown house. G'lang!"



VII

Old Times Again


"Don't let me look -- oh! don't let me look," cried Polly in the old gig, and twisting around, she hid her face against the faded green cloth side. "I ought not to see the little brown house before Mamsie and the others do."

"I'll turn down the lane," said the little doctor, "so"; and suiting the action to the word, Polly could feel that they were winding down the narrow little road over toward Grandma Bascom's. She could almost smell the violets and anemones under the carpet of snow, and could scarcely restrain herself from jumping out for a riotous run.

"Don't go too far away," she cried in sudden alarm. "We must be there by the time the stage does." And she applied her eye to the little circular glass in the back of the gig. "Will it never come -- oh! here it is, here it is, dear Dr. Fisher." And with a quick flourish around of the old horse, they were soon before the little brown house, and helping out the inmates of the stage, who with more speed than grace were hurrying over the steps.

Joel was down before Mr. Tisbett had fairly drawn up in front of the gate. "Hold on," roared the stage driver, "I don't want you to break your neck with me."

"It's really here!" cried Phronsie with wide eyes, standing quite still on a hummock of frozen snow, with her eyes riveted on the house. "It really is!" Polly had raced up the winding path, and over the flat stone to drop a kiss on the little old door.

"Oh! oh! Mamsie, do come!" she cried to Mrs. Pepper on the path.

"Hum! I think, Jasper, you and I will let them alone for a few moments," said Mr. King, who was still within the stage. "Here, my good fellow," to Mr. Tisbett, "you say it's all comfortable in there for them?"

"Yes, yes, sir," said Mr. Tisbett heartily. "Good land! Mis' Henderson had her boys come down airly this mornin' and make the fires; and there's a mighty sight of things to eat." The stage-driver put one foot on the hind wheel to facilitate conversation, and smacked his lips.

"All very well. Now you may drive us down the road a bit," said Mr. King, withdrawing his head to the depths of the lumbering old vehicle again.

"Ain't goin' in?" cried Mr. Tisbett, opening his round eyes at him in astonishment.

"Get up and drive us on, I say," commanded the old gentleman, "and cease your talking," which had the effect to send honest Mr. Tisbett clambering expeditiously up to the box, where he presently revenged himself by driving furiously over all the hard frozen ruts he could quickly select, determined not to stop till he was obliged to.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mr. King within, holding to the strap at the side, as well as to the leather band of the swinging seat in front. "What an abominable road!"

"The road is well enough," said Jasper, who couldn't bear to have a word uttered against Badgertown, "it's the fellow's driving that makes it rough. Here, can't you be a little more careful to keep the road?" he called, thrusting his head out of the window. But he only narrowly escaped losing his brown traveling cap for his pains, as the stage gave a worse lurch than before, to introduce a series of creakings and joltings hitherto unparalleled.

"I cannot endure this much longer," said old Mr. King, growing white around the mouth, and wishing he had strength for one-half the exclamations he felt inwardly capable of. Outside, honest Mr. Tisbett was taking solid comfort in the reflection that he was teaching a rich city man that he could not approach with anything less than respect a citizen of Badgertown.

"Ain't I as good as he?" cried Mr. Tisbett to himself, with an extra cut to the off horse, as he spied a sharp ragged edge of ice along the cart track in front of him. "Now that's good; that'll shake him," he added cheerfully. "Land! but I hain't been spoke to so since I was sassed at school by Jim Bently, and then I licked him enough to pay twice over. G'lang there -- easy!"

The first thing he knew, one of the glass windows was shivered to fragments; the bits flying off along the quiet road, to fall a gleaming shower upon the snow.

"Whoa!" called Mr. Tisbett, to his smoking horses, and leaning over, he cried, "What's the matter in there?"

"The matter is," said Jasper, putting his face out, "that as I could not possibly make you hear my calls, I chose to break the window. Have the goodness to let my father and me at once out of this vehicle."

Mr. Tisbett got down slowly over the wheel. "Beg your pardon," he said awkwardly, pulling open the door, "ain't you goin' to ride back?"

"Heavens!" cried Mr. King. He was glad to find he could ejaculate so much as he tremblingly worked his way out to terra firma. "Nothing on earth would tempt me to step foot inside there again."

"Here is the money for your window," said Jasper, putting a bill into the fur mitten, covering Mr. Tisbett's brawny right hand. "Kindly bring our traps to the little brown house; here, father, take my arm," and he ran after the tall figure, picking its way along the frozen road.

"Hey -- what's this?" exclaimed Mr. Tisbett, looking into the center of his fur mitten, "five dollars! Gee -- thumps! I ain't a-goin' to take it, after shaking that old party almost to pieces."

He stood staring at the bill in stupid perplexity till the uneasy movements of his horses warned him that his position was not exactly the proper one for a stage-driver who was on his box from morning till night, so he clambered over the wheel, full of vexed thoughts, and carefully tucked the bill under the old cushion before he took his seat.

"Ill give it back to him, that's cert'in," he said, picking up the reins, "and p'raps they've had enough walkin' so they'll let me pick 'em up," which raised him out of his depression not a little.

But the stern faces of the old gentleman and the tall boy smote him with a chill, long before he passed them, and he drove by silently, well knowing it would not do to broach the subject by so much as a look.

Not daring to go near the little brown house without the occupants of the stage who had driven down the road with him, Mr. Tisbett drew up miserably to a convenient angle, and waited till the two came up. Then without trusting himself to think, he sprang to the ground, and with shame written all over his honest face, called out, "See here, you young chap, I want to speak to you, when you've got him in the house."

"I will see you then," said Jasper, as the two hurried on to meet the Peppers rushing out from the little brown house, and down the small path.

"I've made an awful mess for 'em all, and they just come home," groaned Mr. Tisbett; drawing his fur mitten across his eyes, and leading his horses, he followed at a funeral pace, careful not to stop at the gate until the door was closed, when he began furiously to unload.

A footstep crunching the snow, broke into the noise he was making. "Hoh! well," he exclaimed, pausing with a trunk half-off the rack, "it's a mighty awkward thing for a man to say he's sorry, but you bet I be, as cert'in as my name's John Tisbett." His face became so very red that Jasper hastened to put his young shoulder under the trunk, a movement that only added to the stage-driver's distress.

"It don't pay to get mad, now I tell you," declared Mr. Tisbett, dumping the trunk down on the snow, and then drawing himself to his full height; "fust place, your pa sassed me, and" -- 

"He didn't intend to," cried Jasper eagerly, "and I'll apologize for him, if that's what you want." He laid his strong right hand in the old fur mitten.

"Good land! Tain't what I want," cried honest John, but he gripped the hand nevertheless, a fact that the boy never forgot; "I say I'm sorry I shook up your pa."

"His age ought to have protected him," said the boy simply.

"Sho! that's a fact," cried Mr. Tisbett, sinking in deeper distress, "but how is anybody to remember he's so old, when he steps so almighty high, as if he owned all Badgertown -- say!"

"I think we shall be good friends, Mr. Tisbett," said Jasper cordially, as he turned to wave his hand toward the little brown house; simultaneously the door opened, and all the young Peppers and Whitneys rushed out to help in the delightful unloading.

It was well along in the afternoon. The dusk of the December twilight shut down speedily, around the little brown house and its happy occupants, but no one wanted the candles lighted till the last moment.

"Oh, Polly!" cried Joel, who was prancing as of old over the kitchen floor, "don't you remember that night when you said you wished you had two hundred candles, and you'd light them all at once?"

"I said a good many silly things in those days," said Polly meditatively, and smoothing Phronsie's yellow hair that was lying across her lap.

"Some silly ones, and a good many wise ones," observed Mother Pepper, over in her little old rocker in the west window, where she used to sit sewing up coats and sacks for the village storekeeper. "You kept us together many a time, Polly, when nothing else could."

"Oh! no, I didn't, Mamsie," protested Polly, guilty of contradicting, "you and Bessie did. I just washed dishes, and swept up, and" -- 

"Baked and brewed, and fussed and stewed," finished Joel, afraid of being too sentimental.

"Polly was just lovely in those days," said Davie, coming across the room to lay a cool cheek against her rosy one. "I liked the rainy days best when we all could stay in the house, and hear her sing and tell stories while she was working."

"She was cross sometimes," cried Joel, determined not to let reminiscences become too comfortable; "she used to scold me just awfully, I know."

Polly broke into a merry laugh; yet she exclaimed, "You poor Joey, I suppose I was dreadful!"

"You didn't catch one half as bad scoldings as belonged to you," put in Ben, thrusting another stick in the stove. "You were a bad lot, Joe, in those days."

"And not over good in these," cried old Mr. King, ensconced in the snuggest corner in the seat of honor, the high-backed rocker that comforted Phronsie after her little toe was hurt. "There, now, my boy, how's that?" with a grim smile.

"Do you remember when the old stove used to plague you, Polly?" cried Joel, suddenly changing the conversation. "And how Ben's putty was everlastingly tumbling out? Hoh -- hoh!"

"And you two boys were always stuffing up the holes for me, when Ben was away," cried Polly, with affectionate glances at Davie and Joel.

"I didn't so much," said Joel honestly, "Dave was always giving boot-tops and such things."

"Boot-tops!" repeated Mr. King in astonishment. "Bless me, I didn't know that they had anything in common with stoves."

"Oh! that was before we knew you," said Joel, ready in advance of any one else with the explanation; "it wasn't this stove. Dr. Fisher gave Polly this one after she had the measles; but it was a lumbering old affair that was full of holes that had to be stopped up with anything we could get. And leather was the best; and Davie saved all the old boot-heels and tops he could find, you know."

"Oh!" said the old gentleman, wondering if other revelations would come to light about the early days of the Peppers.

"Isn't Dr. Fisher lovely?" cried Polly, with sparkling eyes, "just the same as ever. Mamsie, I ought to do something for him.

"He is as good as gold," assented Mrs. Pepper heartily. "You've done something, I'm sure, Polly. The medical books you bought out of your pocket money, and sent him, pleased him more than anything you could give him."

"But I want to do something now," said Polly. "Oh! just think how good he was to us."

"May we never forget it!" exclaimed Mrs. Pepper, wiping her eyes.

"But he's very unwise," said Mr. King a trifle testily, "not to take up with my offer to establish him in the town. A man like him could easily hold a good practice, because the fellow's got ability."

"Oh! Dr. Fisher wouldn't leave Badgertown," cried all the Peppers in a bunch. "And what would the poor people here do without him?" finished Polly.

"Well, well, never mind, he won't come to town, and that's enough," said the old gentleman quickly. "Aside from that, he's a sensible chap, and one quite to my liking."

"Oh, Polly!" cried Phronsie suddenly, and lifting her head, she fastened her brown eyes on the face above her, "wasn't Mamsie's birthday cake good?"

"The flowers were pretty, but the cake was heavy, don't you remember?" said Polly, who hadn't recovered from that grief even yet.

"I thought it was just beautiful," cried Mrs. Pepper hastily. "No one could have baked it better in the old stove you had. I'm sure we ate it all up, every crumb."

"We kept it in the old cupboard," cried Joel, rushing over to the corner to swing the door open. "And we never once peeked, Mamsie, so afraid you'd suspect."

"You kept staring at the cupboard door all the evening, Joe, you know you did," cried Ben; "you were just within a hair's breadth of letting the whole thing out ever so many times. Polly and I had to drag you away. We were glad enough when you went to bed, I can tell you."

"You were always sending me off to bed in those days," said Joel, taking his head out of the cupboard to throw vindictive glances over to the group around the stove.

"I wish we could do so now," said Ben.

"And those two," Joel went on, pointing to Polly and Ben, "used to go whispering around a lot of old secrets, that they wouldn't tell us. Oh! it was perfectly awful, wasn't it, Dave?" bestowing a small pinch on that individual's shoulder.

"I liked the secrets best not to know them till Polly and Ben got ready to tell us," said David slowly; "then they were just magnificent."

Phronsie had laid her head back in the waiting lap, and was crooning softly to herself.

"I want to go and see dear good Mr. Beebe," she said presently, "and nice Mrs. Beebe, can I, Mamsie?" looking over at her.

"To be sure," cried Mrs. Pepper, "you shall indeed, child."

"Beebe-Beebe, and who is he, pray?" demanded Mr. King.

"Oh! he keeps the shoe shop over in the Center," explained three or four voices, "and Phronsie's new shoes were bought there, you know."

"And he gave me pink and white candy-sticks," said Phronsie, "and he was very nice; and I like him very much."

"And Mrs. Beebe gave us doughnuts all around," communicated Joel; "I don't know but that I liked those best. There was more to them."

"So you always bought your new shoes of the Beebes?" asked the old gentleman, a question that brought all the five Peppers around his chair at once.

"We didn't ever have new shoes that I can remember," said Joel quickly, "except Phronsie's, and once Ben had a new pair. He had to, because he was the oldest, you know."

"Oh!" said Mr. King.

"You see," said Phronsie, shaking her head gravely, while she laid one hand on his knee, "we were very poor, Grandpapa dear. Don't you understand?"

"Yes, yes, child," said old Mr. King; "there, get up here," and he took her within his arms.

"No, no, you're not going to talk yet," seeing Percy and Van beginning violent efforts to join in the conversation. "Let the Peppers have a chance to talk over old times first. See how good Jasper is to wait."

"I would much prefer to hear the Peppers talk forever," said Jasper, smiling down on the two Whitneys, "than to have the gates opened for a general flood. Go on, do, Polly and Ben, and the rest of you."

"Oh! there is so much," said Polly despairingly, clasping her hands, "we shouldn't get through if we talked ten years, should we, Ben? Mamsie," and she rushed over to her, "can we have a baking time to-morrow, just as we used to in the old days? Oh! do say yes."

"Yes, do say yes," echoed Jasper, also rushing to the side of the little rocking-chair. "You will, won't you, Mrs. Pepper?"

"Hoh! hoh!" cried the two Whitneys derisively, "I thought you could 'hear the Peppers talk forever.' That's great, Jasper."

"Well, when it comes to hearing a proposal for a baking frolic, my principles are thrown to the wind," said Jasper recklessly. "Why, boys, that's the first thing I remember about the little brown house. Do say yes, Mrs. Pepper!"



VIII

Some Badgertown Calls


"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Grandma Bascom, opening the door and looking in, "I never!"

"Come in," cried Mr. King sociably. His night over at the parsonage had been a most fortunate experiment. "I haven't slept so finely in ten years," he confided to Mrs. Whitney as they met at breakfast at the minister's table. So now, his face wreathed with smiles, he repeated his invitation. "Come in, do, Mrs. Bascom; we're glad to see you."

"I never!" said Grandma Bascom once more, for want of something better to say, and coming close to the center of operations.

Jasper, attired in one of Mrs. Pepper's long aprons, which was fastened in the style of the old days, by the strings around his neck, was busily engaged in rolling out under Polly's direction, a thin paste, expected presently under the genial warmth of the waiting stove, to evolve into most toothsome cakes. Ben was similarly attired, and similarly employed; while Joel and David were in a sticky state, preparing their dough after their own receipt, over at the corner table, their movements closely followed by the three Whitneys.

Phronsie, before a board laid across two chairs, was enlightening old Mr. King who sat by her, into the mysteries of baking day.

"Do bake a gingerbread boy," he begged. "I never had anything half so good as the one you sent over to Hingham."

"You were my poor sick man then," observed Phronsie, with slow, even pats on her bit of dough. "Please, the rolling-pin now, Grandpapa dear."

"To be sure," cried the old gentleman; "here, Jappy, my boy, be so good as to hand us over that article."

"And you see," continued Phronsie, receiving the rolling-pin, and making the deftest of passes with it over the soft mass, "I couldn't send you anything better, though I wanted to, Grandpapa dear."

"Better?" cried Mr. King. "I should think not; you couldn't have made me anything that pleased me more, had you tried a thousand times."

Phronsie never tired of hearing this, and now humming a soft note of thanks, proceeded with her task, declaring that she would make the best gingerbread boy that could possibly be achieved.

Grandma Bascom was still reiterating "I never," and going slowly from one group to another to inspect operations. When she came to Phronsie, she stopped short, raising her hands in surprise. "Seems as ef 'twas only yesterday when the Peppers went away, though land knows I've missed 'em all most dretfully, 'an there sets that blessed child baking, as big as any of 'em. I never!"

"Have you any more raisins to give us, Grandma?" shouted Joel across the kitchen. "They were terribly hard," he added in his natural voice; "almost broke our teeth."

"Hey?" called Grandma back again.

"Raisins, Grandma, or peppermints," cried Joel.

"Oh, Joe, for shame!" called Ben.

"I'm going to have the fun of going after them," declared Joel, throwing down his dough-pat, and wiping his sticky fingers on his apron; "just like old times -- so there!"

"I'll go over and get 'em," said Grandma; "you come along with me," looking admiringly up at the tall boy; so the two, Joel laughing and hopping by her side as if he were five years younger, disappeared, well-pleased with each other.

"Now I shall take his dough," declared Dick, rushing around the end of the table to Joel's deserted place.

"No such thing," declared Van, flying out of his chair. "Leave your hands off, youngster! that's to be mine."

Polly looked up from the little cookies she was cutting with the top of a tin baking powder box and their eyes met.

"I didn't promise not to have it out with Dicky," said Van stoutly. "He's a perfect plague, and always under foot. I never thought of such a thing as not making him stand around, Polly."

But the brown eyes did not return to their task, as Polly mechanically stamped another cooky.

"I only promised not to have a bout with Percy," Van proceeded uncomfortably. And in the same breath, "Go ahead, If you want it, Dicky, I don't care."

"I do want it," declared Dick, clambering into Van's chair, while Van returned to his own, "and I'm going to have it too. I guess you think you'd better give it up now, sir; I'm getting so big."

"Softly there, Dicky," said Mrs. Whitney, over in the window-seat with her fancy work; "if Van gives up, you should thank him; I think he is very good to do it." And the bigger boy's heart warmed with the radiant smile she sent him.

Dick gave several vicious thrusts to his dough, and looked up at last to say very much against his will, "Thank you," and adding brightly, "but you know I'm getting big, sir, and you'd better give up."

"All right," said Van, with that smile in his heart feeling equal to anything.

"Now," cried Jasper, with a flourish of his baking apron, "mine are ready. Here goes!" and he opened the oven door and pushed in a pan of biscuit.

"Jappy's always ahead in everything," grumbled Percy, laboring away at his dough. "How in the world do you make the thing roll out straight? Mine humps up in the middle."

"Put some more flour on the board," said Polly, running over to him. "There, now see, Percy, if that doesn't roll smooth." "It does with you," said Percy, taking the rolling-pin again, to send it violently over the long-suffering dough, "and -- I declare, it's going to do with me," he cried, in delight at the large flat cake staring up at him from the board. "Now, says I, I'll beat you, Jappy!" And presently the whole kitchen resounded with a merry din, as the several cakes and biscuits were declared almost ready for their respective pans.

"But, I can tell you, this gingerbread boy is going in next," declared Mr. King from Phronsie's baking-board. "It's almost done, isn't it, child?"

"Not quite, Grandpapa," said Phronsie; "this eye won't stay in just like the other. It doesn't look the same way, don't you see?" pointing to the currant that certainly showed no inclination to do its duty, as any well-bred eye should. "Wait just a moment, please; I'll pull it out and stick it in again."

"Take another," advised the old gentleman, fumbling over the little heap of currants on the saucer. "There, here's a good round one, and very expressive, too, Phronsie."

"That's lovely," hummed Phronsie, accepting the new eye with very sticky fingers. "Now, he's all ready," as she set it in its place, and took the boy up tenderly. "Give me a pan, do, Polly."

"Did you cut that out?" cried Dick, turning around in his chair, and regarding her enviously, "all alone by yourself? Didn't Grandpapa help you just one teeny bit to make the legs and the hands?"

"No; she made it all herself," said the old gentleman, with justifiable pride. "There, Phronsie, here's your pan," as Polly set it down before her with a "You precious dear, that's perfectly elegant!"

Phronsie placed the boy within the pan, and gave it many a loving pat. "Grandpapa sat here, and looked at it, and smiled," she said, turning her eyes gravely on Dick, "and that helped ever so much. I couldn't ever have made it so nice alone. Good-by; now bake like a good boy. Let me put it in the oven all by myself, do, Polly," she begged.

So Phronsie, the old gentleman escorting her in mortal dread that she would be burned, safely tucked her long pan into the warmest corner, shut the door, and gravely consulted the clock. "If I look at it in twenty-one minutes, I think it will be done," she said, "quite brown."

In twenty-one minutes the whole kitchen was as far removed from being the scene of a baking exploit as was possible. Everything was cleared away, and set up primly in its place, leaving only a row of fine little biscuits and cookies, with Phronsie's gingerbread boy in the midst, to tell the tale of what had been going on. Outside there was a great commotion.

Deacon Brown's old wagon stood at the gate, for the Peppers and their friends; and, oh! joy, not the old horse between the shafts, but a newer and much livelier beast. And on the straw laid in the bottom of the wagon, the seats being removed, disported all the merry group, Mr. King alone having the dignity of a chair.

Deacon Brown, delighted with his scheme of bringing the wagon over as a surprise for the Peppers to take a drive in, was on the side of the narrow foot-path, chuckling and rubbing his hands together. "You won't have to drive so easy as you used to, Ben," he called out, "this fellow's chirk; give him his head. Sho! what you goin' that way for?" as Ben turned off down the lane.

"To Grandma Bascom's," shouted two or three voices.

"Joel's over there," sang out Polly.

"We couldn't go without him, you know," chirped Phronsie, poking a distressed little face up from the straw heap.

"'Twould serve him just right if we did," said Van. "He's a great chap to stay over there like this."

"No -- no," cried Dick in terror, "don't go without Joel; I'd rather have him than any of you," he added, not over politely.

Phronsie began to cry piteously at the mere thought of Joel's being left behind.

"He wanted to see Mr. Beebe," she managed to say, "and dear Mrs. Beebe. Oh! don't go without him." So Mr. King made them hand her up to him, and at the risk of their both rolling out, he held her in his lap until the wagon, stopping at the door of Grandma Bascom's cottage, brought Joel bounding out with a whoop.

"Jolly! where'd you get that, and where are you going?" all in one breath, as he swung himself up behind.

"Deacon Brown brought it over just now," cried Polly.

"As a surprise," furnished Percy. "Isn't he a fine old chap? Here's for the very jolliest go!"

"We're going to see dear Mr. Beebe, and dear Mrs. Beebe," announced Phronsie, smiling through her tears, and leaning out of the old gentleman's lap to nod at him.

"Hurrah!" screamed Joel. "Good-by, Grandma," to the old lady, whose cap-frills were framed in the small window. "I've had a fine time in there," he condescended to say, but nothing further as to the details could they extract from him; and so at last they gave it up, and lent their attention to the various things to be seen as the wagon spun along. And so over and through the town, and to the very door of the little shoe-shop, and there, to be sure, was Mr. Beebe the same as ever, to welcome them; and Joel found to his immense satisfaction that the stone pot was as full of sugary doughnuts as in the old days; and Phronsie had her pink and white sticks, and Mrs. Beebe "Oh-ed" and "Ah-ed" over them all, and couldn't bear to let them go when at last it was time to say "good-by." And at last they all climbed into the old wagon, and were off again on their round of visits.

It was not till the gray dusk of the winter afternoon settled down unmistakably, so that no one could beg to stay out longer, that they turned Deacon Brown's horse toward the little brown house.

"It's going to snow to-morrow, I think," observed Jasper, squinting up at the leaden sky, "isn't it, father?"

"Whoop!" exclaimed Joel, "then we will have sport, I tell you!"

"It certainly looks like it," said old Mr. King, wrapping his fur-lined coat closer. "Phronsie, are you sure you are warm enough?"

"Yes, Grandpapa dear," she answered, curling up deeper in the straw at his feet.

"Do you remember how you would carry the red-topped shoes home with you, Phronsie?" cried Polly, and then away they rushed again into "Oh, don't you remember this, and you haven't forgotten that?" Jasper as wildly reminiscent now as the others, for hadn't he almost as good as lived at the little brown house, pray tell? So the Whitneys looked curiously on, without a chance to be heard in all the merry chatter; and then they drew up at the gate of the parsonage, where they were all to have supper.

When Phronsie woke up in the big bed by the side of her mother the next morning, Polly was standing over her, and looking down into her face.

"Oh, Phronsie!" she exclaimed in great glee, "the ground is all covered with snow!"

"O -- oh!" screamed Phronsie, her brown eyes flying wide open, "do give me my shoes and stockings, Polly, do! I'll be dressed in just one -- minute," and thereupon ensued a merry scramble as she tumbled out of the big bed, and commenced operations, Polly running out to help Mamsie get the breakfast.

"Mush seems good now we don't have to eat it," cried Joel, as they all at last sat around the board.

"'Twas good then," said Mrs. Pepper, her black eyes roving over the faces before her.

"How funny," cried Percy Whitney, who had run over from the parsonage to breakfast, "this yellow stuff is." And he took up a spoonful of it gingerly.

"You don't like it, Percy; don't try to eat it. I'll make you a slice of toast," cried Polly, springing out of her chair, "in just one moment."

"No, you mustn't," cried Dick, bounding in in time to catch the last words. "Mamma said no one was to have anything different, if we came to breakfast, from what the Peppers are going to eat. I like the yellow stuff; give me some, do," and he slid into a chair and passed his plate to Mrs. Pepper.

"So you shall, Dicky," she said hastily. "And you will never taste sweeter food than this," giving him a generous spoonful.

"Grandpapa is eating ham and fried eggs over at the minister's house," contributed Dick, after satisfying his hunger a bit.

"Ham and fried eggs!" exclaimed Mother Pepper, aghast. "Why, he never touches them. You must be mistaken, my boy."

"No, I'm not," said Dick, obstinately. "The minister's wife said it was, and she asked me if I wouldn't have some, and I said I was going over to the Peppers to breakfast; I'd rather have some of theirs. And Grandpapa said it was good -- the ham and fried eggs was -- and he took it twice; he did, Mrs. Pepper."

"Took it twice?" she repeated, faintly, with troubled visions of the future. "Well, well, the mischief is done now, so there is no use in talking about it; but I'm worried, all the same."

"Hurry up, Percy," called Joel across the table, "and don't dawdle so. We're going to make a double ripper, four yards long, to go down that hill there." He laid down his spoon to point out the window at a distant snow-covered slope.

Percy shivered, but recalling himself in time, said "Splendid," and addressed himself with difficulty to his mush.

"Well, you'll never be through at that speed," declared Joel. "See I've eaten three saucerfuls," and he handed his plate up, "And now for the fourth, Mamsie."

"Oh! baked potatoes," cried Ben, rolling one around in his hand before he took off its crackling skin. "Weren't they good, though, with a little salt. I tell you, they helped us to chop wood in the old times!"

"I really think I shall have to try one," said Percy, who deeply to his regret was obliged to confess that Indian meal mush had few charms for his palate.

"There's real milk in my mug now," cried Phronsie, with long, deep draughts. "Polly, did I ever have anything but make-believe in the little brown house; ever, Polly?"

Polly was saved from answering by a stamping of snowy boots on the flat doorstone.

"Hurrah, there!" cried Van, rushing in, followed by Jasper. "Hoh, you slow people in the little brown house, come on for the double ripper!"



IX

A Sudden Blow


"Mamsie," cried Polly, suddenly, and resting her hands on her knees as she sat on the floor before the stove, "do you suppose there is any one poor enough in Badgertown to need the little brown house when we lock it up to-morrow?" "Not a soul," replied Mrs. Pepper, quickly; "no more than there was when we first locked it up five years ago, Polly. I've been all over that with the parson last evening; and he says there isn't a new family in the place, and all the old ones have their homes, the same as ever. So we can turn the key and leave it with a clear conscience."

Polly drew a long breath of delight, and gazed long at the face of the stove that seemed to crackle out an answering note of joy as the wood snapped merrily; then she slowly looked around the kitchen.

"It's so perfectly lovely, Mamsie," she broke out at length, "to see the dear old things, and to know that they are waiting here for us to come back whenever we want to. And to think it isn't wicked not to have them used, because everybody has all they need; oh! it's so delicious to think they can be left to themselves."

She folded her hands now across her knees, and drew another long breath of content.

Phronsie stole out of the bedroom, and came slowly up to her mother's side, pausing a bit on the way to look into Polly's absorbed face.

"I don't think, Mamsie," she said quietly, "that people ought to be so very good who've never had a little brown house; never in all their lives."

"Oh, yes, they had, child," said Mrs. Pepper briskly; "places don't make any difference. It's people's duty to be good wherever they are."

But Phronsie's face expressed great incredulity.

"I'm always going to live here when I am a big, grown-up woman," she declared, slowly gazing around the kitchen, "and I shall never, never go out of Badgertown."

"Oh, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, turning around in dismay, "why, you couldn't do that. Just think, child, whatever in the world would Grandpapa do, or any of us, pray tell?"

"Grandpapa would come here," declared Phronsie decidedly, and shaking her yellow head to enforce her statement. "Of course Grandpapa would come here, Polly. We couldn't live without him."

"That's it," said Polly, with a corresponding shake of her brown head, "of course we couldn't live without Grandpapa; and just as 'of course' he couldn't leave his own dear home. He never would be happy, Phronsie, to do that."

Phronsie took a step or two into the sunshine lying on the middle of the old kitchen floor. "Then I'd rather not come, Polly," she said. But she sighed and Polly was just about saying, "We'll run down now and then perhaps, Phronsie, as we have done now," when the door was thrown open suddenly, and Joel burst in, his face as white as a sheet, and working fearfully.

"Oh, Polly! you must tell Mrs. Whitney -- I can't."

Polly sprang to her feet; Mrs. Pepper, who had just stepped into the pantry, was saying, "I think, Polly, I'll make some apple dumplings, the boys like them so much."

"What is it, Joe?" cried Polly hoarsely, and standing quite still. Phronsie, with wide eyes, went up and took the boy's cold hand, and gazed into his face as he leaned against the door.

"Dick!" groaned Joel; "oh! oh! I can't bear it," and covering his face with one hand, he would have pulled the other from Phronsie's warm little palm, but she held it fast.

"Tell me at once, Joe," commanded Polly. "Hush! -- mother" -- but Mrs. Pepper was already out of the pantry.

"Joel," said Mrs. Pepper, "whatever it is, tell us immediately."

The look in her black eyes forced him to gasp in one breath, "Dick fell off the double ripper, and both of his legs are broken -- may be not," he added in a loud scream.

Phronsie still held the boy's hand. He was conscious of it, and that she uttered no word, and then he knew no more.

"Leave him to me, Polly," said Mrs. Pepper, through drawn lips, "and then do you run as you have never run before, to the parsonage. Oh! if they should bring him there before the mother hears."

Phronsie dropped the hand she held, and running on unsteady little feet into the bedroom, came back with Polly's hood and coat.

"Let me go," cried Polly wildly, rushing away from the detaining hand to the door, "I don't want those things on. Let me go, Phronsie!"

"You'll be cold," said Phronsie. With all her care, her little white lips were quivering as she held out the things. "Please, Polly," she said piteously.

"The child is right; put them on," commanded Mrs. Pepper, for one instant taking her thought from her boy; and Polly obeyed, and was gone.

In the parsonage "best room" sat Mrs. Whitney. Her rocking-chair was none of the easiest, being a hair-cloth affair, its cushion very much elevated in the world just where it should have been depressed, so that one was in constant danger of slipping off its surface; moreover, the arms and back of the chair were covered with indescribable arrangements made and presented by loving parishioners and demanding unceasing attention from the occupant. But the chair was drawn up in the sunshine pouring into the window, and Mrs. Whitney's thoughts were sunny, too; for she smiled now and then as she drew her needle busily in and out through the bright wools.

"How restful it all is here, and so quaint and simple." She glanced up now to the high-backed mantel with its wealth of daguerreotypes, and surprising collection of dried leaves in tall china vases; and over the walls, adorned with pine-cone framed pictures, to the center table loaded with "Annuals," and one or two volumes of English poetry, and then her gaze took in the little paths the winter sunshine was making for itself along the red and green ingrain carpet. "I am so glad father thought to bring us all. Dear father, it is making a new man of him, this winter frolic. Why" -- 

She was looking out of the window now, and her hands fell to her lap as Polly Pepper came running breathlessly down the village street, her hood untied, and the coat grasped with one hand and held together across her breast. But it was the face that terrified Mrs. Whitney, and hurrying out of her chair, she ran out to the veranda as the girl rushed through the gateway.

"Polly, child," cried Mrs. Whitney, seizing her with loving arms and drawing her on the steps -- "oh! what is it, dear?"

Polly's lips moved, but no words came.

"Oh!" at last, "don't hate us for -- bringing you to the -- little -- brown house. Why did we come!" And convulsively she threw her young arms around the kind neck. "Oh, Auntie! Dicky is hurt -- but we don't know how much -- his legs, Joel says, but it may not be as bad as we think; dear Auntie."

Mrs. Whitney trembled so that she could scarcely stand. Around them streamed the same winter sunshine that had been so bright a moment since. How long ago it seemed. And out of gathering clouds in her heart she was saying, "Polly dear, God is good. We will trust him." She did not know her own voice, nor realize when Polly led her mercifully within, as a farmer's wagon came slowly down the street, to stop at the parsonage gate; nor even when Dick was brought in, white and still, could she think of him as her boy. It was some other little figure, and she must go and help them care for him. Her boy would come bounding in presently, happy and ruddy, with a kiss for mamma, and a world of happy nonsense, just as usual. It was only when Mrs. Henderson came in, and took her hand to lead her into the next room, that it all came to her.

"Oh, Dick!" and she sprang to the side of the sofa where he lay. "My child -- my child!"

And then came Dr. Fisher, and the truth was known. One of Dick's legs was broken below the knee; the other badly bruised. Only Jasper and the mother remained in the room while the little doctor set the limb; and after what seemed an age to the watchers, the boy came out.

"He bore it like a Trojan," declared Jasper, wiping his forehead. "I tell you, Dick's our hero, after this."

"Now I should like to know how all this happened," demanded Mr. King. The old gentleman had remained at the parsonage to get a good morning nap while the snow frolic was in progress. And he had been awakened by the unusual bustle below stairs in time to hear the welcome news that Dicky was all right since Dr. Fisher was taking care of him. He now presented himself in his dressing-gown, with his sleeping cap awry, over a face in which anger, distress and impatience strove for the mastery. "Speak up, my boy," to Jasper, "and tell us what you know about it."

"Well, the first thing I knew of any danger ahead," said Jasper, "was hearing Dick sing out 'Hold up!' I supposed the double ripper all right; didn't you, Ben?"

"Yes," said Ben sturdily, "and it was all right; just exactly as we used to make them, we boys; there wasn't a weak spot anywhere in her, sir."

"Who was steering?" demanded old Mr. King almost fiercely.

"I was," said Van, beginning boldly enough, to let his voice die out in a tremulous effort.

"Humph -- humph," responded Mr. King grimly. "A bad business," shaking his head.

"Van would" -- began Percy, but his eye meeting Polly's he added, "We'd none of us done any better, I don't believe, sir, than Van."

Van was now choking so badly that the greatest kindness seemed to be not to look at him. Accordingly the little company turned their eyes away, and regarded each other instead.

"Well, so Dick rolled off?" proceeded the old gentleman.

"Oh! no, he didn't," said all three boys together; "he stuck fast to the double ripper; we ran into a tree, and Dick was pitched off head-first."

"But honestly and truly, father," said Jasper, "I do not think that it was the fault of the steerer."

"Indeed it was not," declared Ben stoutly; "there was an ugly little gully that we hadn't seen under the snow. We'd been down four or five times all right, but only missed it by a hair-breadth; this time the ripper struck into it; I suppose Dick felt it bump, as it was on his side, and sang out, and as quick as lightning we were against that tree. It was as much my fault as any one's, and more, because I ought to have known that old hill thoroughly."

"I share the blame, Ben," broke in Jasper, "old fellow, if you pitch into yourself, you'll have to knock me over too."

"Come here, Vanny," said old Mr. King, holding out his hand. "Why, you needn't be afraid, my boy," aghast at the tears that no power on earth could keep back. "Now all leave the room, please."

"Where's Polly?" asked Ben, on the other side of the door.

"She's run home," said David, "I guess. She isn't here."

"And that's where I must be too," cried Ben, bounding off.

When Van was next seen he was with old Mr. King, and wearing all signs of having received his full share of comfort. Phronsie, just tying on her little hood, to go down to the parsonage to ask after Dicky, looked out of the window to exclaim in pleased surprise, "Why, here comes dear Grandpapa," and then she rushed out to meet him.

"Here's my little girl," cried the old gentleman, opening his arms, when she immediately ran into them. "Now we're all right."

"Is Dicky all right?" asked Phronsie anxiously, as she fell into step by his side.

"Yes, indeed; as well as a youngster can be, who's broken his leg."

Phronsie shivered. "But then, that's nothing," Mr. King hastened to add; "I broke my own when I was a small shaver no bigger than Dick, and I was none the worse for it. Boys always have some such trifling mishaps, Phronsie."

"Ben never broke his leg, nor Joel, nor Davie," said Phronsie. "Must they yet, Grandpapa?"

"O dear, no," declared Mr. King hastily; "that isn't necessary. I only meant they must have something. Now you see, Ben had the measles, you know."

"Yes, he did," said Phronsie, quite relieved to think that this trial could take the place of the usual leg-breaking episode in a boy's career. "And so did Joel, and Davie -- all of them, Grandpapa dear."

"Exactly; well, and then Ben had to work hard, and Joel and Davie too, for that matter. So, you see, it wasn't as essential that they should break their legs, child."

"But Jasper and Percy and Van don't have to work hard; oh! I don't want them to break their legs," said Phronsie, in a worried tone. "You don't think they will, Grandpapa dear, do you? Please say they won't."

"I don't think there is the least danger of it," said Mr. King, "especially as I shall put an end to this double-ripper business, though not because this upset was anybody's fault; remember that, Phronsie." Van's head which had dropped a bit at the last words, came up proudly. "Van, here, has acted nobly" -- he put his hand on the boy's shoulder -- "and would have saved Dicky if he could. It was a pure accident that nobody could help except by keeping off from the abominable thing. Well, here we are at the little brown house; and there's your mother, Phronsie, waiting for us in the doorway."

"Halloo!" cried Van, rushing over the flat stone, and past Mrs. Pepper, "where's Joel? Oh -- here, you old chap!"

"Well, Mrs. Pepper," said the old gentleman, coming up to the step, Phronsie hanging to his hand, "this looks like starting for town to-morrow, doesn't it?"

"Oh! what shall we do, sir?" cried Mrs. Pepper, in distress. "To think you have come down here in the goodness of your heart, to be met with such an accident as this. What shall we do?" she repeated.

"Goodness of my heart," repeated Mr. King, nevertheless well pleased at the tribute. "I've had as much pleasure out of it all as you or the young people. I want you to realize that."

"So does any one who does a kind act," replied Mrs. Pepper, wiping her eyes; "well, sir, now how shall we manage about going back?"

"That remains to be seen," said Mr. King slowly, and he took a long look at the winter sky, and the distant landscape before he ventured more. "It very much looks as if we all should remain for a few days, to see how Dick is to get on, all but the four boys; they must pack off to school to-morrow, and then probably Mrs. Whitney will stay over with the boy till he can be moved. Dr. Fisher will do the right thing by him. Oh! everything is all right, Mrs. Pepper."

Mrs. Pepper sighed and led the way into the house. She knew in spite of the reassuring words that the extreme limit of the "outing" ought to be passed on the morrow.



X

The Party Separates


"Good-by to the little brown house!" Joel and David, Percy and Van sang out in doleful chorus, from the old stage coach; two of the boys on the seat shared by John Tisbett, the other two within as companions to Mrs. Pepper and Jasper, who were going home to start the quartette off to school.

"Ben and I will take good care of everything, Mamsie," said Polly for the fiftieth time, and climbing up on the steps to tuck the traveling shawl closer. Thereupon Phronsie climbed up too, to do the same thing. "Don't you worry; we'll take care of things," she echoed.

"I shan't worry," said Mrs. Pepper in a bright assured way. "Mother knows you'll both do just right. And Phronsie'll be a good girl too," with a long look into the bright eyes peering over the window casing of the old coach.

"I'll try," said Phronsie. "Good-by, Mamsie," and she tried to stand on tiptoe to reach her mouth up.

"Goodness me!" cried Polly, "you nearly tumbled off the steps. Throw her a kiss, Phronsie; Mamsie'll catch it."

"If that child wants to kiss her ma agen, she shall do it," declared Mr. Tisbett; and throwing down the reins, he sprang to the ground, seized Phronsie, and swung her lightly over the window edge. "There you be -- went through just like a bird." And there she was, sure enough, in Mrs. Pepper's lap.

"I should like to go with you," Phronsie was whispering under Mrs. Pepper's bonnet strings, "Mamsie, I should."

"Oh, no, Phronsie!" Mrs. Pepper made haste to whisper back. "You must stay with Polly. Why, what would she ever do without you? Be mother's good girl, Phronsie; you're all coming home, except Auntie and Dick, in a few days."

Phronsie cast one look at Polly. "Good-by," she said slowly. "Take me out now," holding her arms towards Mr. Tisbett.

"Here you be!" exclaimed Mr. Tisbett merrily, reversing the process, and setting her carefully on the ground. "Now, says I; up I goes," his foot on the wheel to spring to the box.

"Stay!" a peremptory hand was laid on his shaggy coat sleeve, and he turned to face old Mr. King.

"When I meet a man who can do such a kind thing, it is worth my while to say that I trust no words of mine gave offense. Bless you, man!" added the old gentleman, abruptly changing the tone of his address as well as its form, "it's my way; that's all."

John Tisbett had no words to offer, but remained, his foot on the wheel, stupidly staring up at the handsome old face.

"We shall be late for the train," called Jasper within the coach, "if you don't start."

"Get up, do!" cried Joel, who had seized the reins, "or I'll drive off without you, Mr. Tisbett," which had the effect to carry honest John briskly up to his place. When there, he took off his fur cap without a word, and bowed to Mr. King, cracked his whip and they were off, leaving the four on the little foot-path gazing after them, till the coach was only a speck in the distance.

"Mamma dear," said Dick, one afternoon three weeks later (the little brown house had been closed a fortnight, and all the rest of the party back in town), "when are we going home?"

"Next week," said Mrs. Whitney brightly; "the doctor thinks if all goes well, you can be moved from here."

Dick leaned back in the big chintz-covered chair. "Mamma," he said, "your cheeks aren't so pink, and not quite so round, but I think you are a great deal nicer mamma than you were."

"Do you, Dick?" she said, laughing. "Well, we have had a happy time together, haven't we? The fortnight hasn't been so long for you as I feared when the others all went away."

"It hasn't been long at all," said Dick promptly, and burrowing deeper into the chair-back; "it's just flown, mamma. I like Polly and Phronsie; but I'd rather have you than any girl I know; I had really, mamma."

"I'm very glad to hear it, Dick," said Mrs. Whitney, with another laugh.

"And when I grow up, I'm just going to live with you forever and ever. Do you suppose papa will be always going to Europe then?"

"I trust not," said Mrs. Whitney fervently. "Dicky, would you like to have a secret?" she asked suddenly.

The boy's eyes sparkled. "Wouldn't I mamma?" he cried, springing forward in the chair; "ugh!"

"Take care, darling," warned his mother. "You must remember the poor leg."

Dick made a grimace, but otherwise took the pain pluckily. "Tell me, do, mamma," he begged, "the secret."

"Yes, I thought it would be a pleasant thing for you to have it to think of, darling, while you are getting well. Dicky, papa is coming home soon."

"Right away?" shouted Dick so lustily that Mrs. Henderson popped her head in the door. "Oh! beg your pardon," she said; "I thought you wanted something."

"Isn't it lovely," cried Mrs. Whitney, "to have a boy who is beginning to find his lungs?"

"Indeed it is," cried the parson's wife, laughing; "I always picked up heart when my children were able to scream. It's good to hear you, Dicky," as she closed the door.

"Is he -- is he -- is he?" cried Dick in a spasm of excitement, "coming right straight away, mamma?"

"Next week," said mamma, with happy eyes, "he sails in the Servia. Next week, Dicky, my boy, we will see papa. And here is the best part of the secret. Listen; it has all been arranged that Mr. Duyckink shall live in Liverpool, so that papa will not have to go across any more, but he can stay at home with us. Oh, Dicky!"

That "Oh, Dicky!" told volumes to the boy's heart.

"Mamma," he said at last, "isn't it good that God didn't give boys and girls to Mr. Duyckink? Because you see if he had, why, then Mr. Duyckink wouldn't like to live over there."

"Mr. Duyckink might not have felt as your father does, Dicky dear, about having his children educated at home; and Mrs. Duyckink wants to go to England; she hasn't any father, as I have, Dicky dear, who clings to the old home."

"Only I wish God had made Mr. Duyckink and Mrs. Duyckink a little sooner," said Dick reflectively. "I mean, made them want to go to England sooner, don't you, mamma?"

"I suppose we ought not to wish that," said his mother with a smile, "for perhaps we needed to be taught to be patient. Only now, Dicky, just think, we can actually have papa live at home with us!"

"Your cheeks are pink now," observed Dick; "just the very pink they used to be, mamma."

Mrs. Whitney ran to the old-fashioned looking-glass hanging in its pine-stained frame, between the low windows, and peered in. "Do I look just as I did when papa went away six months ago, Dicky?" she asked, anxiously.

"Yes," said Dick, "just like that, only a great deal nicer," he added enthusiastically.

His mother laughed and pulled at a bright wave on her forehead, dodging a bit to avoid a long crack running across the looking-glass front.

"Here's Dr. Fisher!" shouted Dick suddenly. "Now, you old fellow, you," and shaking his small fist at his lame leg, "you've got to get well, I tell you. I won't wait much longer, sir!" And as the doctor came in, "I've a secret."

"Well, then, you would better keep it," said Dr. Fisher. "Good morning," to Mrs. Whitney. "Our young man here is getting ahead pretty fast, I should think. How's the leg, Dicky?" sitting down by him.

"The leg is all right," cried Dick; "I'm going to step on it," trying to get out of the chair.

"Dicky!" cried his mother in alarm.

"Softly -- softly now, young man," said Dr. Fisher. "I suppose you want me to cure that leg of yours, and make it as good as the other one, don't you?"

"Why, of course," replied Dick; "that's what you are a doctor for."

"Well, I won't agree to do anything of the sort," said the little doctor coolly, "if you don't do your part. Do you know what patience means?"

"I've been patient," exclaimed Dick, in a dudgeon, "forever and ever so many weeks, and now papa is coming home, and I" -- 

And then he realized what he had done, and he turned quite pale, and looked at his mother.

Her face gave no sign, but he sank back in his chair, feeling disgraced for life, and ready to keep quiet forever. And he was so good while Dr. Fisher was attending to his leg that when he was through, the little doctor turned to him approvingly: "Well, sir, I think that I can promise that you can go home Saturday. You've improved beyond my expectation."

But Dick didn't "hurrah," nor even smile.

"Dicky," said Mrs. Whitney, smiling into his downcast face, "how glad we are to hear that; just think, good Dr. Fisher says we may go next Saturday."

"I'm glad," mumbled Dick, in a forlorn little voice, and till after the door closed on the retreating form of the doctor, it was all that could be gotten out of him. Then he turned and put out both arms to his mother.

"I didn't mean -- I didn't mean -- I truly didn't mean -- to tell -- mamma," he sobbed, as she clasped him closely.

"I know you didn't, dear," she soothed him. "It has really done no harm; papa didn't want the home people to know, as he wants to surprise them."

"But it was a secret," said Dick, between his tears, feeling as if he had lost a precious treasure entrusted to him. "Oh, mamma! I really didn't mean to let it go."

"Mamma feels quite sure of that," said Mrs. Whitney gently. "You are right, Dicky, in feeling sorry and ashamed, because anything given to you to keep is not your own but belongs to another; but, my boy, the next duty is to keep back those tears -- all this is hurting your leg."

Dick struggled manfully, but still the tears rolled down his cheeks. At last he said, raising his head, "You would much better let me have my cry out, mamma; it's half-way, and it hurts to send it back."

"Well, I don't think so," said Mrs. Whitney, with a laugh. "I've often wanted to have a cry out, as you call it. But that's weak, Dicky, and should be stopped, for the more one cries, the more one wants to."

"You've often wanted to have a cry out?" repeated Dick, in such amazement that every tear just getting ready to show itself immediately rushed back again. "Why, you haven't anything to cry for, mamma."

"Indeed I have," she declared; "often and often, I do many things that I ought not to do" -- 

"Oh! never, never," cried Dick, clutching her around the neck, to the detriment of her lace-trimmed wrapper. "My sweetest, dearingest mamma is ever and always just right."

"Indeed, Dick," said Mrs. Whitney earnestly, "the longer I live, I find that every day I have something to be sorry for in myself. But God, you know, is good," she whispered softly.

Dick was silent.

"And then when papa goes," continued Mrs. Whitney, "why, then, my boy, it is very hard not to cry."

Here was something that the boy could grasp; and he seized it with avidity.

"And you stop crying for us," he cried; "I know now why you always put on your prettiest gown, and play games with us the evening after papa goes. I know now."

"Here are three letters," cried the parson, hurrying in, and tossing them over to the boy. "And Polly Pepper has written to me, too."

Dick screamed with delight. "Two for me; one from Ben, and one from Grandpapa!"

"And mine is from Phronsie," said Mrs. Whitney, seizing an epistle carefully printed in blue crayon.

But although there were three letters from home, none of them carried the news of what was going on there. None of them breathed a syllable that Cousin Eunice Chatterton was ill with a low fever, aggravated by nervous prostration; and that Mrs. Pepper and Polly were having a pretty hard time of it. On the contrary, every bit of news was of the cheeriest nature; Jasper tucked on a postscript to his father's letter, in which he gave the latest bulletin of his school life. And Polly did the same thing to Ben's letter. Even Phronsie went into a long detail concerning the new developments of a wonderful kitten she had left at home, to take her visit to Badgertown, so the two recipients never missed the lack of information in regard to the household life, from which they were shut out.

Only once Mrs. Whitney said thoughtfully, as she folded her letter and slipped it back into its envelope, "They don't speak of Mrs. Chatterton. I presume she has changed her plans, and is going to remain longer at her nephew's."

"I hope she'll live there always," declared Dick, looking up savagely from Ben's letter. "What an old guy she is, mamma!"

"Dick, Dick," said his mother reprovingly, "she is our guest, you know."

"Not if she is at her nephew's," said Dick triumphantly, turning back to his letter.

Polly at this identical minute was slowly ascending the stairs, a tray in one hand, the contents of which she was anxiously regarding on the way.

"I do hope it is right now," she said, and presently knocked at Mrs. Chatterton's door.

"Come in," said that lady's voice fretfully. And "Do close the door," before Polly and her tray were well within.

Polly shut the door gently, and approached the bedside.

"I am so faint I do not know that I can take any," said Mrs. Chatterton. Whether it was her white cashmere dressing-robe, and her delicate lace cap that made her face against the pillows seem wan and white, Polly did not know. But it struck her that she looked more ill than usual, and she said earnestly, "I am so sorry I wasn't quicker."

"There is no call for an apology from you," said Mrs. Chatterton coldly. "Set the tray down on the table, and get a basin of water; I need to be bathed."

Polly stood quite still, even forgetting to deposit the tray.

"Set the tray down, I told you," repeated Mrs. Chatterton sharply, "and then get the basin of water."

"I will call Hortense," said Polly quietly, placing the tray as desired.

"Hortense has gone to the apothecary's," said Mrs. Chatterton, "and I will not have one of the other maids; they are too insufferable."

And indeed Polly knew that it would be small use to summon one of them, as Martha, the most obliging, had airily tossed her head when asked to do some little service for the sick woman that very morning, declaring, "I will never lift another finger for that Madame Chatterton."

"My neck aches, and my side, and my head," said Mrs. Chatterton irritably; "why do you not do as I bid you?"

For one long instant, Polly hesitated; then she turned to rush from the room, a flood of angry, bitter feelings surging through her heart, more at the insufferable tone and manner, than at what she was bidden to do. Only turned; and she was back by the side of the bed, and looking down into the fretful, dictatorial old face.

"I will bathe you, Mrs. Chatterton," she said gently; "I'll bring the water in a minute."



XI

Poor Polly!


"You are very awkward, child," observed Mrs. Chatterton to Polly on her knees, "and abrupt. Move the sponge more slowly; there, that is better."

Polly shifted her position from one aching knee to another, set her lips closer together, and bent all her young energies to gentler effects. But Mrs. Chatterton cried out irritably:

"Have you never taken care of a sick person, pray tell, or is it all your back-country training that makes you so heavy-handed?"

"I helped mother take care of Phronsie when she had the measles, and Ben and Joel," said Polly, "five years ago; we haven't been sick lately."

"Humph!" ejaculated Mrs. Chatterton, not very elegantly. But what was the use of a fine manner when there was nobody but a little back-country maiden to see it?

"I shall have to endure it till Hortense returns," she said with a sigh; "besides, it is my duty to give you something useful to do in this house. You should be thankful that I allow you to bathe me."

Polly's eyes flashed, and the hand holding the sponge trembled. Nothing but the fear of troubling Mamsie, and dear old Mr. King whose forbearance was worn to the finest of threads, kept her at her post.

"Now get the violet water," said Mrs. Chatterton, with an air she would never have dared employ towards Hortense; "it is the bottle in the lower left-hand corner of the case."

Polly got up from her knees, and stiffly stumbled across the room to the case of silver-mounted toilet articles: in her tumult bringing away the upper right-hand corner vial.

"Stupide!" exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton among her pillows. "Go back, and do as I bid you, girl; the lower left-hand corner bottle!"

Without a word Polly returned, and bringing the right vial set about its use as directed, in a rapidly growing dismay at the evil feelings surging through her, warning her it would not be safe to stay in the room much longer.

"Do you understand," presently began Mrs. Chatterton, fastening her cold blue eyes upon her, "what your position is in this house? Everybody else appears to be blind and idiotic to the last degree; you seem to have a little quickness to catch an idea."

As Polly did not answer, the question was repeated very sharply: "Do you understand what your position is in this house?"

"Yes," said Polly, in a low voice, and dashing out the violet water with a reckless hand, "I do."

"Take care," impatiently cried Mrs. Chatterton. Then she pushed her pillow into a better position, and returned to the charge.

"What is it, pray, since you understand it so well?"

"I understand that I am here in this house," said Polly, quite cold and white, "because dear Mr. King wants me to be here."

"DEAR Mr. King!" echoed Mrs. Chatterton, in shrill disdain. "Stuff and nonsense," and she put her head back for an unpleasant cackle; it could hardly be called a laugh. "What an idiot the man is to have the wool pulled over his eyes in this fashion. I'll tell you, Polly" -- and she raised herself up on her elbow, the soft lace falling away from the white, and yet shapely arm. This member had been one of her strongest claims to beauty, and even in her rage, Mrs. Chatterton paused a second to glance complacently at it in its new position -- "you are, when all is said about your dear Mr. King, and your absurd assumption of equality with refined people who frequent this house, exactly the same underbred country girl as you were in your old brown house, goodness knows wherever that is."

"I'm glad I am," declared Polly. And she actually laughed merrily, while she squared her sturdy shoulders. Nothing could be sweeter than to hear it said she was worthy of the dear little old brown house, and didn't disgrace Mamsie's bringing up.

The laugh was the last feather that overthrew Mrs. Chatterton's restraint. She was actually furious now that she, widow of Algernon Chatterton, who was own cousin to Jasper Horatio King, should be faced by such presumption, and her words put aside with girlish amusement.

"And I'll tell you more," she went on, sitting quite erect now on the bed, "your mother thinks she is doing a fine thing to get all her family wormed in here in this style, but she'll" -- 

Polly Pepper, the girlish gladness gone from heart and face, waited for no more. "OUR MOTHER!" she cried stormily, unable to utter another word -- "oh -- oh!" Her breath came in quick, short gasps, the hot indignant blood mounting to the brown waves of hair on her brow, while she clasped her hands so tightly together, the pain at any other time would have made her scream.

Mrs. Chatterton, aghast at the effect of her words, leaned back once more against her pillows. "Don't try to work up a scene," she endeavored to say carelessly. But she might as well have remonstrated with the north wind. The little country maiden had a temper as well as her own, and all the more for its long restraint, now on breaking bounds, it rushed at the one who had provoked it, utterly regardless that it was the great Mrs. Algernon Chatterton.

For two minutes, so breathlessly did Polly hurl the stinging sentences at the figure on the bed, Cousin Eunice was obliged to let her have her own way. Then as suddenly, the torrent ceased. Polly grew quite white. "What have I done -- oh! what have I done?" she cried, and rushed out of the room.

"Polly -- Polly!" called Jasper's voice below. She knew he wanted her to try a new duet he had gone down town to purchase; but how could she play with such a storm in her heart? and, worse than all else, was the consciousness that she had spoken to one whose gray hairs should have made her forget the provocation received, words that now plunged her into a hot shame to recall.

She flew over the stairs -- up, away from every one's sight, to a long, dark lumber room, partially filled with trunks, and a few articles of furniture, prized as heirlooms, but no longer admissible in the family apartments. Polly closed the door behind her, and sank down in the shadow of a packing box half filled with old pictures, in a distress that would not even let her think. She covered her face with her hands, too angry with herself to cry; too aghast at the mischief she had done, to even remember the dreadful words Mrs. Chatterton had said to her.

"For of course, now she will complain to Mamsie, and I'm really afraid Mr. King will find it out; and it only needs a little thing to make him send her off. He said yesterday Dr. Valentine told him there was nothing really the matter with her -- and -- dear! I don't know what will happen."

To poor Polly, crouching there on the floor in the dim and dusty corner, it seemed as if her wretchedness held no hope. Turn whichever way she might, the dreadful words she had uttered rang through her heart. They could not be unsaid; they were never to be forgotten but must always stay and rankle there.

"Oh -- oh!" she moaned, clasping her knees with distressed little palms, and swaying back and forth, "why didn't I remember what Mamsie has always told us -- that no insult can do us harm if only we do not say or do anything in return. Why -- why couldn't I have remembered it?"

How long she stayed there she never knew. But at last, realizing that every moment there was only making matters worse, she dragged herself up from the little heap on the floor, and trying to put a bit of cheerfulness into a face she knew must frighten Mamsie, she went slowly out, and down the stairs.

But no one looked long enough at her face to notice its change of expression. Polly, the moment she turned towards the household life again, could feel that the air was charged with some intense excitement. Hortense met her on the lower stairs; the maid was startled out of her usual nonchalance, and was actually in a hurry.

"What is the matter?" cried Polly.

"Oh! the Madame is eel," said the maid; "the doctaire says it is not a lie dees time," and she swept past Polly.

Polly clung to the stair-railing, her face whitening, and her gaze fastened upon Mrs. Chatterton's door, where Hortense was now disappearing. Inside, was a sound of voices, and that subdued stir that gives token of a sick room.

"I have killed her!" cried Polly's heart. For one wild moment she was impelled to flight; anywhere, she did not care where, to shake off by motion in the free air this paralysis of fear. But the next she started and, rushing down the stairs and into Mr. King's room, cried out, "Oh! dear Grandpapa, will Mrs. Chatterton die?"

"No, no, I think not," replied the old gentleman, surprised at her feeling. "Cousin Eunice never did show much self-control; but then, I don't believe this piece of bad news will kill her."

"Bad news?" gasped Polly, hanging to the table where Mr. King was writing letters. "Oh, Grandpapa! what do you mean?"

"Bless me! where have you been, Polly Pepper," said Mr. King, settling his eyeglass to regard her closely, "not to hear the uproar in this house? Yes, Mrs. Chatterton received a telegram a half-hour since that her nephew, the only one that she was very fond of among her relatives, was drowned at sea, and she has been perfectly prostrated by it, till she really is quite ill."

Polly waited to hear no more, but on the wings of the wind, flew out and up the stairs once more.

"Where have you been, Polly?" cried Jasper, coming out of a side passage in time to catch a dissolving view of her flying figure. "Polly -- Polly!" and he took three steps to her one, and gained her side.

"Oh! don't stop me," begged Polly, flying on, "don't, Jasper."

He took a good look at her face. "Anything I can help you about?" he asked quickly.

She suddenly stopped, her foot on the stair above. "Oh, Jasper!" she cried, with clasped hands, "you don't know -- she may die, and I said horribly cruel things to her."

"Who -- Mrs. Chatterton?" said the boy, opening his dark eyes; "why, you couldn't have said cruel things to her, Polly. Don't be foolish, child." He spoke as he would to Phronsie's terror, and smiled into her face. But it did not reassure Polly.

"Jasper, you don't know; you can't guess what dreadful things I said," cried poor overwhelmed Polly, clasping her hands tightly together at the mere thought of the words she had uttered.

"Then she must have said dreadful things to you," said the boy.

"She -- but, oh, Jasper! that doesn't make it any better for me," said Polly. "Don't stop me; I am going to see if they won't let me do something for her."

"There are ever so many people up there now," said Jasper. "Your mother, and Hortense, and two or three maids. What in the world could you do, Polly? Come down into the library, and tell us all about it."

But Polly broke away from him with an "Oh! I must do something for her," speeding on until she softly worked her way into the sick room.

Mrs. Pepper was busy with the doctor in the further part of the room, and Polly stood quite still for a moment, wishing she were one of the maids, to whom a bit of active service was given. She could not longer endure her thoughts in silence, and gently going up to her mother's side, with a timorous glance at the bed, as she passed it, she begged, "Mamsie, can't I do something for her?"

Mrs. Pepper glanced up quickly. "No -- yes, you can; take this prescription down to Oakley's to be prepared."

Polly seized the bit of paper from Dr. Valentine's hand, and hurried out. Again she glanced fearfully at the bed, but the curtain on that side was drawn so that only the outline of the figure could be seen. She was soon out on the street, the movement through the fresh air bringing back a little color to her cheek and courage to her heart. Things did not seem quite so bad if she only might do something for the poor sick woman that could atone for the wretched work she had done; at least it would be some comfort if the invalid could be helped by her service.

Thus revolving everything in her mind, Polly did not hear her name called, nor rapid footsteps hurrying after.

"Wait!" at last cried a voice; "O, dear me! what is the matter, Polly?" Alexia Rhys drew herself up flushed and panting at Polly's side.

"I'm on the way to the apothecary's," said Polly, without looking around.

"So I should suppose," said Alexia; "O, dear! I'm so hot and tired. Do go a bit slower, Polly."

"I can't," said Polly. "She's very sick, and I must get this just as soon as I can." She waved the prescription at her, and redoubled her speed.

"Who?" gasped Alexia, stumbling after as best she could.

"Mrs. Chatterton," said Polly, a lump in her throat as she uttered the name.

"O, dear me! that old thing," cried Alexia, her enthusiasm over the errand gone.

"Hush!" said Polly hoarsely; "she may die. She has had bad news."

"What?" asked Alexia; the uncomfortable walk might be enlivened by a bit of stray gossip; "what is it, Polly? What news?"

"A telegram," said Polly. "Her favorite nephew was drowned at sea."

"Oh! I didn't know she had any favorite nephew. Doesn't she fight with everybody?"

"Do be quiet," begged Polly. "No; that is, perhaps, other people are not kind to her."

"Oh!" said Alexia, in a surprised voice. "Well, I think she's perfectly and all-through-and-through horrid, so! Don't race like this through the streets, Polly. You'll get there soon enough."

But Polly turned a deaf ear, and at last the prescription was handed over the counter at Oakley's, and after what seemed an endless time to Polly, the medicine was given to her.

"Now as soon as you carry that thing home," observed Alexia, glancing at the white parcel in Polly's hand, "I hope you'll come with us girls. That's what I ran after you for."

"What girls?" asked Polly.

"Why, Philena and the Cornwalls; we are going to have a sleighing party to-night, and a supper at Lilly Drexell's. Mrs. Cornwall chaperones the thing."

Polly was surprised to feel her heart bound. It hadn't seemed as if it could ever be moved by any news of girlish frolics, but that its dull ache must go on forever.

"Oh! I can't," she cried the next moment. "I must stay at home, and help take care of Mrs. Chatterton."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Alexia in a provoked tone; "you are not wanted there, Polly Pepper; the idea, with that great house full of servants."

"Well, I shall not go," declared Polly sharply; "you needn't ask me, Alexia. I shall stay home till she gets well."

"You little idiot!" cried Alexia, thoroughly out of temper. But as this produced no effect on Polly, she began to wheedle and coax. "Now, Polly, do be reasonable. You know we can't go without you; you wouldn't spoil the whole thing; you know you wouldn't. I shall just tell the Cornwalls that you are coming," and she turned off to the corner of the avenue.

"Indeed you will not," called Polly after her. "Don't you dare do that, Alexia Rhys," she said, with flashing eyes.

"You are the most uncomfortable girl I ever saw," cried Alexia, stopping, to come slowly back. "You spoil every bit of fun with your absurd notions. I'm quite, quite put out with you, Polly."

"I'm sorry," said poor Polly, fairly longing for the snow-revel, and dismayed at disappointing the girls.

"No, you're not," pouted Alexia, "and I shall tell them all so," and she broke away and ran off in the opposite direction.

Polly was met at the door by Mrs. Pepper, who grasped the packet of medicine quickly.

"Isn't there anything else I can do, Mamsie?" begged Polly.

"No; sit down and rest; you're hot and tired, you've run so."

"I'm not tired," said Polly, not daring to ask "Is she better?"

"Well, you must be," said Mrs. Pepper, hurrying off, "going all the way down to Oakley's."

So Polly had nothing to do but to sit out in the hall, and listen and watch all the movements in the sick room, every one of which but increased her terror. At least she could bear it no longer, and as Dr. Valentine came out, putting on his gloves, she rushed after him.

"Oh! will she die?" she begged; "please do tell me, sir?"

"Die? no indeed, I hope not," said Dr. Valentine. "She has had a severe shock to her nerves and her age is against her, but she is coming around all right, I trust. Why, Polly, I thought better things of you, my girl." He glanced down into the distressed face with professional disfavor.

"I'm so glad she won't die," breathed Polly, wholly lost to his opinion of her; and her face gleamed with something of her old brightness.

"I didn't know you were so fond of her," observed Dr. Valentine grimly; "indeed, to speak truthfully, I have yet to learn that anybody is fond of her, Polly."

"Now if you really want to help her," he continued thoughtfully, pulling his beard, as Polly did not answer, "I can give you one or two hints that might be of use."

"Oh! I do, I do," cried Polly with eagerness.

"It will be tiresome work," said Dr. Valentine, "but it will be a piece of real charity, and perhaps, Polly, it's as well for you to begin now as to wait till you can belong to forty charity clubs, and spend your time going to committee meetings." And he laughed not altogether pleasantly. How was Polly to know that Mrs. Valentine was immersed up to her ears in a philanthropic sea with the smallest possible thought for the doctor's home? "Now that maid," said the physician, dropping his tone to a confidential one, "is as well as the average, but she's not the one who is to amuse the old lady. It's that she needs more than medicine, Polly. She actually requires diversion."

Poor Polly stood as if turned to stone. Diversion! And she had thrown away all chance of that.

"She is suffering for the companionship of some bright young nature," Dr. Valentine proceeded, attributing the dismay written all over the girl's face to natural unwillingness to do the service. "After she gets over this attack she needs to be read to for one thing; to be told the news; to be made to forget herself. But of course, Polly," he said hastily, buttoning his top coat, and opening the outer door, "it's too much to ask of you; so think no more about it, child."



XII

New Work For Polly


It was Saturday morning, and Polly ran upstairs with a bright face, the morning Journal in her hand. "I'm going to stay with Mrs. Chatterton, Hortense," she announced to that functionary in the dressing-room.

"And a comfairte may it gif to you," said Hortense, with a vicious shake of the silk wrapper in her hand, before hanging it in its place. "Madame has the tres diablerie, cross as de two steeks, what you call it, dis morning."

Polly went softly into the room, closing the door gently after her. In the shadow of one corner of the large apartment, sat Mrs. Chatterton under many wrappings in the depths of an invalid's chair. Polly went up to her side.

"Would you like to have me read the news, Mrs. Chatterton?" she asked gently.

Mrs. Chatterton turned her head and looked at her. "No," she was about to say shortly, just as she had repulsed many little offers of Polly's for the past few days; but somehow this morning the crackling of the fresh sheet in the girl's hand, suggestive of crisp bits of gossip, was too much for her to hear indifferently, especially as she was in a worse state of mind than usual over Hortense and her bad temper.

"You may sit down and read a little, if you like," she said ungraciously. So Polly, happy as a queen at the permission, slipped into a convenient chair, and began at once. She happened fortunately on just the right things for the hungry ears; a description of a large church wedding, the day before; two or three bits about society people that Mrs. Chatterton had lost sight of, and a few other items just as acceptable.

Polly read on and on, from one thing to another, not daring to look up to see the effect, until at last everything in the way of gossip was exhausted.

"Is that all?" asked Mrs. Chatterton hungrily.

Polly, hunting the columns for anything, even a murder account if it was but in high life, turned the paper again disconsolately, obliged to confess it was.

"Well, do put it by, then," said Mrs. Chatterton sharply, "and not whirl it before my face; it gives me a frightful headache."

"I might get the Town Talk" suggested Polly, as a bright thought struck her. "It came yesterday. I saw it on the library table."

"So it is Saturday." Mrs. Chatterton looked up quickly. "Yes, you may, Polly," her mouth watering for the revel she would have in its contents.

So Polly ran over the stairs with delighted feet, and into the library, beginning to rummage over the papers and magazines on the reading table.

"Where is it?" she exclaimed, turning them with quick fingers. "O dear! it was right here last evening."

"What is it?" asked Phronsie, from the depths of a big arm-chair, and looking up from her book. Then she saw as soon as she had asked the question that Polly was in trouble, so she laid down her book, and slid out of the chair. "What is it, Polly? Let me help you, do."

"Why, the Town Talk -- that hateful old society thing," said Polly, throwing the papers to right and left. "You know, Phronsie; it has a picture of a bottle of ink, and a big quill for a heading. O dear! do help me, child, for she will get nervous if I am gone long."

"Oh! I know where that is," said Phronsie deliberately, laying a cool little hand on Polly's hot one.

"Where?" demanded Polly feverishly. "Oh, Phronsie! where?"

"Jack Rutherford has it."

Polly threw down the papers, and started for the door.

"He has gone," said Phronsie; "he went home almost an hour ago."

Polly turned sharply at her. "What did he want Town Talk for?"

"He said it was big, and he asked Grandpapa if he might have it, and Grandpapa said, Yes. I don't know what he wanted it for," said Phronsie. "And he took other newspapers, too, Polly; oh! ever so many."

"Well, I don't care how many he took, nor what they were," cried Polly, "only that very identical one. O dear me! Well, I'll ask Jasper."

And rushing from the library, Phronsie following in a small panic over Polly's distress, she knocked at the door of Jasper's den, a little room in the wing, looking out on the east lawn.

"Oh! I am so glad you are here," she exclaimed as "Come in!" greeted her, and both Phronsie and she precipitated themselves with no show of ceremony, in front of his study table. "O Jasper! could you get me a copy of "Town Talk?" Jack Rutherford has gone off with ours."

"Town Talk!" repeated Jasper, raising his head from his hands to stare at her.

"Yes; Jack has taken ours off; Grandpapa gave it to him. Can you, Jasper? Will it break up your study much?" she poured out anxiously.

"No -- that is -- never mind," said Jasper, pushing the book away and springing from his chair. "But whatever in the world do you want that trash for?" He turned, and looked at her curiously.

"Mrs. Chatterton will let me read it to her; she said so," cried Polly, clasping her hands nervously, "but if I don't get the paper soon, why, I'm afraid she'll change her mind."

Jasper gave a low whistle as he flung himself into his coat. "Inestimable privilege!" he exclaimed at last, tossing on his cap.

"Oh, Jasper! you are so good," cried Polly in a small rapture. "I'm so sorry to have to ask you."

"I'll go for you, Jasper," declared Phronsie; "Mamsie will let me; I almost know she will."

"No, no, Phronsie," said Jasper, as she was flying off; "it isn't any place for you to go to. I shall get one at the hotel -- the Allibone. I'll be back in a trice, Polly."

Polly went out, and sat down in one of the big oaken chairs in the hall to seize it as it came, and Phronsie deposited herself in an opposite chair, and watched Polly. And presently in came Jasper, waving the desired journal. Polly, with a beaming face, grasped it and rushed off upstairs.

"Polly," called the boy, looking after her, "it isn't too late now for you to go with them. Lucy Bennett met me at the corner and she said they will take the twelve o'clock train, instead of the eleven, and she wanted me to beg you to come."

"No, no," tossed back Polly, rushing on, "I am quite determined to stay at home." Then she went into Mrs. Chatterton's room, and closed the door. But she couldn't so easily shut out the longings that would rise in her heart for the Saturday outing that the other girls were to have. How lovely it would be! the run out to Silvia Horne's charming house some ten miles distant; the elegant luncheon they would have, followed by games, and a dance in the ball-room upstairs, that Silvia's older sisters used for their beautiful parties. Then the merry return before dusk, of the twelve girls, all capital friends at school! Oh -- oh!

"You've been an unconscionable time," exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton in a sharp, high key, "just to get a paper. Well, do sit down; I am quite tired waiting for you."

Polly sat down, and resolutely plunged into the column where the news items promised the most plentiful yield but in between the lines ran the doings of the girls: how they were all assembling by this time at Lucy Bennett's; how they were hurrying off to the train, and all the other delightful movements of the "outing" flashed before her eyes, as she finished item after item of her dreary task. But how Mrs. Chatterton gloated over it!

At last Polly, feeling as if she could not endure another five minutes of it, glanced up to see the old lady's eyes actually sparkling; her mouth had fallen into contented curves, and the jeweled hand resting on the chair-arm was playing with the fringe, while she leaned forward that she might not lose a word.

"Read that again, Polly," she said, "the list of presents exhibited at Arabella Granger's wedding. I didn't hear any mention of the Archibalds. It can't be that they have fallen out; and read more slowly."

So Polly began once more the long lists of gifts that ushered in the matrimonial happiness of Mrs. John Westover nee Miss Arabella Granger; this time, however, stimulated by the pleasure she was giving, to find it an endurable task.

It seemed to Polly as if Mrs. John Westover had everything on earth given to her that could possibly be presented at a wedding; nevertheless the list was gone through again bravely, Polly retracing her steps two or three times to read the items over for her listener's slow digestion.

"The Archibalds are not mentioned, either as being there or sending a gift, nor the Harlands, nor the Smythes, so I am very glad I didn't remember her," said Mrs. Chatterton, drawing herself up with a relieved sigh. "Those presents sound fine on paper, but it isn't as well as she might have done if she had made a different match. Now something else, Polly," and she dismissed Mrs. Westover with a careless wave of her hand. Polly flew off into the fashion hints, and was immediately lost in the whirl of coming toilets. No one noticed when the door opened, so of course no one saw Mrs. Whitney standing smiling behind the old lady's big chair.

"Well, Polly," said a pleasant voice suddenly.

Down went Town Talk to the floor as Polly sprang up with a glad cry, and Mrs. Chatterton turned around nervously.

"Oh, Auntie -- Auntie!" cried Polly, convulsively clinging to her, "are you really here, and is Dicky home?"

"Dear child," said Mrs. Whitney, as much a girl for the moment as Polly herself. And pressing kisses on the red lips, while she folded her close -- "Yes, Dick is at home. There, go and find him; he is in Mrs. Pepper's room."

"I am glad to see you so much better, Mrs. Chatterton," said Mrs. Whitney, leaning over the invalid's chair to lay the tenderest of palms on the hand resting on the chair-arm.

"Oh, yes, Marian; I am better," said Mrs. Chatterton, looking around for Polly, then down at the delicious Town Talk carelessly thrown on the floor. "Will you send her back as soon as possible?" she asked with her old imperativeness.

"Who -- Polly?" said Mrs. Whitney, following the glance. "Why, she has gone to see Dick, you know. Now, why cannot I read a bit?" and she picked up the paper.

"You don't know what has been read," said Mrs. Chatterton as Mrs. Whitney drew up a chair and sat down, running her eye in a practiced way over the front page. "Dear me, it makes me quite nervous, Marian, to see you prowling around all over the sheet that way."

"Oh! I shall find something interesting quite soon, I fancy," said Mrs. Whitney cheerfully, her heart on her boy and the jolly home-coming he was having. "Here is the Washington news; I mean all about the receptions and teas."

"She has read that," said Mrs. Chatterton.

"Now for the fashion department." Mrs. Whitney whirled the paper over dexterously. "Do you know, Mrs. Chatterton, gray stuffs are to be worn more than ever this spring?"

"I don't care about that," said Mrs. Chatterton quickly, "and besides, quite likely there'll be a complete revolution before spring really sets in, and gray stuffs will go out. Find some description of tea gowns, can't you? I must have one or two more."

"And here are some wonderfully pretty caps, if they are all like the descriptions," said Mrs. Whitney, unluckily dropping on another paragraph.

"Caps! who wants to hear about them?" cried Mrs. Chatterton in a dudgeon. "I hope I'm not at the cap period yet."

"Oh! those lovely little lace arrangements," said Mrs. Whitney hastily; "don't you know how exquisite they are at Pinaud's?" she cried.

"I'm sure I never noticed," said Mrs. Chatterton indifferently. "Hortense always arranges my hair better without lace. If you can't find what I ask you, Marian," raising her voice to a higher key, "you needn't trouble to read at all."

Fortunately the description of the gown worn by Lady Hartly Cavendish at a London high tea, stood out in bold relief, as Mrs. Whitney's eyes nervously ran over the columns again, and she seized upon it.

But in just two moments she was interrupted. "Send that girl back again, Marian," cried Mrs. Chatterton. "I had just got her trained so that she suits me. It tires me to death to hear you."

"I do not know whether Polly can come now," said Mrs. Whitney gently; "she" -- 

"Do not know whether Polly can come!" repeated Mrs. Chatterton sharply, and leaning forward in her chair. "Didn't I say I wanted her?"

"You did." Marian's tone did not lose a note of its ordinary gentleness. "But I shall ask her if she is willing to do it as a favor, Mrs. Chatterton; you quite understand that, of course?" She, too, leaned forward in her chair, and gazed into the cold, hard face.

"Just like your father," cried Mrs. Chatterton, settling herself irascibly back in the chair-depths again. "There is no hope that affairs in this house will mend. I wash my hands of you."

"I am so glad that you consider me like my father," said Mrs. Whitney gleefully as a child. "We surely are united on this question."

"May I read some more?" cried Polly, coming in softly, and trying to calm the impetuous rush of delight as her eyes met Mrs. Whitney's.

"Yes; I am waiting for you," said Mrs. Chatterton. "Begin where you left off."

Mrs. Whitney bit her pretty lips and slipped out of her chair, just pausing a moment to lay her hand on the young shoulder as she passed, and a world of comfort fell upon Polly, shut in once more to her dreary task.

"How perfectly splendid that I didn't go to Silvia Home's luncheon party now!" cried Polly's heart over and over between the lines. "If I had, I should have missed dear Auntie's home-coming, and Dicky's." She glanced up with luminous eyes as she whirled the sheet. Mrs. Chatterton, astonishing as it may seem, was actually smiling.

"It's some comfort to hear you read," she observed with a sigh of enjoyment, "because you enjoy it yourself. I wouldn't give a fig for anybody to try to do it."

Polly felt like a guilty little thing to take this quietly, and she eased her conscience by being more glad that she was in that very room doing that very task. And so the moments sped on.

Outside, Dick was holding high revel as every one revolved around him, the hero of the coasting accident, till the boy ran considerable danger from all the attention he was receiving. But one glance and a smile from Mrs. Whitney brought him back to himself.

"Don't talk any more about it," he cried a trifle impatiently. "I was a muff to stick on, when I knew we were going over. Mamma, won't you stop them?"

And she did.

"Do you know, Dicky and I have a secret to tell all of you good people." The color flew into her soft cheek, and her eyes beamed.

"Really, Marian," said her father, whose hand had scarcely ceased patting Dick's brown head since the boy's home-coming, "you've grown young in Badgertown. I never saw you look so well as you do to-day."

Mrs. Whitney laughed and tossed him a gay little smile, that carried him back to the days when Marian King stood before him looking just so.

"Now listen, father, and all you good people, to my secret -- Dicky's and mine; we are allowed to tell it now. Papa Whitney sailed in the Servia, and he ought to be in to-day!"

A shout of joy greeted her announcement. Polly, off in her prison, could hear the merry sounds, and her happy heart echoed them. The misery of the past week, when she had been bearing an unatoned fault, seemed to drop away from her as she listened, and to say, "Life holds sunshine yet."

Then a hush dropped upon the gay uproar. She did not know that Dicky was proclaiming "Yes, and he is never, never going back again. That is, unless he takes mamma and me, you know."

Mrs. Chatterton turned suddenly upon the young figure.

"Do go!" She tossed an imperative command with her jeweled fingers. "You have ceased to be amusing since your interest is all in the other room with that boy."

Polly dashed the newspaper to the floor, and rushing impulsively across the room, threw herself, with no thought for the consequences, on her knees at Mrs. Chatterton's chair.

"Oh -- oh!" she cried, the color flying up to the brown waves on her temples, "don't send me off; then I shall know you never will forgive me."

"Get up, do!" exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton, in disgust; "you are crushing my gown, and besides I hate scenes."

But Polly held resolutely to the chair-arm, and never took her brown eyes from the cold face.

"I must say, Polly Pepper," cried Mrs. Chatterton with rising anger, "you are the most disagreeable girl that I ever had the misfortune to meet. I, for one, will not put up with your constant ebullitions of temper. Go out of this room!"

Polly rose slowly and drew herself up with something so new in face and manner that the old lady instinctively put up her eyeglass and gazed curiously through it, as one would look at a strange animal.

"Humph!" she said slowly at last, "well, what do you want to say? Speak out, and then go."

"Nothing," said Polly in a low voice, but quite distinctly, "only I shall not trouble you again, Mrs. Chatterton." And as the last words were spoken, she was out of the room.

"Pretty doings these!" Mr. King, by a dexterous movement, succeeded in slipping back of the portiere folds into the little writing-room, as Polly rushed out through the other doorway into the hall. "A fortunate thing it was that I left Dick, to see what had become of Polly. Now, Cousin Eunice, you move from my house!" and descending the stairs, he called determinedly, "Polly, Polly, child!"

Polly, off in her own room now, heard him, and for the first time in her life, wished she need not answer.

"Polly -- Polly!" the determined call rang down the passage, causing her to run fast with a "Yes, Grandpapa, I'm coming."

"Now, I should just like to inquire," began Mr. King, taking her by her two young shoulders and looking down into the flushed face, "what she has been saying to you." "Oh, Grandpapa!" down went Polly's brown head, "don't make me tell. Please don't, Grandpapa."

"I shall!" declared Mr. King; "every blessed word. Now begin!"

"She -- she wanted me to go out of the room," said Polly, in a reluctant gasp.

"Indeed!" snorted Mr. King. "Well, she will soon go out of that room. Indeed, I might say, out of the house."

"Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Polly, in great distress, and raising the brown eyes -- he was dismayed to find them filling with tears -- "don't, don't send her away! It is all my fault; indeed it is, Grandpapa!"

"Your fault," cried Mr. King irately; "you must not say such things, child; that's silly; you don't know the woman."

"Grandpapa," cried Polly, holding back the storm of tears to get the words out, "I never told you -- I couldn't -- but I said perfectly dreadful words to her a week ago. Oh, Grandpapa! I did, truly."

"That's right," said the old gentleman in a pleased tone. "What were they, pray tell? Let us know."

"Oh, Grandpapa, don't!" begged Polly, with a shiver; "I want to forget them."

"If you would only follow them up with more," said Mr. King meditatively; "when it comes to tears, she must march, you know."

"I won't cry," said Polly, swallowing the lump in her throat, "if you will only let her stay."

She turned to him such a distressed and white face that Mr. King stood perplexedly looking down at her, having nothing to say.

"I'm tired of her," at last he said; "we are all tired of her; she has about worn us out."

"Grandpapa," cried Polly, seeing her advantage in his hesitation, "if you will only let her stay, I will never beg you for anything again."

"Well, then she goes," cried Mr. King shortly. "Goodness me, Polly, if you are going to stop asking favors, Cousin Eunice marches instanter!"

"Oh! I'll beg and tease for ever so many things," cried Polly radiantly, her color coming back. "Will you let her stay, Grandpapa -- will you?" She clasped his arm tightly and would not let him go.

"Well," said Mr. King slowly, "I'll think about it, Polly."

"Will you?" cried Polly. "Dear Grandpapa, please say yes."

Mr. King drew a long breath. "Yes," he said at last.



XIII

A Piece Of News


"Collect the whole bunch of Peppers and send them into my writing-room, Marian." Old Mr. King mounting the stairs, turned to see that his command was heard.

"You want Mother Pepper too, I presume?" said Mrs. Whitney, pausing at the foot.

"Mother Pepper? No, indeed; the last person in the world I wish to see," cried her father irritably. "The bunch of Pepper children, I want, and at once; see that they all report to me directly." With that he redoubled his efforts and was soon at the top of the long oaken steps.

Polly and Ben closely followed by Joel, David and Phronsie soon rushed over the same ascending thoroughfare, and presented themselves, flushed and panting, at the writing-room door.

"Come in," called Mr. King from within.

"Here we are, sir," said Ben, spokesman by virtue of being the eldest.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. King nervously, and turning away from some papers he was fumbling to occupy the waiting moments. "Well, do sit down, all of you. I sent for you to have a talk about something that you -- that you -- well, do sit down."

So all the Peppers deposited themselves in various resting-places; all but Joel. He immediately marched up to the old gentleman's chair.

"If it's good news," he said abruptly, "please let us have it right this minute. But if it's bad, why," a gathering alarm stole over his chubby countenance, as he scanned the face before him, "I'm going out-doors."

"It's good or bad news according as you take it," said the old gentleman. "It ought to be good. But there," pushing back his chair to look at the row of anxious figures the other side of the table, "do sit down with the rest, Joe, and stop staring me out of countenance."

Polly at that, pushed a chair over toward Joel, who persuading himself into it, sat uncomfortably perched on its edge, where he stared harder than ever.

"Hum! well, children, now you are all remarkably sensible boys and girls. Remarkably sensible. I've always said so, and I see no reason to change my opinion of you now. And so, although at first my news may not be quite to your liking, why, you'll quickly make it so, and be very happy about it in the end. Hem! well, did you ever think that -- that your mother might possibly marry again?"

The last words were brought out so abruptly, that to the five pairs of ears strained to catch their import, it seemed as if the news had shot by harmlessly. But after a breathing space the dreadful "marry," and "your mother," came back to them, bringing the several owners of the ears out of their chairs at one bound.

"Our mother!" Ben hoarsely exclaimed.

"Oh! how can you?" cried Polly passionately, a little white line showing around her mouth, "say such perfectly dreadful things, sir!"

Phronsie clasped her hands in silent terror, and raised big eyes to his face. David began to walk helplessly down the apartment. "See here!" said Joel, turning to the others, "wait a minute, and hold on. Perhaps it's you, sir," whirling back to question, with piercing eyes, the old gentleman, "who's going to marry our mother. Then it's all right!"

"Me!" roared the old gentleman. "Oh! bless my soul, what should I want to marry for at my time of life? Oh! my goodness me."

His distress was now so frightful to see, that it brought the Peppers in a measure out of theirs; and they began at once to endeavor to soothe him.

"Don't -- oh! don't," they cried, and a common trouble overwhelming them, they rushed around the table, seized his hands, and patted his shoulders and hair. "Oh! this is very dreadful," gasped Polly, "but don't you feel badly, dear, dear Grandpapa."

"I should think it was," said Mr. King. "Phronsie, here, child, get into my lap. I'll come to myself then. There, now, that's something like," as Phronsie, with a low cry, hopped into her usual nest. "Now perhaps I can communicate the rest of my news, when I get my breath."

The Peppers held theirs, and he began once more. "Now, children, it isn't in the course of nature for such a fine bright woman as your mother to remain single the rest of her life; somebody would be sure to come and carry her off. I'm glad it's to be in my lifetime, for now I can be easy in my mind, and feel that you have a protector when I am gone. There, there, we won't talk about that," as the young faces turned dark with sudden pain, while Joel rushed convulsively to the window, "you can see how I feel about it."

"Are you glad?" cried Ben hoarsely. Polly for her life could not speak. The whole world seemed turning round, and sinking beneath her feet.

"Yes, I am," said the old gentleman, "and it won't alter the existing state of things, for he will live here with us, and things will be just the same, if only you children will take it rightly. But I've no doubt you will in the end; no doubt at all," he added, brightening up, "for you are very sensible young people. I've always said so."

"Who is he?" The dreadful question trembled on all the lips; but no one asked it. Seeing this, Mr. King broke out, "Well, now of course you want to know who is going to marry your mother, that is, if you are willing. For she won't have him unless you are to be happy about it. Would you like Dr. Fisher for a father?"

Joel broke away from the window with a howl, while Polly tumultuously threw herself within the kind arms encircling Phronsie.

"Next to you," cried the boy, "why, he's a brick, Dr. Fisher is!"

"Why didn't you tell us before that it was he?" sobbed Polly, with joyful tears running over her face. Davie, coming out of his gloomy walk, turned a happy face towards the old man's chair, while Ben said something to himself that sounded like "Thank God!"

Phronsie alone remained unmoved. "What is Dr. Fisher going to do?" she asked presently, amid the chatter that now broke forth.

"He's going to live here," said old Mr. King, looking down at her, and smoothing her yellow hair. "Won't that be nice, Phronsie?"

"Yes," said Phronsie, "it will. And he'll bring his funny old gig, won't he, and Ill drive sometimes, I suppose?" she added with great satisfaction.

"Yes; you will," said the old gentleman, winking furiously to keep back the excited flow of information that now threatened the child. "Well, Phronsie, you love Dr. Fisher, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," said the child, folding her hands in her lap, "love him very much indeed."

"Well, he's going to be your father," communicated Mr. King, cautiously watching her face at each syllable.

"Oh, no!" cried Phronsie, "he couldn't be; he's Dr. Fisher." She laughed softly at the idea. "Why, Grandpapa, he couldn't be my father."

"Listen, Phronsie," and Mr. King took both her hands in his, "and I'll tell you about it so that you will understand. Dr. Fisher loves your mother; he has loved her for many years -- all those years when she was struggling on in the little brown house. But he couldn't tell her so, because he had others depending on him for support. They don't need him now, and as soon as he is free, he comes and tells your mother and me, like a noble good man as he is, all about it. He's a gentleman, children," he declared, turning to the others, "and you will be glad to call him father."

"I don't know what you mean," said Phronsie, with puzzled eyes. "Dear Grandpapa, please tell me."

"Why, he is going to marry your mother, child, and we are all to live here together just the same, and everything is going to be just as happy as possible."

Phronsie gave a sharp and sudden cry of distress. "But Mamsie, my Mamsie will be gone!" and then she hid her face in the old gentleman's breast.

"O dear, dear! get a glass of water, Polly," cried Mr. King. "One of you run and open the window. Phronsie, Phronsie -- there, child, look up and let me tell you." But Phronsie burrowed yet deeper in the protecting nest, regardless of his spotless linen.

"Polly, speak to her," he cried in despair; "where is she? gone for the water? O dear! Here, Ben, you try. Dear, dear, what a blunderer I am."

"Phronsie," said Ben, leaning over the shaking figure, "you are making Grandpapa sick."

Up came Phronsie's yellow head. "Oh, Grandpapa!" she wailed, putting out an unsteady little hand, "I didn't mean to, dear Grandpapa, only -- only Mamsie will be gone now."

"Bless your heart, you'll have Mamsie more than ever," cried Mr. King heartily. "Here, you children, tell her. Polly, we don't want the water now, she's come to," as Polly came rushing in with a glassful. "Make her understand; I can't."

So Polly, setting down her glass, the others crowding around, took up the task of making the piece of news as delightful as possible, and presently Phronsie came out of her despair, to ask questions.

"Are you really and truly very glad, Polly?" she asked.

"Really and truly I am so glad I don't know what to do," said Polly, kneeling down by the chair-side. "Don't you see we are so much the richer, Phronsie? We have lost nothing, and we gain Dr. Fisher. Dear splendid Dr. Fisher!"

"You've always wanted to repay Dr. Fisher for his kindness," said Mr. King, "and now's your chance, Polly."

"I guess he'll get his pay back for his stove," cried Joel in a burst; "Polly will wait on him, and kill herself doing things for him."

"And for your new eyes," sang Phronsie in a pleased way. "Oh, Polly!" She jumped out of the old gentleman's lap, and began to dance around the room, softly clapping her hands and exclaiming, "Oh, Polly!"

"Well, now, children," said Mr. King, as the excitement ran low, "you just run and tell your mother, every one of you, how happy she will make you by bringing Dr. Fisher here as your father. Scamper, now!"

No need to urge them. On the wings of the wind ran the five Peppers up into Mamsie's own room. Mrs. Pepper for once turning aside from the claim of her pressing duties, was standing by the work table. Here stood the mending basket before her, piled to the brim with the weekly installment of stockings big and little, clamoring for attention. But the usually busy needle lay idle, and the busier hands were folded, as the mother-heart went over the words she knew were being rehearsed downstairs by the kind friend who had made a home for them. He was pleading her cause with her children.

"They shall be happy, anyway," she said softly to herself, "bless their hearts!" as they burst in.

"Mother," said Ben -- How the boy's cheek glowed! And what a world of joy rang in the usually quiet tones! -- "we want to thank you for giving us Dr. Fisher for a father."

"Mamsie," Polly hid her happy face on the dear neck, "I've always loved him, you know; oh! I'm so glad."

Joel whooped out something incoherent, but his face told the words, while Davie clasped one of the firm, closely folded hands.

"If you'll take me in your lap as much as ever," said Phronsie deliberately, and patting the other hand, "why I shall be really and truly glad, Mamsie."

"Bless your dear heart!" cried Mother Pepper, clasping her tightly, "and you children, all of you," and she drew them all within her arms. "Now I want you to understand, once for all, that it isn't to be unless you all wish it. You are sure Mr. King hasn't persuaded you to like it?"

"Look at us," cried Ben, throwing back his head to see her eyes. "Do we act as if we had been talked over?"

At that, Polly burst into a merry laugh; and the others joining, Mother Pepper laughing as heartily as the rest, the big room became the jolliest place imaginable.

"No, I don't really think you do," said Mrs. Pepper, wiping her eyes.

"Dear me!" cried Jasper, putting his head in the doorway, "what good fun is going on? I'm not going to be left out."

"Come in, Jasper," they all called.

"And we've a piece of news that will make your hair stand on end," said Joel gaily.

"Joe, don't announce it so," cried Polly in dismay, who dearly enjoyed being elegant. "Ben must tell it; he is the oldest."

"No, no; let Polly," protested Ben.

"Polly shall," said Jasper, hurrying in to stand the picture of patience before the group. "Hurry, do, for I must say my curiosity is hard to keep within bounds."

So Polly was gently pushed into the center of the circle. "Go on," said Joel, "and hurry up, or I shall tell myself."

"Jasper," said Polly, her breath coming fast, "oh! you can't think; we are so glad" -- But she got no further, for Phronsie, rushing out of Mother Pepper's arms, piped out suddenly:

"Dr. Fisher is coming here to live always and forever, and I'm going to ride in his gig, and Mamsie likes him, and I'm going to call him father; now, Jasper, I told you!"

"I should think you did," exclaimed Ben.

"Whew!" cried Jasper, "that is a piece of news all in one breath. Well, Mrs. Pepper, I'm glad of it, too. I congratulate you." With that, he marched up to her, Phronsie hanging to his arm, and shook her hand heartily.

And in two days everybody in the King set knew that the mother of the five little Peppers was going to be married.

"I should think you'd want to be condoled with, Ben," said Pickering Dodge, clapping him on the shoulder as he rushed down the aisle of the store occupied by Cabot & Van Meter.

"Halloo!" said Ben, "can't stop," rushing past.

"I suppose not," said Pickering carelessly, and striding after, "so I'll whisper my gentle congratulations in your ear 'on the wing.' But I'm awfully sorry for you, Ben," he added, as he came up to him.

"You needn't be," said Ben brightly, "we are all as glad as can be."

"Sweet innocent, you don't know a stepfather," said Pickering lugubriously.

"I know Dr. Fisher," said Ben, "that's enough."

"Well, when you want comfort, come to me," said Pickering, "or your uncle!"

"Don't you fill Ben's ears with your foolishness," said the Senior Partner, coming out of the counting-room. "Take yourself off, Pickering; you're hindering Ben."

Pickering laughed. "I'm caught in the very act. Now, Ben, remember I'm your friend when you get into trouble with your dear pa. Good-by, Uncle," with a bright nod, and a lazy shake of his long figure. "Trade always demoralizes me. I'll get back to my books," and he vanished as quickly as he came.

"Back to your books," said his uncle grimly, "hum, I wish you would. See here, Ben," he put a controlling hand on the boy's shoulder, "one word with you," marching him into the private office of the firm. "Don't you follow Pickering too closely, my boy," he said abruptly; "he's a good lad in the main, but if he is my nephew, I must give you warning. He's losing ground."

Ben lifted his head in sudden alarm. "Oh! I hope not, sir," he said.

"It's a fact. Master Nelson says he could be first scholar in the grammar, but for the last six months he's failed steadily. There's no particular reason, only ambition's gone. And when you say that, you mean there's a general collapse of all my hopes concerning him."

"Oh! no, sir," Ben kept on protesting, his ruddy cheek losing its color. "He'll take hold by and by and give a pull at his books again."

"It isn't a pull now and then that gets a man up hill," observed Mr. Cabot, leaning back in his revolving chair to look into the blue eyes, "that you know as well as I. Now, Ben, I'm not going to see you throw away your prospects, too. Don't let him influence you in the wrong way. He's bright and attractive, but don't pay attention to his ridicule of good things."

"I've a mother," said Ben proudly, "and I don't believe any boy could say much to me, that I'd think of twice, if she didn't like it."

"You always tell her everything, do you, Ben?" asked Mr. Cabot with a curious glance.

"I should think so, sir," said Ben, with a short laugh.

"You'll do, then," said Mr. Cabot, bringing his palm down on a pile of unread letters awaiting him. "Go ahead. I don't promise anything, but I will say this. If you work on as you have done these two years since you came in here as errand boy, Ben, I'll make you a power in the house. Understand I don't expect you to do brilliant things; that isn't in your line. You will be a success only as a steady, faithful worker. But keep at it, and hang on to Cabot & Van Meter, and we'll hang on to you."



XIV

Mamsie's Wedding


"Polly," said Dr. Fisher, coming suddenly out of a corner of the library as she ran around the portiere folds, "you are sure you are willing -- are willing it should go on?"

The little man peered at her anxiously through his big glasses, and he looked so exactly as he did on that morning so long ago when Polly's eyes were at their worst, that she could do nothing but gaze speechlessly into his face.

"I see you don't consider it quite best, child," said the little doctor brokenly, "but you are trying with your good heart, to make it so. Don't be afraid; it is not too late to end it all."

"I was thinking," cried Polly with a gasp, "how good you were to me, when you saved my eyes, and how you kept Joel from dying of the measles. Oh! I couldn't speak -- but I love you so."

She threw her young arms around him. "Papa Fisher -- for you are almost my father now -- I am the very, very happiest girl because you are going to live here, and now I can show you just how much I really and truly love you."

The little man beamed at her. Then he took off his spectacles, wiped them, and clapped them into place again. "You see, Polly," he said deliberately, "it was impossible to see your mother and not love her. She has had -- well, there, child, I cannot bear to talk about it," and he walked to the window, blew his nose violently on an immense pocket-handkerchief, leaving the words poised in mid-air.

"It was the greatest trial of my life that I couldn't show her then when she was struggling so bravely to keep the wolf from the door, how I felt. But my hands were tied, child," he added, coming back, his usual self again. "Now I can make her, she says, happy, that is, if you children like it. Just think, Polly, she said happy! It's stupendous, but she said so, Polly, she really did!"

He folded his hands and looked at her in astonishment, behind which shone an intense gratification, that lighted up his plain little face till he seemed to grow younger every instant.

"Indeed she did!" repeated Polly like a bird, and laughing merrily. "Oh, Papa Fisher! you ought to hear Mamsie sing. She doesn't know I'm hearing her, but she sings at her work now."

"Does she?" cried the doctor radiantly. "Well, Polly, we must see that she sings every day, after this."

"Yes, let us," cried Polly, clasping his hand; "we will."

"And," proceeded the doctor, "after the wedding is over -- I It really dread the wedding, Polly -- but after that is over, I do believe we shall all be comfortable together!"

Polly gave a little cry of delight. Then she said, "You needn't dread the wedding one bit, Papa Fisher. There will be only the people that we love, and who love us -- Grandpapa promised that."

"But that will make it very big," said Dr. Fisher, with round eyes and a small shiver he could not suppress.

"Oh, no!" said Polly cheerily, "sixty-five friends; that's all we are going to ask; Mamsie and I made out the list last night."

"Sixty-five people!" exclaimed Dr. Fisher in dismay. "Oh! isn't is possible to be married without sixty-five friends to stare at you?"

"Oh! that's not many," said Polly; "sixty-five is the very smallest number that we could manage. We've been over the list ever so many times, and struck out quantities of names. You see, everybody loves Mamsie, and they'll want to see her married."

"I know -- I know," assented the doctor, "but that makes one hundred and thirty eyes. Did you ever think of that, Polly?"

Polly burst into such a laugh that Jasper popped in, and after him, Phronsie, and a general hilarity now reigning, the dreaded wedding preparations soon sank away from the doctor's perturbed vision.

But they went on merrily nevertheless. All over the old stone mansion there were hints of the on-coming festivities; and though all signs of it were tucked away from the little doctor on his occasional visits, the smothered excitement flamed afresh immediately his departure became an assured thing. Everybody had the wildest plans for the occasion; it appearing impossible to do enough for the one who had stood at the helm for five long years, and who was to be reigning housekeeper for as much longer as her services were needed.

And Dr. Fisher never knew how perilously near he had been to the verge of brilliant evening festivities, in the midst of which he was to be ushered into matrimony.

For Polly had suddenly waked one morning, to find herself, not "famous," but alive with the sense of being -- as her mother had so often expressed it -- "Mamsie's little right-hand woman."

"It will be much better to have everything plain," said Polly, communing with herself, as she turned on her pillow. "Mamsie has always been without show, of any kind, and so," but here Polly's heart stood still. Dearly she loved the bright, conspicuous accompaniments to the wedding whereby Mr. King was determined to show his respect for the family under his care. And her soul secretly longed for the five hundred guests named on a list of the old gentleman's drawing up. And the feast and the lights, and the pretty dresses, and the dancing party for the young people to follow. For Mr. King had announced himself as about to usher in the brightest of days for the young Peppers to remember.

"Besides it brings our new physician into notice," he would answer when any faint protest was made. "And we shall all have reason to be immensely proud of him, I tell you!"

"Oh, dear!" cried Polly, burrowing deeper within the pillow folds, "why aren't pleasant things best to do? Why, I wonder!"

Cherry, twittering in the window, chirped something vague and unsatisfactory. Polly brought up her brown head suddenly and laughed.

"Nonsense! our happiness doesn't depend upon a lot of people coming together to help it along. Mamsie's face, whenever Grandpapa plans all this magnificence, is enough to make me feel wretched at the thought of it. Dear Mamsie! she's afraid of ingratitude if she doesn't try to like it. She shall have the little morning wedding with a few people around, and the gray silk gown instead of the lavender one Grandpapa wants her to wear, for Mamsie always knows just what is right."

With that, Polly sprang out of bed, and rushed at her toilet, and after breakfast she quietly captured Mr. King on the edge of some other extravagant plan, and led him into the library.

"Everything is going on finely, Polly," he cried in elation. "Ring for Thomas, child; stay, I'll do it myself. I shall go in an hour to give my orders for the wedding supper."

"Grandpapa," cried Polly, turning quite pale, and laying a quick, detaining hand on his arm, "oh! do wait, dear Grandpapa, I have something to say."

"Well, child," but he still retained his hand on the cord.

"Oh, Grandpapa!" how could she say it! But she must. "Mamsie will be ever so much happier if the wedding might be a quiet one. She really would, Grandpapa."

"No doubt Mrs. Pepper finds it a little hard to adjust her ideas to the large affair," said the old gentleman, considerably disturbed, and by no means relinquishing the bell-cord, "but it is due to you children to have a bright time, and I must see that you all have it. That is my affair," and this time the cord was pulled, and the bell rang a loud, insistent message.

Polly stood still in despair. "Grandpapa," she said distinctly, finding it hard to proceed, with his face before her, "we children do not want the large party; that is I do not."

It was all out at last.

"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. King sharply, for his surprise was too great to allow of composure, "who has been putting this idea into your head? Your mother couldn't have done it, for she promised it should all be as you young people wanted."

"Mamsie never said a word," cried Polly, recovering herself as she saw a chance to make things right for Mother Pepper; "it all came to me, Grandpapa, all alone by myself. Oh! I hate the big display!" she declared with sudden vehemence, astonishing herself with the repulsion that now seized her.

"Hoity toity!" exclaimed Mr. King, "it's not quite the thing, Polly, my child, to express yourself so decidedly, considering your years."

"Grandpapa," cried Polly, with a sudden rush of tears, "forgive me, do; I did not mean to be so naughty. I did not, dear Grandpapa." She looked like Phronsie now, and the old gentleman's heart melted. "But I am quite sure that none of us children would be a bit happy not to have it as Mamsie would like."

"Well, but I am not sure that the others wouldn't like it," said Mr. King persistently.

"Ben wouldn't," said Polly triumphantly, "I know, for he all along shrank from the big party."

"Oh! well, Ben, I suppose, would object somewhat," conceded the old gentleman slowly.

"And Davie," cried Polly eagerly; "Oh, Grandpapa! David would much prefer the morning wedding and the plain things."

"But how about Joel and Phronsie?" interrupted Mr. King, utterly ignoring Davie's claims to be heard. "Ah! Polly, my dear, until you tell me that they will prefer to give up the fine party, you mustn't expect me to pay any attention to what you say. It's due to Phronsie that your mother's wedding is a thing worthy to remember as a fine affair."

"Perhaps Joel and Phronsie will think as we do," said Polly. But her heart said No.

"All right if they do," said Mr. King easily, "but unless you come and tell me it is their own choice, why, I shall just go on with my plans as mapped out," he added obstinately. "Thomas," as that functionary appeared in the doorway, "take the letters to the post at once; you will find them on my writing table."

"All right, sir."

"I'll give you till to-morrow to find out," said Mr. King. "Now come and kiss me, Polly dear. You'll see it's all right after it's over, and be glad I had the sense to keep my mind about it."

Polly put up her lips obediently. But it was a sad little kiss that was set upon his mouth, and it left him feeling like a criminal.

And running out, she met her difficult task without a moment of preparation.

"Halloo, Polly!" whooped Joel, rushing around an angle in the hall, "Grandpapa promised me that I might go out with him, to give the supper orders, and all that kind of nonsense."

Polly's heart stood still.

"Joel," she began, seizing his jacket with trembling fingers, "come up into my room a minute."

"What's up?" cried Joel with curiosity; "some more mysteries? There's nothing but whisperings, and secrets, and no end of jolly understandings, ever since Mamsie commenced to marry Dr. Fisher. Go ahead, I'll come."

"And Phronsie, too," said Polly, seeing the yellow head emerge from the breakfast-room doorway.

"Come on, Phron," sang out Joel, "up in Polly's room -- she wants you," and the three hurried off.

"Now, Joel," said Polly, closing the door and facing him desperately, "you are Mamsie's own boy."

"I should think so," said Joel, "I'm not anybody's else. Is that all you brought me up here to say?" thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking at her.

"And you can make her happy, or just as miserable as I can't say what," went on Polly incoherently.

"What in the world are you firing at?" demanded the boy, visions of certain pranks at school unpleasantly before him. "Don't shoot over my head, Polly, but keep somewhere near your mark," he advised irritably.

Phronsie surveyed the two with wide eyes, and a not wholly pleased manner.

"Mamsie does not want a big wedding," declared Polly, going to the heart of the matter, "but dear kind Grandpapa thinks it will please us children, and so he wants to give her one."

"And so it will," cried Joel, "please us children. Whoop la! give us your hand, Phronsie, this is the way we'll dance afterwards at the party."

"I don't want to dance," said Phronsie, standing quite still in the middle of the room. The morning sun shone across her yellow hair, but no light came into the large eyes. "Polly wants something, first; what is it, Joel?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Joel, poised on a careless foot, and executing a remarkable pas seul. "I don't believe she knows herself. Polly is often queer, you know, Phronsie," he added cheerfully.

"Tell me, Polly, do," whispered Phronsie, going over to her.

"Phronsie," said Polly very slowly, "Mamsie doesn't want a big party in the evening to see her married, but to have a cunning little company of friends come in the morning, and" -- 

"Ugh!" cried Joel in disgust, coming down suddenly to both feet.

"It will please Mamsie best," went on Polly, with a cold shoulder to Joel. "And I never should be happy in all this world to remember that I helped to make my Mamsie unhappy on her wedding day."

Phronsie shivered, and her voice held a miserable little thrill as she begged, "Oh! make her be married just as she wants to be, Polly, do."

"Now that's what I call mean," cried Joel in a loud, vindictive tone back of Polly, "to work on Phronsie's feelings. You can't make me say I don't want Mamsie to have a wedding splurge, so there, Polly Pepper!"

Polly preserved a dignified silence, and presented her shoulder again to his view.

"You can't make me say it, Polly Pepper!" shouted Joel shrilly.

"Oh, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly in a rapture, throwing her arms around the child, "Mamsie will be so pleased -- you can't think. Let us go and tell her; come!"

"See here!" called Joel, edging up, "why don't you talk to me?"

"I haven't anything to say," Polly condescended to give him, without turning her head. "Come, Phronsie," holding out her hand.

"Wait a minute."

"Well, what is it?" Polly's hand now held Phronsie's, but she paused on the way to the door.

"I guess I can give up things as well as she can, if I know Mamsie wants me to," said Joel, with a deeply injured manner.

"Mamsie doesn't want any of us to give up anything unless we do it as if we were glad to," said Polly. For her life, she couldn't conceal a little scornful note in her voice, and Joel winced miserably.

"I -- I wish she wouldn't have the big party," he whined.

"I thought you wanted it," said Polly, turning to him.

"I -- I don't. I'd rather Mamsie would be happy. O, dear! don't look at me so."

"I'm not looking at you so," said Polly. "You acted just as if you had your heart set on the party."

"Well, it isn't. I'll -- I'll -- if you say party to me again!" and he faced her vindictively.

"Joel Pepper!" cried Polly, holding him with her brown eyes, "do you really mean that you are glad to give up that big evening party, and have the little teeny one in the morning?"

"Yes," said Joel, "as true as I live and breathe, I do!"

"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Polly, and seizing his arm, she led off in a dance, so much surpassing his efforts, that Phronsie screamed with delight to see them go. When they could dance no more, Polly, flushed and panting, ran out of the room, leaving the two to find out as best they might, the cause of the strange demeanor.

"Grandpapa," Polly rushing over the stairs, met him coming up to Mrs. Whitney's room, "Joel says it's the little morning wedding -- please; and Phronsie too!"

The old gentleman gave no sign of his defeat, beyond a "Humph! and so I'm beaten, after all!"

And Dr. Fisher never knew all this.

Mamsie's wedding-day! At last it came! Was any other ever so bright and beautiful? Phronsie thought not, and thereupon she impeded the preparations by running up to kiss her mother every few moments, until such time as Felicie carried her off to induct her into a white muslin gown. Polly, here, there, and everywhere, was in such a rapture that she seemed to float on wings, while the boys of the household, with the exception of Jasper, lost their heads early in the day, and helplessly succumbed to all demands upon them.

Every flower had to be put in place by the young people. Old Turner for once stood one side. And Polly must put the white satin boxes filled with wedding cake on the little table where one of the waiters would hand them to departing guests. And Phronsie must fasten Mamsie's pearl broach -- the gift of the five little Peppers -- in her lace collar the very last thing. And Jasper collected the rice and set the basket holding it safely away from Joel's eager fingers till such time as they could shower the bride's carriage. And all the boys were ushers, even little Dick coming up grandly to offer his arm to the tallest guest as it happened.

And old Mr. King gave the bride away! And Dr. Fisher at the last forgot all the one hundred and thirty eyes, and his "I will," rang out like a man's who has secured what he has long wanted. And ever so many of the guests said "What a good father he will make the children," and several attempted to tell the Peppers so. "As if we didn't know it before," said Joel indignantly.

And Alexia and all the other girls of Polly's set were there, and Joel's little blue and white creature came, to his great satisfaction, with her aunt, who was quite intimate in the family; and Pickering Dodge was there of course, and the Alstynes, and hosts of others.

And Mother Pepper in her silver-gray gown and bonnet, by the side of her husband, with Phronsie clinging to one hand, heard nothing but heart-felt wishes for her happiness and that of the five little Peppers.

And there was not so much as the shadow of a skeleton at the wedding breakfast. And Cousin Mason Whitney took charge of the toasts -- and everybody felt that just the right things had been said. And then there was a flutter of departure of the bridal party, and in the rattle of the wheels Phronsie piped out bravely as she threw the slipper after the departing coach:

"Mamsie has been taking care of us all these years; now we're going to be good and let her be happy."



XV

Mrs. Chatterton Has A New Plan


"Polly is learning to play beautifully," mused Phronsie, nursing one foot contemplatively, as she curled up on the floor. "And Ben is to be a capital business man, so Papa Fisher says, and Joel is going to buy up this whole town sometime, and Davie knows ever so many books from beginning to end, but what can I do?"

Down went the little foot to the floor, and the yellow head drooped over the white apron.

"Nothing," mourned Phronsie, "just nothing at all; not even the wee-est teeniest bit of anything do I know how to do. O, dear!"

Outside, Jasper was calling to Prince. Phronsie could hear the big dog rushing over the lawn in response, barking furiously as he went. But she did not move.

"And Mamsie will never be glad for me, unless I learn how to do things too. If I don't hurry, I shall never be grown up."

"Tweet -- tweet -- ch-r-r-r" -- Cherry in his cage over her head, chirped vigorously by way of consolation, but Phronsie did not lift her head. Cherry seeing all his efforts in vain, stopped his song and rolled one black eye down at her in astonishment, and soon became quite still.

Presently the rustle of a stiff black satin gown became the chief intruder upon the silence. It was so asserting that Phronsie lifted her head to look into the face of Mrs. Chatterton, standing before her, playing with the rings on her long white hands, and regarding her as if she would soon require an explanation of such strange conduct.

"What are you doing, Phronsie?" at last demanded the lady.

"Thinking," said Phronsie; and she laid her chin in her hand, and slowly turned her gaze upon the thin, disagreeable face before her, but not as if in the slightest degree given up to a study of its lines and expression.

"So I perceive," said Mrs. Chatterton harshly. "Well, and what are you thinking of, pray tell?"

Still Phronsie looked beyond her, and it was not until the question had been repeated, that an answer came.

"Of many things," said Phronsie, "but I do not think I ought to tell you."

"And why not, pray?" cried the lady, with a short and most unpleasant laugh.

"Because I do not think you would understand them," said Phronsie. And now she looked at the face she had before overlooked, with a deliberate scrutiny as if she would not need to repeat the attention.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton angrily, "and pray how long since your thoughts have been so valuable?"

"My thoughts are nice ones," said Phronsie slowly, "because they are about nice people."

"Ah!"

"And they won't tell themselves. And I ought not to make them. They would fly away then, and I should never find them again, when I wanted to think them."

"Your mother brought you up well, I must say," observed Mrs. Chatterton, deliberately drawing up a chair and putting her long figure within it, "to talk in this style to a lady as old as I am."

Phronsie allowed one foot to gently trace the pattern on the carpet before she answered. "I know you are very old," she said at last, "but I cannot tell my thoughts to you."

"Very old!" cried Mrs. Chatterton, her chin in the air. "Indeed! well, I am not, I would have you know, Miss Phronsie," and she played with the silk cord of her satin wrapper. "I hate a child that is made a prig!" she added explosively under her breath.

Phronsie made no reply, being already deep in her own calculations once more.

"Now, Phronsie," said Mrs. Chatterton, suddenly drawing herself out of her angry fit, and clearing her brow, "I want you to give your attention to me a moment, for I have something I must say to you. That's why I came in here, to find you alone. Come, look at me, child. It isn't polite to be staring at the carpet all the time."

Phronsie, thus admonished, took her gaze from the floor, to bestow it on the face above her.

"It's something that nobody is to know but just you and me," began Mrs. Chatterton, with a cautious glance at the door.

Then she got out of her chair, and going across the room, closed it carefully. "There, that's better; Polly is always around. Now we are quite alone," coming back to her seat.

"You see, Phronsie," she proceeded, not caring that the brown eyes were slowly adding to their astonishment an expression that augured ill for any plans she might be hoping to carry out toward propitiation. "It is necessary to be careful not to be overheard, for what I am going to say to you must be kept quite secret."

"I must tell Mamsie," said Phronsie distinctly.

"Indeed you will not," declared Mrs. Chatterton. "She is the very one of all others who ought not to know. You can help her, Phronsie, if you only keep quiet."

Phronsie's eyes now became so very large that Mrs. Chatterton hastened to add:

"You know Polly is learning to be a music teacher when she grows up."

Phronsie made no reply.

"And a very creditable one she will be, from all acounts I can gather," contributed Mrs. Chatterton carelessly. "Well, Ben is doing well in Cabot & Van Meter's, so he's no trouble to your mother. As for the two boys, I know nothing about them, one way or the other. But you, as you are a girl, and the only one not provided for, why, I shall show a little kindness in your direction. It's wholly disinterested and quixotic, I know," added Mrs. Chatterton, with a sweeping gaze at the walls and ceilings, "for me to give myself a thought about you or your future. And I shall never receive so much as a thank you for it. But I've passed all my life in thinking of others, Phronsie," here she brought down her attention to the absorbed little countenance, "and I cannot change now," she finished pensively.

A silence fell upon them, so great that Mrs. Chatterton broke it nervously. "Goodness me, Phronsie, you are not like a child; you are too uncanny for anything. Why don't you ask questions about my secret?"

"Because I ought not to know it," said Phronsie, finding her tongue.

"Haven't I told you that you will help your mother only by not telling her?" said Mrs. Chatterton. "How would you like to learn how to take care of yourself when you are a big girl?"

A light slowly gathered in the brown eyes, becoming at last so joyous and assured, that Mrs. Chatterton's face dropped its hard lines, to lose itself in a gratified smile.

"Now you make me see some real hope that my scheme won't be wholly a wild piece of philanthropy," she exclaimed. "Only look like that, Phronsie, and I'll do anything for you."

"If I can do anything for Mamsie," cried Phronsie, clasping her hands in rapture. "Oh! do tell me, dear Mrs. Chatterton," she pleaded.

"Oh! now I am dear Mrs. Chatterton," cried that lady, with a hard, ill-favored smile. But she lowered her tone to a gentler one, and extending one jeweled hand, took the little folded ones in her clasp.

"I will be a good friend to you, and show you how you can learn to do something so that when you grow up, you can take care of yourself, just as Polly will. Just think, Phronsie, just as Polly will," cried Mrs. Chatterton artfully.

"How -- how?" demanded Phronsie, scarcely breathing.

"Listen, Phronsie. Now you know I haven't any little girl."

Phronsie drew a long breath.

"Well, I have been looking for one for a long time. I want one who will be a daughter to me; who will grow up under my direction, and who will appreciate what I sacrifice in taking her. She must be nice-looking, for I couldn't stand an ill-favored child. I have found several who were much better looking than you, Phronsie; in fact, they were beauties; but I don't like the attitude of their families. The poor things actually thought they were doing me a favor by accepting my proposition for the children."

As this statement required no remark on the part of the hearer, Phronsie was silent, not removing her eyes from Mrs. Chatterton's face.

"Now, although you haven't as much to recommend you as many other children that I have fancied, I hope to make you serve my purpose. I am going to try you, at least. Every day, Phronsie, you can come to my room. It's lucky that you don't go to school, but do pretty much as you like in this house, so no questions will be asked."

"I go to Grandpapa's room every day," said Phronsie, in a distressed tone, "to my lessons."

"Of course. I know that; a very silly thing it is too. There's no use in trying to break it up now, I suppose, or I'd put my hand to the attempt. But you can come to me after you've got through toadying Mr. King."

"What is toding?" asked Phronsie.

"Never mind; that hasn't anything to do with the business in hand," replied Mrs. Chatterton impatiently. "Now if you come to me every day, and give me as much time as you can, why, I'll show you what I want of you, and teach you many things. Then after a while, Phronsie, when you learn to appreciate it, I shall tell you what I am going to do. The adoption will be an easy matter, I fancy, when the child is interested," she added, taking the precaution to mutter it.

"You must do everything as I tell you," Mrs. Chatterton leaned forward, and said with great deliberateness, "else you will lose this chance to help your mother. And you will never have another like it, but will grow up to be a good-for-nothing little thing when Polly and all the rest are earning money for your Mamsie, as you call her."

"I shall earn money too," declared Phronsie on a high note, and nodding her yellow head with great decision.

"Never!" Mrs. Chatterton brought her foot, incased in its black satin slipper, down with force on the carpet. "You will never earn a cent of money in all this world, unless you do exactly as I say; for you are a child who hasn't it in her to learn anything. But you can help me, and I shall teach you many things, and do well by you."

"When I grow a big girl, will anybody want me to do those things that you are going to teach me?" asked Phronsie, drawing near to lay her hand on the stiff black gown, and speaking earnestly. "Then if they will, I'll try to do them just exactly as you tell me."

"Of course they will," declared Mrs. Chatterton carefully, edging off from the little fingers; "ever so many people will want you, Phronsie. And I shall give you a great deal of money."

"I shall give it all to Mamsie," interrupted Phronsie, her brown eyes dilating quickly, "every single twenty-five cents you give me. Then I guess she will be glad, don't you?" she cried, clasping her hands in sudden rapture, while she began to dance up and down.

"I shall give you so many twenty-five cents," cried Mrs. Chatterton, beginning to feel her old heart beat with more enthusiasm than she had known for many a day, "that you will be very rich, Phronsie."

"Oh-oh!" cried Phronsie, coming to an abrupt pause in the middle of the floor, her cheek paling in excitement. And then she could say no more.

"But you must do exactly as I tell you." Mrs. Chatterton leaned forward suddenly, and seized the little hands, now so still in their delight. "Remember, it is only when you follow my commands in every single thing that you will have any chance of earning all this money for your mother, and helping her just at Polly is going to do. Remember now, Phronsie!"

"I will remember," said Phronsie slowly, as her hands were released.

"Very good. We will begin now then." Mrs. Chatterton threw herself back in her chair, and drew a long breath. "Lucky I found the child alone, and so tractable. It's singularly good fortune," she muttered. "Well," aloud, with a light laugh, "now, Phronsie, if you are going to be your mother's helper, why, this is your first duty. Let us see how well you perform it. Run upstairs to the closet out of the lumber-room, and open the little black box on the shelf in front of the door -- the box isn't locked -- and bring me the roll of black velvet ribbon you will find there."

Phronsie was about to ask, "Why does not Hortense go up for it?" but Mrs. Chatterton forestalled the question by saying with a frown, "Hortense has gone down to the dressmaker's. No child who calls me to account for anything I ask of her can be helped by me. Do as you like, Phronsie. No one will compel you to learn how to do things so that you can be a comfort to your mother. Only remember, if you don't obey me, you will lose your only chance." After this speech, Mrs. Chatterton sat back and played with her rings, looking with oblique glances of cold consideration at the child.

"I'll go," said Phronsie with a long sigh, "and do every thing you say."

"I do really believe I can bend one of those dreadful Pepper children to my will," thought Mrs. Chatterton exultingly. "She is my only hope. Polly does better than she did, but she is too old to be tractable, and she has a shrewd head on her practical body, and the others are just horrible!" She gave a shiver. "But Phronsie will grow up to fit my purpose, I think. Three purposes, I may say -- to get the Peppers gradually out from under Horatio King's influence, and to train up a girl to wait on me so that I can get away from these French villains of maids, and to spite Alexander's daughter by finally adopting this Phronsie if she suits me. But I must move carefully. The first thing is to get the child fastened to me by her own will."

Phronsie, ascending the stairs to the lumber-room, with careful deliberateness, found no hint of joy at the prospect before her, reaching into the dim distance to that enchanted time when she should be grown up. But there was a strangely new sense of responsibility, born in an hour; and an acceptance of life's burdens, that made her feel very old and wise.

"I shall be a comfort to my mother," she said confidently, and mounted on.



XVI

Where Is Phronsie?


Phronsie shut the door of the lumber-room, and with a great sigh realized that she had with her own hand cut herself off from the gay life below stairs.

"But they are not so very far off," she said, "and I shall soon be down again," as she made her way across the room and opened the closet door.

A little mouse scurried along the shelf and dropped to the floor. Phronsie peered into the darkness within, her small heart beating fearfully as she held the knob in her hand.

"There may be more," she said irresolutely. "I suppose he wouldn't live up here all alone. Please go away, mousie, and let me get the box."

For answer there was a scratching and nibbling down in the corner that held more terrors for the anxious ears than an invading army.

"I must go in," said Phronsie, "and bring out the box. Please, good mouse, go away for one moment; then you may come back and stay all day."

But the shadowy corner only gave back the renewed efforts of the sharp little teeth; so at last, Phronsie, plucking up courage, stepped in. The door swung to after her, giving out a little click, unnoticed in her trepidation as she picked her way carefully along, holding her red gown away from any chance nibbles. It was a low narrow closet, unlighted save by a narrow latticed window, in the ceiling, for the most part filled with two lines of shelves running along the side and one end. Phronsie caught her breath as she went in, the air was so confined; and stumbling over in the dim light, put her hand on the box desired, a small black affair, easily found, as it was the only one there.

"I will take it out into the lumber-room; then I can get the velvet roll," and gathering it up within her arms, she speedily made her way back to the door.

"Why" -- another pull at the knob; but with the same result, and Phronsie, setting the box on the floor, still with thoughts only of the mouse, put both hands to the task of opening the door.

"It sticks, I suppose, because no one comes up here only once in a great while," she said in a puzzled way. "I ought to be able to pull it open, I'm sure, for I am so big and strong." She exerted all her strength till her face was like a rose. The door was fast. Phronsie turned a despairing look upon the shadowy corner.

"Please don't bite me," she said, the large tears gathering in her brown eyes. "I am locked in here in your house; but I didn't want to come, and I won't do anything to hurt you if you'll let me sit down and wait till somebody comes to let me out."

Meanwhile Mrs. Chatterton shook out her black satin gown complacently, and with a satisfied backward glance at the mirror, sailed off to her own apartments.

"Madame," exclaimed Hortense breathlessly, meeting her within the door, "de modiste will not send de gown; you must" -- 

"Will not send it?" repeated her mistress in a passion. "A pretty message to deliver. Go back and get it at once."

"She say de drapery -- de tournure all wrong, and she must try it on again," said the maid, glad to be defiant, since the dressmaker supported her.

"What utter nonsense! Yet I suppose I must go, or the silly creature will have it ruined. Take off this gown, Hortense, and bring my walking suit, then ring and say I'd like to have Thomas take me down there at once," and throwing off her bracelets, and the various buckles and pins that confined her laces, she rapidly disrobed and was expeditiously inducted by Hortense into her walking apparel, and, a parlor maid announcing that Thomas with the coupe was at the door, she hurried downstairs, with no thought for anything beyond a hasty last charge to her maid.

"Where's Phronsie?" cried Polly, rushing into Mother Fisher's room; "O dear me, my hair won't stay straight," pushing the rebellious waves out of her eyes.

"It looks as if a brush wouldn't do it any harm," observed Mother Fisher critically.

"O dear, dear! well, I've brushed and brushed, but it does no good," said Polly, running over to the mirror; "some days, Mamsie, no matter what I do, it flies all ways."

"Good work tells generally," said her mother, pausing on her way to the closet for a closer inspection of her and her head; "you haven't taken as much pains, Polly, lately with your hair; that is the trouble."

"Well, I'm always in such a hurry," mourned Polly, brushing furiously on the refractory locks. "There, will you stay down?" to a particularly rebellious wave.

"One at a time is the best way to take things," said Mrs. Fisher dryly. "When you dress yourself, Polly, I'd put my mind on that, if I were you."

With that, she disappeared within the closet.

"O dear, I suppose so," sighed Polly, left to her own reflections and brushing away. "Well, that's the best I can make it look now, for I can't do the braid over. Where is Phronsie, I wonder! Mamsie," she threw down the brush and ran over to put her head in the closet, "where did she go?"

"I told her she might run over to Helen Fargo's, right after breakfast," said Mrs. Fisher, her head over a trunk, from which she was taking summer dresses. "Polly, I think you'll get one more season's wear out of this pink cambric."

"Oh! I am so glad," cried Polly, "for I had such splendidly good times in it," with a fond glance at the pink folds and ruffles. "Well, if Phronsie is over at Helen's, there's no use in asking her to go down town with us."

"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Fisher, extricating one of Phronsie's white gowns from its winter imprisonment.

"Down to Candace's," said Polly. "Jasper wants some more pins for his cabinet. No, I don't suppose Phronsie would tear herself away from Helen for all the down-towns in the world."

"You would better let her stay where she is," advised Mother Fisher; "she hasn't been over to Helen's for quite a while, so it's a pity to call her away," and she turned to her unpacking again, while Polly ran off on the wings of the wind, in a tremor at having kept Jasper waiting so long.

"Candace" was the widow of an old colored servant of Mr. King's; she called herself a "relict;" that, and the pride in her little shop, made her hold her turbaned head high in the air, while a perennial smile enwreathed her round face.

The shop was on Temple Place, a narrow extension thrown out from one of the city's thoroughfares. She was known for a few specialties; such as big sugary doughnuts that appealed alike to old and young. They were always fresh and sweet, with just the proper amount of spice to make them toothsome; and she made holders of various descriptions, with the most elaborate patterns wrought always in yellow worsted; with several other things that the ladies protested could never be found elsewhere. Jasper had been accustomed to run down to Candace's little shop, since pinafore days, when he had been taken there by his nurse, and set upon a high stool before the small counter, and plied with dainties by the delighted Candace.

"The first thing I can remember," he had often told Polly, "is Candace taking out huge red and white peppermint drops, from the big glass jar in the window, and telling me to hold out both hands."

And after the "pinafore days" were over, Candace was the boy's helper in all his sports where a woman's needle could stitch him out of any difficulty. She it was who made the sails to his boats, and marvelous skate bags. She embroidered the most intricate of straps for his school-books, and once she horrified him completely by working in red cotton, large "J's" on two handkerchiefs. He stifled the horror when he saw her delight in presenting the gift, and afterwards was careful to remember to carry a handkerchief occasionally when on an errand to the shop.

Latterly Candace was occupied in preparing pins for Jasper's cabinet, out of old needles that had lost their eyes. She cleverly put on red and black sealing wax heads, turning them out as round as the skillful manipulation of deft fingers could make them. In this new employment, the boy kept her well occupied, many half-dollars thereby finding their way into her little till.

"I wish Phronsie had come," said Polly, as she and Jasper sorted the pins in the little wooden tray Candace kept for the purpose. "How many red ones you will have, Jasper -- see -- fifteen; well, they're prettier than the others."

"Ef little Miss had come wid you," said Candace, emerging from the folds of a chintz curtain that divided the shop from the bedroom, "she'd 'a' seen my doll I made for her. Land! but it's a beauty."

"Oh, Candace!" exclaimed Polly, dropping the big pin she held, and allowing it to roll off the counter to the floor. "What a pity we didn't bring her! Do let us see the doll."

"She's a perfec' beauty!" repeated Candace in satisfaction, "an' I done made her all myself fer de little Miss," and she dodged behind the curtain again, this time bringing out a large rag doll with surprising black bead eyes, a generous crop of wool on its head, and a red worsted mouth.

"Dat's my own hair," said Candace, pointing to the doll's head with pride, "so I know it's good; an' ain't dat mouf pretty?"

"Oh, Candace!" exclaimed Polly, seizing the doll, and skillfully evading the question, "what a lovely dress -- and the apron is a dear" -- 

"Ain't it?" said Candace, her black face aglow with delight. "Ole Miss gimme dat yeller satin long ago, w'en I belonged to her befo' de war. An' dat yere apun was a piece of ole Miss's night-cap. She used to have sights of 'em, and dey was all ruffled like to kill, an' made o' tambour work."

Polly had already heard many times the story of Madame Carroll's night-caps, so she returned to the subject of the doll's beauty as a desirable change.

"Do you want us to take this to Phronsie?" she asked. "Jasper, won't she be delighted?"

"Land, no!" cried Candace, recovering the doll in alarm; "I'd never sleep a week o' nights ef I didn't put dat yere doll into dat bressed child's arms."

"Then I'll tell Phronsie to come over to-morrow," said Polly. "Shall I, Candace?"

"Yes," said Candace, "you tell her I got somefin' fer her; don't you tell her what, an' send her along."

"All right," said Jasper. "Just imagine Phronsie's eyes when she sees that production. Candace, you've surpassed yourself."

"You go 'long!" exclaimed Candace, in delight, and bestowing a gentle pat of deprecation on his shoulder, "'tain't like what I could do; but la! well, you send de bressed chile along, and mabbe she'll like it."

"Jasper, we'll stop at Helen's now," said Polly as the two hurried by the tall iron fence, that, lined with its thick hedge, shut out the Fargo estate from vulgar eyes, "and get Phronsie; she'll be ready to come home now; it's nearly luncheon time."

"All right," said Jasper; so the two ran over the carriage drive to a side door by which the King family always had entree.

"Is Phronsie ready to come home?" asked Polly of the maid. "Tell her to hurry and get her things on; we'll wait here. Oh, Jasper!" turning to him, "why couldn't we have the club next week, Wednesday night?"

"Miss Mary," said the maid, interrupting, "what do you mean? I haven't seen Miss Phronsie to-day."

Polly whirled around on the step and looked at her.

"Oh! she's upstairs in the nursery, playing with Helen, I suppose. Please ask her to hurry, Hannah."

"No, she isn't, Miss Mary," said Hannah. "I've been sweeping the nursery this morning; just got through." She pointed to her broom and dustpan that she had set in a convenient corner, as proof of her statement.

"Well, she's with Helen somewhere," said Polly, a little impatiently.

"Yes; find Helen, and you have the two," broke in Jasper. "Just have the goodness, Hannah, to produce Helen."

"Miss Helen isn't home," said Hannah. "She went to Greenpoint yesterday with Mrs. Fargo to spend Sunday."

"Why," exclaimed Polly in bewilderment, "Mamsie said she told Phronsie right after breakfast that she could come over here."

"She hasn't been here," said the maid positively. "I know for certain sure, Miss Mary. Has she, Jane?" appealing to another maid coming down the hall.

"No," said Jane. "She hasn't been here for ever so many days."

"Phronsie played around outside probably," said Jasper quickly; "anyway, she's home now. Come on, Polly. She'll run out to meet us."

"Oh, Jasper! do you suppose she will?" cried Polly, unable to stifle an undefinable dread. She was running now on frightened feet, Jasper having hard work to keep up with her, and the two dashed through the little gate in the hedge where Phronsie was accustomed to let herself through on the only walk she was ever allowed to take alone, and into the house where Polly cried to the first person she met, "Where's Phronsie?" to be met with what she dreaded, "Gone over to Helen Fargo's."

And now there was indeed alarm through the big house. Not knowing where to look, each fell in the other's way, quite as much concerned for Mr. King's well-being; for the old gentleman was reduced to such a state by the fright that the entire household had all they could do to keep him in bounds.

"Madame is not to come home to luncheon," announced Hortense to Mrs. Whitney in the midst of the excitement. "She told me to tell you that de Mees Taylor met her at de modiste, and took her home with her."

Mrs. Whitney made no reply, but raised her eyes swollen with much crying, to the maid's face.

"Hortense, run as quickly as possible down to Dr. Fisher's office, and tell him to come home."

"Thomas should be sent," said Hortense, with a toss of her head. "It's not de work for me. Beside I am Madame's maid."

"Do you go at once," commanded Mrs. Whitney, with a light in her blue eyes that the maid never remembered seeing. She was even guilty of stamping her pretty foot in the exigency, and Hortense slowly gathered herself up.

"I will go, Madame," with the air of conferring a great favor, "only I do not such t'ings again."



XVII

Phronsie Is Found


"I am glad that you agree with me." Mrs. Chatterton bestowed a complacent smile upon the company.

"But we don't in the least agree with you," said Madame Dyce, her stiff brocade rustling impatiently in the effort to put her declaration before the others, "not in the least."

"Ah? Well, you must allow that I have good opportunities to judge. The Pepper entanglement can be explained only by saying that my cousin's mental faculties are impaired."

"The rest of the family are afflicted in the same way, aren't they?" remarked Hamilton Dyce nonchalantly.

"Humph! yes." Mrs. Chatterton's still shapely shoulders allowed themselves a shrug intended to reveal volumes. "What Jasper Horatio King believes, the rest of the household accept as law and gospel. But it's no less infatuation."

"I'll not hear one word involving those dear Peppers," cried Madame Dyce. "If I could, I'd have them in my house. And it's a most unrighteous piece of work, in my opinion, to endeavor to arouse prejudice against them. It goes quite to my heart to remember their struggles all those years."

Mrs. Chatterton turned on her with venom. Was all the world arrayed against her, to take up with those hateful interlopers in her cousin's home? She made another effort. "I should have credited you with more penetration into motives than to allow yourself to be deceived by such a woman as Mrs. Pepper."

"Do give her the name that belongs to her. I believe she's Mrs. Dr. Fisher, isn't she?" drawled Livingston Bayley, a budding youth, with a moustache that occasioned him much thought, and a solitary eyeglass.

"Stuff and nonsense! Yes, what an absurd thing that wedding was. Did anybody ever hear or see the like!" Mrs. Chatterton lifted her long jeweled hands in derision, but as no one joined in the laugh, she dropped them slowly into her lap.

"I don't see any food for scorn in that episode," said the youth with the moustache. "Possibly there will be another marriage there before many years. I'm sweet on Polly."

Mrs. Chatterton's face held nothing but blank dismay. The rest shouted.

"You needn't laugh, you people," said the youth, setting his eyeglass straight, "that girl is going to make a sensation, I tell you, when she comes out. I'm going to secure her early."

"Not a word, mind you, about Miss Polly's preferences," laughed Hamilton Dyce aside to Miss Mary.

"'Tisn't possible that she could be anything but fascinated, of course," Mary laughed back.

"Of course not. The callow youth knows his power. Anybody else in favor of the Peppers?" aloud, and looking at the company.

"Don't ask us if we like the Peppers," cried two young ladies simultaneously. "They are our especial and particular pets, every one of them."

"The Peppers win," said Hamilton Dyce, looking full into Mrs. Chatterton's contemptuous face. "I'm glad to record my humble self as their admirer. Now" -- 

"Well, pa!" Mary could not refrain from interrupting as her father suddenly appeared in the doorway.

"I can't sit down," he said, as the company made way for him to join them. "I came home for some important papers. I suppose you have heard the trouble at the Kings? I happened to drop in there. Well, Dyce," laying his hand on that gentleman's chair, "I scarcely expected to see you here to-day. Why aren't you at the club spread?"

"Cousin Horatio! I suppose he's had a paralytic attack," interrupted Mrs. Chatterton, with her most sagacious air.

"What's the trouble up there?" queried Mr. Dyce, ignoring the question thrust at him.

"It's the little beauty -- Phronsie," said Mr. Taylor.

"Nothing's happened to that child I hope!" cried Madame Dyce, paling.

"Now, Mr. Taylor, you are not going to harrow our feelings by telling us anything has harmed that lovely creature," exclaimed the two young ladies excitedly.

"Phronsie can't be found," said Mr. Taylor.

"Can't be found!" echoed all the voices, except Mrs. Chatterton's. She ejaculated "Ridiculous!"

Hamilton Dyce sprang to his feet and threw down his napkin. "Excuse me, Miss Taylor. Come, Bayley, now is the time to show our devotion to the family. Let us go and help them out of this."

Young Bayley jumped lightly up and stroked his moustache like a man of affairs. "All right, Dyce. Bon jour, ladies."

"How easily a scene is gotten up," said Mrs. Chatterton, "over a naughty little runaway. I wish some of the poor people in this town could have a tithe of the attention that is wasted on these Peppers," she added virtuously.

Madame Dyce turned uneasily in her seat, and played with the almonds on her plate. "I think we do best to reserve our judgments," she said coolly. "I don't believe Phronsie has run away."

"Of course she has," asserted Mrs. Chatterton, in that positive way that made everybody hate her to begin with. "She was all right this morning when I left home. Where else is she, if she hasn't run away, pray tell?"

Not being able to answer this, no one attempted it, and the meal ended in an uncomfortable silence.

Driving home a half-hour later, in a cab summoned for that purpose, Mrs. Chatterton threw off her things, angry not to find Hortense at her post in the dressing-room, where she had been told to finish a piece of sewing, and not caring to encounter any of the family in their present excitement, she determined to take herself off upstairs, where "I can kill two birds with one stone; get rid of everybody, and find my box myself, because of course that child ran away before she got it."

So she mounted the stairs laboriously, counting herself lucky indeed in finding the upper part of the house quite deserted, and shutting the lumber-room door when she was well within it, she proceeded to open the door of the closet.

"Hortense didn't tell me there was a spring lock on this door," she exclaimed, with an impatient pull. "Oh! good heavens." She had nearly stumbled over Phronsie Pepper's little body, lying just where it fell when hope was lost.

"I have had nothing to do with it," repeated Mrs. Chatterton to herself, following Mr. King and Jasper as they bore Phronsie downstairs, her yellow hair floating from the pallid little face. "Goodness! I haven't had such a shock in years. My heart is going quite wildly. The child probably went up there for something else; I am not supposed to know anything about it."

"Is she dead?" cried Dick, summoned with the rest of the household by Mrs. Chatterton's loud screams, and quite beside himself, he clambered up the stairs to get in every one's way.

Mrs. Chatterton, with an aimless thrust of her long jeweled hands, pushed him one side. And Dick boiled over at that.

"What are you here for?" he cried savagely. "You don't love her. You would better get out of the way." And no one thought to reprove him.

Polly was clinging to the post at the foot of the stairs. "I shall die if Phronsie is dead," she said. Then she looked at Mother Fisher, waiting for her baby.

"Give her to me!" said Phronsie's mother, holding out imperative arms.

"You would better let us carry her; well put her in your bed. Only get the doctor." Mr. King was almost harsh as he endeavored to pass her. But before the words were over his lips, the mother held her baby.

"Mamsie," cried Polly, creeping over to her like a hurt little thing, "I don't believe but that she'll be all right. God won't let anything happen to our Phronsie. He couldn't, Mamsie."

Dr. Fisher met them at the door. Polly never forgot the long, slow terror that clutched at her heart as she scanned his face while he took the child out of the arms that now yielded up their burden. And everything turned dark before her eyes -- Was Phronsie dead?

But there was Mamsie. And Polly caught her breath, beat back the faintness, and helped to lay Phronsie on the big bed.

"Clearly I have had nothing to do with it," said Mrs. Chatterton to herself, stumbling into a room at the other end of the hall. But her face was gray, and she found herself picking nervously at the folds of lace at her throat. "The child went up there, as all children will, to explore. I shall say nothing about it -- nothing whatever. Oh! how is she?" grasping blindly at Jasper as he rushed by the door.

"Still unconscious" -- 

"Stuff and -- oh! well," muttering on. "She'll probably come to. Children can bear a little confinement; an hour or two doesn't matter with them -- Hortense!" aloud, "bring me my sal volatile. Dear me! this is telling on my nerves." She caught sight of her face in the long mirror opposite, and shivered to see how ghastly it was. "Where is the girl? Hortense, I say, come here this instant!"

A maid, summoned by her cries, put her head in the door. "Hadn't you better go into your own room, Mrs. Chatterton?" she said, in pity at the shaking figure and blanched face.

"No -- no," she sharply repulsed her. "Bring Hortense -- where is that girl?" she demanded passionately.

"She's crying," said the maid, her own eyes filling with tears. "I'll help you to your room."

"Crying?" Madame Chatterton shrieked. "She's paid to take care of me; what right has she to think of anything else?"

"She says she was cross to Phronsie once -- though I don't see how she could be, and -- and -- now that she's going to die, she" -- and the maid burst into tears and threw her apron over her face.

"Die -- she shan't! What utter nonsense everybody does talk in this house!" Madame Chatterton seized her arm, the slender fingers tightening around the young muscles, and shook her fiercely.

The maid roused by her pain out of her tears looked in affright into the gray face above her. "Let me go," she cried. "Oh! madame, you hurt me."

"Give me air," said Madame Chatterton, her fingers relaxing, and making a great effort not to fall. "Help me over to the window, and open it, girl" -- and leaning heavily on the slight figure, she managed to get across the room.

"There -- now," drawing a heavy breath as she sank into a chair and thrust her ashen face out over the sill, "do you go and find out how the child is. And come back and tell me at once."

"Madame, I'm afraid to leave you alone," said the girl, looking at her.

"Afraid? I'm not so old but that I can take care of myself," said Mrs. Chatterton with a short laugh. "Go and do as I tell you," stamping her foot.

"Still unconscious" -- 

Would no one ever come near her but this detestable maid, with her still more detestable news? Mrs. Chatterton clutched the window casing in her extremity, not feeling the soft springy air as she gasped for breath. The maid, too frightened to leave her, crept into a corner where she watched and cried softly.

There was a stir in the household that they might have heard, betokening the arrival of two other doctors, but no word came. And darkness settled upon the room. Still the figure in the window niche held to its support, and still the maid cried at her post.

As the gray of the twilight settled over the old stone mansion, Phronsie moved on her pillow.

"Dear mouse," -- the circle of watchers around the bed moved closer, -- "I'll go away when some one comes to open the door."

"Hush!" Dr. Fisher put his hand over the mother's lips.

"Don't please bite me very hard. I won't come up again to your house. Oh! where's Grandpapa?"

Old Mr. King put his head on his hands, and sobbed aloud.

The little white face moved uneasily.

"Grandpapa always comes when I want him," in piteous tones.

"Father," said Jasper, laying a hand on the bowed shoulders, "you would better come out. We'll call you when she comes to herself."

But Mr. King gave no sign of hearing.

A half-hour ticked slowly away, and Phronsie spoke again. "It's growing dark, and I suppose they will never come. Dear mouse" -- the words died away and she seemed to sleep.

"I shall not tell," Mrs. Chatterton was saying to herself in the other room; "what good could it do? Oh! this vile air is stifling. Will no one come to say she is better?" And so the night wore on.

As morning broke, Phronsie opened her eyes, and gave a weak little cry. Polly sprang from her knees at the foot of the bed, and staggered toward the child.

"Don't!" cried Jasper, with a hand on her arm.

"Let her alone," said Dr. Fisher quickly.

"Oh, Polly!" Phronsie raised herself convulsively on the bed. "You did come -- you did!" winding her little arms around Polly's neck. "Has the mouse gone?"

"Yes, yes," said Polly as convulsively; "he's all gone, Phronsie, and I have you fast; just see. And I'll never let you go again."

"Never?" cried Phronsie, straining to get up further into Polly's arms.

"No dear; I'll hold you close just as long as you need me."

"And he won't come again?"

"He can't Phronsie; because, you see, I have you now."

"And the door will open, and I'll have Mamsie and dear Grandpapa?"

"Yes, yes, my precious one," began Mr. King, getting out of the large arm-chair into which they had persuaded him.

"Don't do it. Stay where you are," said Dr. Fisher, stopping him half-way across the room.

"But Phronsie wants me; she said so," exclaimed old Mr. King hoarsely, and trying to push his way past the doctor. "Why, man, don't stop me."

Dr. Fisher planted his small body firmly in front of the old gentleman. "You must obey me."

Obey? When had Mr. King heard that word addressed to himself. He drew a long breath, looked full into the spectacled eyes, then said, "All right, Fisher; I suppose you know best," and went back to his arm-chair.

"I'm so tired, Polly," Phronsie was saying, and the arms, Polly could feel, were dropping slowly from her neck.

"Are you, Pet? Well, now, I'll tell you what we'll do. Let us both go to sleep. There, Phronsie, now you put your arms down, so" -- Polly gave them a swift little tuck under the bed-clothes -- "and I'll get up beside you, so" -- and she crept on to the bed -- "and we'll both go right to 'nid-nid-nodland,' don't you know?"

"You're sure you won't let me go?" whispered Phronsie, cuddling close, and feeling for Polly's neck again.

"Oh! just as sure as I can be," declared Polly cheerfully, while the tears rained down her cheek in the darkness.

"I feel something wet," said Phronsie, drawing back one hand. "What is it, Polly?"

"Oh! that," said Polly with a start. "Oh -- well, it's -- well, I'm crying, Phronsie; but I'm so glad -- oh! you don't know how glad I am, sweet," and she leaned over and kissed her.

"If you're glad," said Phronsie weakly, "I don't care. But please don't cry if you are not glad, Polly."

"Well, now we're fixed," said Polly as gaily as she could. "Give me your hand, Pet. There, now, good-night."

"Good-night," said Phronsie. Polly could feel her tucking the other hand under her cheek on the pillow, and then, blessed sound -- the long quiet breathing that told of rest.

"Oh! better, is she?" Mrs. Chatterton looked up quickly to see Mrs. Whitney's pale face. "Well, I supposed she would be. I thought I'd sit here and wait to know, since you were all so frightened. But I knew it wouldn't amount to much. Now, girl," nodding over to the maid still in the corner, "you may get me to bed." And she stretched her stiff limbs, and held out her hand imperatively.

"It was very fortunate that I did not tell," she said, when the slow passage to her own apartments had been achieved. "Now if the child will only keep still, all will be well."



XVIII

The Girls Have Polly Again


"Phronsie shall have a baked apple this morning," said Mother Fisher, coming into the sunny room where Phronsie lay propped up against the pillows.

"Did Papa-Doctor say so?" asked Phronsie, a smile of supreme content spreading over her wan little face.

"Yes, he did," said her mother; "as nice an apple, red and shiny as we could find, is downstairs baking for you, Phronsie. When it's done, Sarah is to bring it up."

"That will be very nice," breathed Phronsie slowly. "And I want my little tea-set -- just the two cups and saucers -- and my own little pot and sugar-bowl. Do let me, Mamsie, and you shall have a cup of milk with me," she cried, a little pink color stealing into either cheek.

"Yes, yes, child," said Mother Fisher. "There, you mustn't try to lean forward. I'll bring the little table Grandpapa bought, so;" she hurried over across the room and wheeled it into place. "Now isn't that fine, Phronsie?" as the long wing swung over the bed. "Did you ever see such a tea-party as you and I'll have?"

"Breakfast party, Mamsie!" hummed Phronsie; "isn't that just lovely?" wriggling her toes under the bed-clothes. "Do you think Sarah'll ever bring that apple?"

"Yes, indeed -- why, here she is now!" announced Mrs. Fisher cheerily. "Come in, Sarah," as a rap sounded on the door. "Our little girl is all ready for that good apple. My! what a fine one."

"Bless honey's heart!" ejaculated Sarah, her black face shining with delight. "Ain't he a beauty, though?" setting down on the table-wing a pink plate in the midst of which reposed an apple whose crackling skin disclosed a toothsome interior. "I bring a pink sasser so's to match his insides. But ain't he rich, though!"

"Sarah," said Phronsie, with hungry eyes on the apple, "I think he is very nice indeed, and I do thank you for bringing him."

"Bless her precious heart!" cried Sarah, her hands on her ample hips, and her mouth extended in the broadest of smiles.

"Do get me a spoon, Mamsie," begged Phronsie, unable to take her gaze from the apple. "I'm so glad he has a stem on, Sarah," carefully picking at it.

"Well, there," said Sarah, "I had the greatest work to save that stem. But, la! I wouldn't 'a' brung one without a stem. I know'd you'd want it to hold it up by, when you'd eat the most off."

"Yes, I do," said Phronsie, in great satisfaction fondling the stem.

"And here's your spoon," said her mother, bringing it. "Now, child, enjoy it to your heart's content."

Phronsie set the spoon within the cracked skin, and drew it out half-full. "Oh, Mamsie!" she cried, as her teeth closed over it, "do just taste; it's so good!"

"Hee-hee!" laughed Sarah, "I guess 'tis. Such works as I had to bake dat apple just right. But he's a beauty, ain't he, though?"

Phronsie did not reply, being just at that moment engaged in conveying a morsel as much like her own as possible, to her mother's mouth.

"Seems to me I never tasted such an apple," said Mother Fisher, slowly swallowing the bit.

"Did you, now?" cried Sarah.

Downstairs Polly was dancing around the music-room with three or four girls who had dropped in on their way from school.

"Give me a waltz now, Polly," begged Philena. "Dear me, I haven't had a sight of you hardly, for so long, I am positively starved for you. I don't care for you other girls now," she cried, as the two went whirling down the long room together.

"Thank you, Miss Philena," cried the others, seizing their partners and whirling off too.

"I feel as if I could dance forever," cried Polly, when Amy Garrett turned away from the piano and declared she would play no more -- and she still pirouetted on one foot, to come up red as a rose to the group.

"Look at Polly's cheeks!" cried Amy.

"You've been a white little minx so long," said Alexia, putting a fond arm around Polly; "I went home and cried every day, after I would steal around the back way to see how Phronsie was" -- 

"Won't Phronsie be downstairs soon?" asked Amy.

"I don't know," said Polly. "Papa-Doctor is going to be dreadfully careful of her, that she doesn't get up too soon."

"Say, Polly," cried another girl, "don't you have to take a lot of pills and stuff, now that Dr. Fisher is your father?"

Polly threw back her head and laughed merrily. It sounded so strangely to her to hear the sound echoing through the room so long silent, that she stopped suddenly.

"Oh, girls! I can't hardly believe even yet that Phronsie is almost well," she cried.

"Well, you'd better," advised Alexia philosophically, "because she is, you know. Do laugh again, Polly; it's good to hear you."

"I can't help it," said Polly, "Cathie asked such a funny question."

"Cathie's generally a goose," said Alexia coolly.

"Thank you," said Cathie, a tall girl, with such light hair and sallow face that she looked ten years older than her fourteen summers. "I sometimes know quite as much as a few other people of my acquaintance," she said pointedly.

"I didn't say but that you did," said Alexia composedly. "I said you were generally a goose. And so you are. Why, everybody knows that, Cath."

"Come, come, girls, don't fight," said Polly. "How can you when Phronsie is getting better? Alexia didn't mean anything, Cathie."

"Yes, she did," declared Cathie with a pout; "she's always meaning something. She's the hatefullest thing I ever saw!"

"Nonsense!" said Polly, with a gay little laugh. "She says perfectly dreadful things to me, and so I do to her, but we don't either of us mind them."

"Well, those are in fun," said Cathie; "that's a very different matter" -- 

"So you must make these in fun," said Polly. "I would if I were you." But she drew away from Alexia's arm.

"Polly, don't be an idiot and fight with me," whispered Alexia in her ear.

"Go away," said Polly, shaking her off.

"Polly, Polly, I'll say anything if you won't look like that. See here, Cathie, let's make up," and she ran over, seized the tall girl by the waist and spun her around till she begged to stop.

"Is that your way of making up?" cried Cathie, when she had the breath to speak.

"Yes; it is as good as any other way. It spins the nonsense out of you. There!" with a last pat on the thin shoulder, she left her, and ran back to Polly.

"It's all done," she cried. "I'm at peace with the whole world. Now don't look like an ogre any longer."

"Phronsie's actually hungry now all the time," confided Polly in a glow, "and we can't get enough to satisfy her."

"Good -- good!" cried the girls.

"I'm going to send her some of my orange jelly," declared Alexia. "I'll make it just as soon as I go home. Do you think she will like it, Polly?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes, I do believe she will," said Polly, "because she loves oranges so."

"Well, I shan't make any old orange jelly," cried Cathie, her nose in the air. "Faugh! it's insipid enough!"

"But 'tisn't when it's made the way Alexia makes it," said Polly, viewing in alarm the widening of the breach between the two. "I've eaten some of hers, and it's too splendid for anything."

"I don't know anything about hers, but all orange jelly I have tasted is just horrid. I hate it! I'm going to make almond macaroons. They're lovely, Polly."

"Oh! don't, Cathie," begged Polly in distress.

"Why not, pray tell," whirling on one set of toes. "You needn't be afraid they won't be good. I've made them thousands of times."

"But she couldn't eat them," said Polly. "Just think, almond macaroons! Why, Papa-Doctor would" -- 

"Now I know the doctor makes you take perfectly terrible things, and won't let you eat anything. And macaroons are the only things I can make. It's a shame!" and down sat Cathie in despair on an ottoman.

"What's the matter?" Dr. Fisher put his head in at the doorway, his spectacled eyes sending a swift glance of inquiry around.

"O dear me!" exclaimed Cathie in a fright, jumping up and clutching the arm of the girl next to her. "Don't let Polly tell him what I said -- don't."

"Polly won't tell," said the girl, with a superb air; "don't you know any better, Cathie Harrison, you goose, you!"

To be called a goose by two persons in the course of an hour was too much for Cathie's endurance, and flinging off the girl's arm, she cried out passionately, "I won't stay; I'm going home!" and rushed out the door.

Dr. Fisher turned from a deliberate look at the girl's white cheeks, as she ran past, to the flushed ones before him.

"I'm very sorry that anything unpleasant has happened. I dropped in to tell you of a little surprise, but I see it's no time now."

"Oh, Papa-Doctor!" cried Polly, flying up to him from the center of the group, "it was nothing -- only" -- 

"A girl's quarrel is not a slight thing, Polly," said little Dr. Fisher gravely, "and one of your friends has gone away very unhappy."

"Oh! I know it," said Polly, "and I'm so sorry."

"We can't any of us help it," said Alexia quickly. "Cathie Harrison has the temper of a gorilla -- so there, Dr. Fisher."

Dr. Fisher set his spectacles straight, and looked at Alexia, but he did not even smile, as she hoped he would do. "I can't help it," she said, tracing the pattern of the carpet with the toe of her boot, "she makes us all so uncomfortable, oh! you can't think. And I wish she'd stay home forever."

Still no answer from the doctor. He didn't act as if he heard, but bowing gravely, he withdrew his head and shut the door.

"O dear, dear!" cried Alexia, when they had all looked at each other a breathing space. "Why didn't he speak? I'd much rather he'd scold like everything than to look like that. Polly, why don't you say something?"

"Because there isn't anything to say." Polly got no further, and turned away, suspiciously near to tears. Was this the first meeting with the girls to which she had looked forward so long?

"To think of that Cathie Harrison making such a breeze," cried Alexia angrily; "a girl who's just come among us, as it were, and we only let her in our set because Miss Salisbury asked us to make things pleasant for her. If it had been any one else who raised such a fuss!"

Meantime Dr. Fisher strode out to the west porch, intending to walk down to his office, and buttoning up his coat as he went along. As he turned the angle in the drive, he came suddenly upon a girl who had thrown herself down on a rustic seat under a tree, and whose shoulders were shaking so violently that he knew she was sobbing, though he heard no sound.

"Don't cry," said the little doctor, "and what's the matter?" all in the same breath, and sitting down beside her.

Cathie looked up with a gasp, and then crushed her handkerchief over her eyes. "Those girls in there are perfectly horrid." "Softly, softly," said Dr. Fisher.

"I can't -- help it. No matter what I say, they call me names, and I'm tired of it. O dear, dear!"

"Now see here," said the doctor, getting up on his feet and drawing a long breath. "I'm on my way to my office; suppose you walk along with me a bit and tell me all about it."

Cathie opened her mouth, intending to say, "Oh! I can't" -- instead, she found herself silent, and not knowing how, she was presently pacing down the drive by the doctor's side.

"Polly Pepper!" exclaimed Alexia, as a turn in the drive brought the two figures in view of the music-room windows, "did you ever see such a sight in your life? Cathie is walking off with Dr. Fisher! There isn't anything her tongue won't say!"

"Did you tell Polly?" cried Jasper, a half-hour later, putting his head into Dr. Fisher's office. "Oh! beg pardon; I didn't know you were busy, sir."

"Come in," said the doctor, folding up some powders methodically. "No, I didn't tell Polly."

"Oh!" said Jasper, in a disappointed tone.

"I hadn't a fair chance" -- 

"But she ought to know it just as soon as it's talked of," said Jasper, fidgeting at a case of little vials on the table. "Oh! beg pardon again. I'm afraid I've smashed that chap," as one rolled off to the floor. "I'm no end sorry," picking up the bits ruefully.

"I have several like it," said the doctor kindly, and settling another powder in its little paper.

"There were a lot of girls with Polly when I looked in upon her on my way out. But we'll catch a chance to tell her soon, my boy."

"Oh! I suppose so. A lot of giggling creatures. How Polly can stand their chatter, I don't see," cried Jasper impatiently.

"They've been shut off from Polly for some time, you know," said Dr. Fisher quietly. "We must remember that."

"Polly doesn't like some of them a bit better than I do," said Jasper explosively, "only she puts up with their nonsense."

"It's rather a difficult matter to pick and choose girls who are in the same classes," said the doctor, "and Polly sees that."

"Don't I know it?" exclaimed Jasper, in an astonished tone. "Dear me, Dr. Fisher, I've watched Polly for years now. And she's always done so." He stopped whirling the articles on the office table, and bestowed a half-offended look on the little physician.

"Softly, softly, Jasper," said Dr. Fisher composedly. "Of course you've used your eyes. Now don't spoil things by saying anything, but let Polly 'go her own gait,' I beg of you." Then he turned to his powders once more.

"She will, anyway," declared Jasper. "Whatever she makes up her mind to do, Polly does that very thing."

"Not a bad characteristic," laughed the doctor.

"I should say not."

"Now when I come up home for dinner, you and I will find Polly, and tell her the good news. If she's with a lot of those silly girls, I'll -- I'll tear her off this time." Dr. Fisher glared so fiercely as he declared this determination that Jasper laughed outright.

"I thought no one was to disturb Polly's good intentions in that line," he cried.

"Well, there's an end to all things, and patience ceases to be a virtue sometimes."

"So I've thought a good many times, but I've borne it like a man." Jasper drew himself up, and laughed again at the doctor's face.

"Oh! you go along," cried Dr. Fisher, his eyes twinkling. "I'll meet you just before dinner."

"All right," as Jasper rushed off.

Dr. Fisher jumped to his feet, pushing aside the litter of powder papers, and bottles, and ran his fingers through the shock of gray hair standing straight on his head.

"Yes, yes," he muttered, walking to the window, "it will be a good thing for Polly, now I tell you, Adoniram." He always preferred to address himself by his first name; then he was sure of a listener. "A vastly good thing. It's quite time that some of the intimacies with these silly creatures are broken up a bit, while the child gains immensely in other ways." He rubbed his palms gleefully. "Oh! good-morning, good-morning!"

A patient walking in, looked up at the jolly little doctor. "I wish I could laugh like that," he ejaculated, his long face working in the unusual effort to achieve a smile.

"You would if you had a gay crowd of children such as I have," cried the little doctor proudly. "Why, man, that's better than all my doses."

"But I haven't the children," said the patient sourly, and sitting down with a sigh.

"I pity you, then," said Dr. Fisher, with the air of having been a family man for years. "Well, besides owning the Peppers, I'm going off with them to" -- there he stopped, for before he knew it, the secret was well-nigh out.



XIX

Phronsie Is Well Again


But Polly was not to be told yet. When Papa Fisher walked in to dinner, the merry party around the oak table were waiting over the ices and coffee for his appearance.

"Oh, Papa Fisher!" cried Polly in dismay, turning from one of Alexia's sallies, and dropping her spoon. "Now you're all tired out -- too bad!"

Mother Fisher flushed up, and set her lips closely together. Ben looked disapproval across the board, and Polly knew that the wrong thing had been said.

"Oh! I didn't mean -- of course you must take care of the sick people," she said impulsively.

"Yes, I must," said Dr. Fisher wearily, and pushing up the shock of gray hair to a stiffer brush over his brow. "That's what I set out to do, I believe."

"But that's no reason why you should tire yourself to death, and break down the first year," said Mr. King, eyeing him sharply. "Zounds, man, that isn't what I brought you up from the country for."

Dr. Fisher looked into his wife's eyes and smiled. "I believe you brought me," the smile said. But he kept his tongue still.

"And you must get accustomed to seeing suffering that you can't help. Why, man alive, the town's full of it; you can't expect to stop it alone."

"I'll do what I can to help," said the little doctor between his teeth, and taking a long draught of the coffee his wife put by his plate. "I suppose there's no objection to that. Now, that's good," smacking his lips in a pleased way.

"Of course not, if you help in the right way," said old Mr. King stoutly, "but I'll wager anything that you're picking up all sorts of odd jobs among the poor, that belong to the young doctors. Your place is considerably higher, where you can pick and choose your patients."

Dr. Fisher laughed -- an odd little laugh, that along with its pleasant note, carried the ring of a strong will.

"Oh! well, you know, I'm too old to learn new ways," he said. "Better let me wag on at the old ones."

Mr. King gave an exclamation of disapproval. "It's lucky your time is short," he said grimly, and the secret was nearly out!

"Phronsie is coming downstairs to-morrow, isn't she?" asked Jasper quickly, over to the doctor.

"Oh! no, indeed, I think not," answered Mr. King before Dr. Fisher had time to reply. "She would better wait a day or two longer. Isn't that so, Doctor?" at last appealing to him.

"I don't agree with you," the little doctor drew off his attention from his plate. "You see she has regained her strength remarkably. Now the quicker she is in the family life again, the better for her."

"Oh, good! good!" cried Polly, delighted at the safe withdrawal from the precipice of dangerous argument. "Alexia, now you must help us think up something to celebrate her coming downstairs."

"Not so fast, Polly." The little doctor beamed at her in a way surprising to see after the morning's affair. "Phronsie won't be ready for any celebration before next week. Then I think you may venture."

Alexia pouted and played with her spoon.

"O dear!" cried Dick dolefully, "what's the reason we must wait a whole week, pray tell?"

"Because Father Fisher says so," replied Ben across the table; "that's the principal reason -- and it doesn't need any more to support it" -- 

"Well, I tell you," broke in Polly in her brightest way, "let us think up perfectly splendid things. It's best as it is, for it will take us a week to get ready."

"I shall get her a new doll," declared Mr. King. The rest shouted. "Her others must be quite worn out."

"What could you get her," cried Mr. Whitney, "in the way of a doll? Do tell us, for I really do not see."

"Why, one of those phonograph dolls, to be sure," cried Mr. King promptly.

"Are they on sale yet?" asked Jasper. "I thought they had not perfected them enough for the market."

"I think I know where one can be bought," said his father. "They must be perfected -- it's all nonsense that I can't find one if Phronsie wants it! Yes, she shall have a phonograph doll."

"That will be perfectly elegant," exclaimed Polly, with sparkling eyes. "Won't Phronsie be delighted when she hears it talk?"

"She ought to have a Punch and Judy show," said Mrs. Whitney, "she's always so pleased with them, father."

Mr. King pushed away his coffee-cup, and pulled out his note-book.

"'Punch and Judy,' down that goes," he said, noting it after "phonograph doll." "What else?"

"Can't we have some of those boys up from the Orphan Asylum?" asked Polly, after a minute in which everybody had done a bit of hard thinking. "Phronsie loves to hear them sing when she goes there. Oh! they are so cunning."

"She'll want to give them her best toys and load them down with all her possessions. You see if she doesn't," warned Jasper.

"Well, she won't give away her new doll, anyway," cried Polly.

"No, she never gives away one of the dolls you've given her, father," said Mrs. Whitney slowly, "not a single one. I tried her one day, asking her to give me one to bestow on a poor child, and she quite reproached me by the look in her brown eyes. I haven't asked her since."

"What did she say?" asked Mr. King abruptly.

"'I can't, Auntie; dear Grandpapa gave them to me himself.' Then she ran for her savings bank, and poured out the money in my lap. 'Let's go out and buy the poor child a doll,' she begged, and I really had to do it. And there must be at least two hundred dolls in this house."

"Two hundred dolls!" cried Alexia in astonishment, and raising her hands.

"Why, yes; father has been bringing Phronsie dolls for the last five years, with the greatest faithfulness, till her family has increased to a painful extent."

"O dear me!" cried Alexia, with great emphasis. "I should think they'd be under foot in every room."

"Well, indeed they're not," said Polly; "she keeps them up in her playroom."

"And the playroom closet," said Mrs. Whitney, "that is full. I peeped in there yesterday, and the dolls are ranged according to the times when father gave them to her."

"And the baby-house is just crowded," laughed Jasper. "I know, because I saw her moving out her chairs and tables to make room."

"O dear me!" exclaimed Alexia again, for want of something else to say.

"I just hate dolls," exploded Dick. "Faugh! how can girls play with them; they're so silly. And Phronsie always has something to do for hers, so she can't come when I want her to. I wish they were burned up," he added vindictively.

Mr. King rubbed his forehead in a puzzled way. "Perhaps she has enough," he said at last. "Yet what shall I give her if I don't buy a doll?"

"I'd give her the phonograph one, father," said Mrs. Whitney, "anyway."

"Yes, of course; but after that, what shall I do?"

He looked so troubled that Mrs. Whitney hastened to say, "Oh, well, father! you know when you are abr" -- and the secret Was nearly out for the second time!

But they were saved by the appearance of Alexia's father, who often dropped in on the edge of the dinner hour, for a second cup of coffee.

The next morning Phronsie was waiting for Grandpapa King, who insisted that no one else should carry her downstairs, the remainder of the household in various stages of delight and expectation, revolving around her, and curbing their impatience as best they might, in hall and on staircase.

"Oh, Grandpapa! do hurry," begged Dick, kicking his heels on the stairs.

"Hush, Dicky boy," said mamma. "Grandpapa can't come till his agent is gone. Don't you hear them talking in the library?"

"Well I wish Mr. Frazer would take himself off; he's a nuisance," declared the boy. "He's been here a whole hour."

"Here comes Grandpapa!" announced Polly gleefully, from a station nearer the library. "Hush, now, Mr. Frazer's going!"

The library door opening at this announcement, and a few sentences charged with business floating up the staircase, the bustle around Phronsie became joyfully intense.

"Mamsie, don't you think she ought to have a shawl on?" cried Polly anxiously, running over the stairs. "She's been shut up so long!"

"No," said Mother Fisher. "Doctor told me particularly not to bundle her up. It was the last thing he said before he went to his office."

"Well," said Polly with a sigh, "then there isn't absolutely anything more to do for her. Why doesn't Grandpapa come?"

"You are worse than Dicky," said Mrs. Fisher with a little laugh. "Dear me, Polly, just think how old you are."

Phronsie stood quite still in the middle of the floor and folded her hands. "I want to see Grandpapa all alone when he comes up," she said.

"What for?" cried Polly, pausing in astonishment.

"Do you want us all to go out, Phronsie?" asked her mother slowly.

"Yes," said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head with great decision, "please every single one go out, Mamsie. I want to see Grandpapa quite alone."

"All right, child," said Mrs. Fisher, with a look at Polly. So after a little demur and consequent delay on the part of the others, the door was closed and she was left standing all alone.

Phronsie drew a long breath. "I wish Grandpapa would come," she said to herself.

"And so you wanted me, did you, dear?" cried Mr. King joyfully, as he hurried in and closed the door carefully. "Well, now, see if I can guess what you want to tell me."

"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, standing quite still and turning a puzzled face toward him, "I don't want to tell you anything; I want to ask you something."

"Well, well, dear, what is it?" Old Mr. King, not stopping for a chair, leaned over her and stroked her yellow head. "Now, then, look up, and ask me right off, Phronsie."

"Must a person keep a promise?" asked Phronsie, "a really and truly promise, Grandpapa?"

"Yes, yes," said the old gentleman with great abruptness, "to be sure one must, Phronsie. To be sure. So now if any one has promised you anything, do you make him stick to it. It's mean enough to break your word, child."

Phronsie drew a long breath.

"That's all, Grandpapa," she said, and lifting up her arms; "now take me downstairs, please." She laid a cool little cheek against his, as he raised her to his shoulder.

"Remember what I say, Phronsie," laughed Mr. King, his mind more intent on the delightful fact that he was carrying down the longed-for burden to the family life, than on what he was saying, "and if any one has promised you anything, keep him up sharp to pay you. I verily believe it is that scamp Dick. Here goes!" and reaching the door he threw it wide. "Forward, march!"

"Well, is the important conference over?" asked Polly, with a keen look at them both.

Mrs. Fisher's eyes did their duty, but she said nothing.

"Yes, indeed," declared Mr. King, marching on gaily. "Now clear the way there, all you good people. Here, you Dick, drumming your heels, go ahead, sir."

"I'm glad enough to," shouted Dick, racing down the remainder of the stairs. "Halloo, Phronsie," waving his hand at her, "three cheers and a tiger! Bother! Here comes Mrs. Chatterton."

Which was quite true. To every one's astonishment the door of that lady's apartment opened slowly, disclosing her in new morning wrapper, preparing to join the cavalcade.

"Good morning, Cousin Eunice," cried Mr. King gaily. He could be merry with any one this day. "Come on, this is a festal occasion, you see; Phronsie's going downstairs for the first time. Fall into line!"

"I'm not able to go down," said Mrs. Chatterton, coming slowly out into the hall, "but I'll stand here and see the parade."

"Bully!" exploded Dick softly, peering up from the foot of the stairs.

Phronsie looked over Mr. King's shoulder at her as she was borne down the stairs, and, putting out her hand, "I'm all well now," she said.

"Yes, I see," said Mrs. Chatterton. Then she pulled up her white shawl with a shiver. "It's rather cold here," she said; "after all, I believe I must get back to my room."

Nobody noticed when she crept back, the hilarity now being so great below stairs.

"I certainly am losing ground," she muttered, "every little thing affects me so. I'll step into Bartram's office next time I go down town and set that little matter straight, since I've made up my mind to do it. It never would do to let him come to the house. Horatio would suspect something to see my lawyer here, and the whole household imagine I was going to die right off. No, no; I must go there, that's clear. Then if it's attended to, I'll live all the longer, with nothing on my mind."

Phronsie, meanwhile, was going around from room to room in a pleased way, and touching different objects gently "Everything's new, isn't it, Polly," she said at last, "when you stay upstairs? Oh! there's my kittens in the basket," pointing to a bisque vase on the table.

"Yes," said Polly; "Mamsie brought it in here. And we've some flowers; Alexia sent them over. They're out in the back hall; we saved them for you to put in yourself."

"Oh!" exclaimed Phronsie, "that's so good in you, Polly."

"Don't stop now," cried Dick in disgust. "Faugh! you can fix flowers any time. Come out into the dining-room -- and you'll see something you'll like."

Phronsie smothered a sigh, and turned slowly away from the kittens waiting in their basket for Alexia's flowers. "Come on!" shouted Dick, seizing her hand. "You never can guess what it is, in all this world."

"Is it a new dog?" asked Phronsie fearfully, whose memory of Dick's latest purchase was not altogether happy.

"No," said Dick, pulling her on, "better than that."

"Don't hurry her so," said Polly. "What have you got, Dick?"

"Now, do you mind, sir," cried Jasper, "else well stop your pretty plan."

"I won't hurry her," said Dick, slackening his gait. "Well, here we are," opening the dining-room door. "Why, Jane has let it out!"

Phronsie fell back a step at this and tried to cover her feet with her gown, searching the floor for the "it."

"Lookout!" cried Dick suddenly. "There he goes!" And something whirred over Phronsie's head.

"Oh! what is it?" she cried, tumbling into Jasper's arms and clasping his neck. "Oh! oh!"

"Why, it's a swallow," cried Dick, in the babel that ensued, "a beautiful one, too. I've just caught him, and I made Jane let me bring it in here to surprise you," he added proudly.

"Well, you've succeeded," cried Jasper, holding Phronsie close. "There, there, child, it's all right. It's a bird, Phronsie, and he's gone upstairs."

"He'll frighten my dolls," cried Phronsie in new alarm, hanging to Jasper's neck. "Oh! do let us go upstairs, and tell them he's only a bird."

"Run along, Dick, and catch your old bird," cried Jasper, "and clear out with him -- quick now!"

"He's the best thing there is in this house," cried Dick, going over the back stairs two at a time. "Girls are so silly."

"Bring him down," said Polly, moving along to the foot, "and I'll show him to Phronsie, and tell her about him. Then she'll like him, Dick."

"I'll like him, Dick," echoed Phronsie, "if he doesn't frighten my dolls."

This episode taking the family life to the rear of the house, no one noticed that soft footsteps were passing through the open front door, that Jane, who was sweeping the vestibule, had left ajar to run and tell Dick that she had not let the bird out of the dining-room. So the uninvited guest to the household let himself up easily to the scene of his hopes -- the location of the ladies' jewel-boxes.



XX

The Secret


Mrs. Chatterton, standing by her toilet table, carefully examining her wealth of gray hair to note the changes in its tint, was suddenly surprised in the very act of picking out an obnoxious white hair, by a slight noise in the further corner of the apartment. And dropping her fingers quickly and turning away from the glass, she exclaimed, "How dare you, Hortense, come in without knocking?"

"If you make a noise I'll kill you," declared a man, standing in the shadow of a portiere and watching her underneath a slouched black hat. There was a slight click that caused the listener's nerves to thrill. But her varied life had brought her nothing if not self-control, and she coolly answered, "If you want my money, say so."

"Not exactly money, ma'am," said the man, "for I don't suppose you have much here. But I'll thank you to hand over that there box of diamonds." He extended the other hand with its dingy fingers toward a large ebony jewel-case elaborate with its brass hinges, and suggestive of double locks, on a corner of the table.

"If you are determined to take it, I suppose I must give it to you," said Mrs. Chatterton, with evident reluctance handing the box designated, very glad to think she had but a few days before changed the jewels to another repository to escape Hortense's prying eyes. In making the movement she gave a sweeping glance out the window. Should she dare to scream? Michael was busy on the lawn, she knew; she could hear his voice talking to one of the under gardeners.

"See here, old lady," warned the man, "you keep your eyes in the room. Now then," his greedy glance fastened on the glittering gems on her fingers, "I'll thank you to rip them things off." Dick, racing along the further end of the hall after his bird with a "Whoop, la -- I've almost caught you," startling him, he proceeded to perform the service for himself.

"There he goes!" cried Dick, "in her room. Bother! Well, I must catch him." So without the preamble of knocking, the boy dashed into the dressing-room. The bird whizzing ahead of him, flashed between the drawn folds of the portiere.

"Excuse me," cried Dick, rushing in, "but my swallow -- oh!"

"Go back!" cried Mrs. Chatterton hoarsely, "you'll be killed."

The bird flying over his head, and the appearance of the boy, disconcerted the robber for one instant. He held the long white hand in his, tearing off the rings. There was no chance for her to escape, she knew, but she could save Dick.

"Go back!" she screamed again. There was only a moment to think, but Dick dashed in, and with a mighty spirit, but small fists, he flung himself against the stalwart arms and shoulders.

"O heavens!" screamed Mrs. Chatterton. "He's but a boy, let him go. You shall have the rings. Help -- help!"

Dick, clutching and tearing blindly at whatever in the line of hair or ragged garment he could lay hold of, was waging an unequal warfare. But what he did was accomplished finely. And the bird, rushing blindly into the midst of the contention, with whirrings and flappings indescribable, helped more than an army of servants, to confuse the man. Notwithstanding, it was soon over, but not before Mrs. Chatterton had wrenched her fingers free, and grasped the pistol from its loose hold in his other hand. The box under his arm fell to the floor, and Dick was just being tossed to the other side of the room; she could hear him strike the cheval-glass with a dull thud.

"I can shoot as well as you," said Mrs. Chatterton, handling the pistol deftly. "Make a noise, and I will."

He knew it, by her eyes, and that she had taken good aim.

"Where are you, Dick?" cried Polly's voice outside, and rapping at the door. "Mrs. Chatterton, have you seen him?"

"Come in," called Mrs. Chatterton, with firmest of fingers on the trigger and her flashing eyes fastened upon the seamed, dirty face before her.

Polly threw wide the door.

"We have a man here that we don't want," said Mrs. Chatterton. "I'll take care of him till you get help. Hurry!"

"Oh, Dick!" cried Polly in a breath, with a fearful glance at the boy lying there.

"I think he's all right, Polly." She dared say no more, for Dick had not stirred.

Polly clasped her hands, and rushed out almost into Jasper's face. "A burglar -- a burglar!" and he dashed into Mrs. Chatterton's room.

"Don't interfere," said Mrs. Chatterton. "I'm a splendid markswoman."

"You needn't shoot," said the man sullenly. "I won't stir."

"No, I don't think you will," said the gray-haired woman, her eyes alight, and hand firm as a rock. "Well, here are the men."

Jasper had seized a table-spread, and as Michael and the undergardeners advanced, he went back of the robber, and cleverly threw it over his head. It was easy to secure and bind him then. Polly rushed over to Dick.

"Turn the creature over and let us see how he looks," said Mr. King, hurrying in as the last knot of the rope was made fast. The old slouched hat had fallen off in the struggle, and the man's features came plainly to view. "He's no beauty, and that's a fact."

"I've seen that fellow round here for many a day," said Michael, giving the recumbent legs a small kick. "Oncet he axed me ef we wanted ony wourk done. I mind yees, yer see," with another attention from his gardening boot.

"I want to tie one rope," cried a voice. Dick opened his eyes, rubbed them, and felt of his head. "I'm all right, Polly. I saw stars, but I've got over it, I guess. Let me give him the last knot." He staggered blindly to his feet.

"I'll tie for you," said Jasper, "trust me, Dick's all right, only stunned," he telegraphed to the rapidly increasing group.

"Tell his mother so, do, somebody," said old Mr. King.

"Well, Cousin Eunice, you've covered yourself with glory," he turned on her warmly. She had thrown aside the pistol, and now sank into a chair.

"Never mind," she waved it off carelessly, "I'll imagine the compliments. Just now I want a glass of wine. Call Hortense, will you?"

The man on the floor tried to raise his head. But he couldn't, so was obliged to content himself with an ugly grin.

"That bird has flown," he said. "I'll peep. She put me up to it; we was goin' shares on the old lady's stuff."

With that Mrs. Chatterton's spirit returned. She sprang from her chair, and rushed around from bureau to closet to see the extent of her maid's dishonesty. But beyond a few minor deficiencies of her wardrobe, there was no robbery to speak of. Evidently Hortense had considered it unwise to be burdened with much impedimenta. So the robber was hauled off to justice, and Phronsie, coming wonderingly up the stairs, came softly in upon them, in time to see Dick rush up to Mrs. Chatterton with a "You're a brick!" before them all.

After that, there was no more hope of keeping things quiet in the house for Phronsie's sake. Meanwhile the bird, who had played no mean part in the engagement, now asserted himself, and blindly rushed into capture.

"Isn't he lovely!" cried Phronsie, tearing her gaze off from the wonderful wings, as the swallow fluttered under the mosquito netting speedily brought in.

"Yes, his wings are," said Polly. "Oh, Dick! do tell over again how it all happened."

So Dick rehearsed once more as far as he knew the story, tossing off lightly his part of it.

"Your poor head, does it ache?" cried Polly, feeling of the big bump on the crown.

"No, not a bit," declared Dick, shaking his brown poll. "I'm glad I didn't crack the glass."

"That heavy plate?" cried Polly, looking over at the cheval-glass with a shiver.

Phronsie deserted the fascinating bird, and began to smooth Dick's head with both hands.

"Do let me bathe it," she begged. "I'll get the Pond's Extract."

"No, I won't," said Dick. "It smells awfully, and I've had so much of it for my leg. I'm all right, Phronsie. See his wings now -- he's stretching."

But Phronsie was not to be diverted from her purpose.

"I'll get bay rum," she said. "May I?"

Dick made a wry face. "Worse and worse."

"Cologne, then."

"No, I hate it."

"He doesn't want it bathed, Phronsie dear," said Polly. "Boys like to get hurt, you know. 'Tisn't manly to be fixed up."

Phronsie gave a sigh, which so went to Dick's heart, that he said, "All right, bring on some water if you want to. But don't get any brown paper; I had enough of that when I was a boy."

And at the end of that exciting day, the secret came out, after all, in rather a tame fashion. Dr. Fisher and Jasper met Polly in an angle of the hall, as she was running upstairs after dinner for her schoolbooks.

"Polly," asked the little doctor, putting both hands on her shoulders, and looking into the brown eyes, "should you be willing to go abroad with your mother and Phronsie, Mr. King and Jasper?"

"Oh!" Polly gasped. "But you?" came in a later breath, "we couldn't leave you," she cried loyally.

"Well, I suppose I should go along too," said the little doctor, enjoying her face.

"Why, Jasper Elyot King!" cried Polly, slipping out from under the doctor's palms, and seizing the two hands extended, she began to spin around as in the olden days, "did you ever, ever hear of anything so perfectly magnificent! But Ben and Joel and Davie!" and she paused on the edge of another pirouette.

Dr. Fisher made haste to answer, "Polly, Mrs. Whitney will take care of them." And Jasper led her off into the dance again.

"How can we ever leave the boys! Oh! I don't see," cried Polly, a bit reproachfully, her hair blown over her rosy cheeks. As they danced lightly down the long hall, Dr. Fisher leaned against a pillar, and watched them.

"Have to," said Jasper, guiding his partner deftly in the intricacies of the chairs and statuary. "That's a good spin, Polly," he said, as they brought up by the little doctor's side.

"Lovely!" said Polly, pushing back her locks from the sparkling eyes.

"I'm almost tempted to dance myself," said Dr. Fisher. "If I wasn't such an old fellow, I'd try; that is, if anybody asked me."

"I will," said Polly, laughing. "Come, Papa Fisher," holding out her hand, "do give me the honor."

"All right," said Dr. Fisher bravely. So Jasper took the deserted post by the pillar, and whistled a Strauss waltz. Thereupon a most extraordinary hopping up and down the hall was commenced, the two figures bobbing like a pair of corks on a quivering water-surface.

The doors opened, and several faces appeared, amongst the number Mrs. Fisher's.

"I couldn't help it," said the little doctor, coming up red and animated, and wiping his forehead. His spectacles had fallen off long since, and he had let them go. "It looked so nice to see Jasper and Polly, I thought I'd try it. I didn't suppose I'd get on so well; I really believe I can dance."

"Humph!" laughed Mr. King, "it looks like it. Just see Polly."

"Oh, Papa Fisher!" cried Polly with a merry peal in which Jasper, unpuckering his lips from the Strauss effort, had joined, "we must have looked" -- Here she went off again.

"Yes," said Jasper, "you did. That's just it, Polly, you did. Lucky you two caperers didn't break anything."

"Well, if you've got through laughing," observed Dr. Fisher, "I'll remark that the secret is out."

"Do you like it, Polly?" asked Mr. King, holding out his hand. "Say, my girl?" And then before she could answer, he went on, "You see, we can't do anything without a doctor on our travels. Now Providence has given us one, though rather an obstinate specimen," he pointed to Father Fisher. "And he wants to see the hospitals, and you want to study a bit of music, and your mother wants rest, and Jasper and Phronsie and I want fun, so we're going, that's all."

"When?" demanded Polly breathlessly.

"In a month."



XXI

The Whitneys' Little Plan


"I think it's a mean shame," cried Joel, on a high vindictive key. "You've had burglars here twice, and I haven't been home."

"You speak as if we appointed the meeting, Joe," said Ben with a laugh.

"Well, it's mean, anyway," cried Joel, with a flash of his black eyes. "Now there won't any come again in an age."

"Goodness, I hope not," ejaculated Mr. King, lowering his newspaper to peer over its top.

"I'd have floored him," declared Joel, striking out splendidly from the shoulder, "if I'd only have been here."

"All very well," said Percy negligently, "but you weren't here," and he laughed softly.

"Do you mean to say that I couldn't have handled the burglar?" demanded Joel belligerently, and advancing on Percy, "say? Because if you do, why, I'll try a bout with you."

"I didn't say anything what you could or couldn't do. I said you weren't here, and you weren't. That's enough," and Percy turned his back on him, thrust his hands in the pockets of his morning jacket and stalked to the window.

Van opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it, and gave a low whistle. Joel, finding no enthusiasm for tales of his fighting prowess, ran off to interview Dick on the old topic of the burglary and to obtain another close account of its details.

"To think Phronsie saw the other burglar five years ago, and now Dick was on hand for this one -- those two babies," he fumed, "and none of us men around."

"Percy," said Van, "come out in the hall, will you?"

"What do you want?" asked Percy lazily.

"Oh! you come along," cried Van, laying hold of his jacket. "See here," dropping his voice cautiously, as he towed him successfully out, "let's give Joe a chance to see a burglar; he wants to so terribly."

"What do you mean?" asked Percy, with astonished eyes, his hands still in his pockets.

Van burst into a loud laugh, then stopped short. "It'll take two of us," he whispered.

"Oh, Van!" exclaimed Percy, and pulling his hands from their resting places, he clapped them smartly together.

"But we ought not, I really suppose," he said at last, letting them fall to his sides. "Mamma mightn't like it, you know."

"She wouldn't mind," said Van, yet he looked uneasy. "It would be a great comfort to every one, to take Joe down. He does yarn so."

"It's an old grudge with you," said Percy pleasantly. "You know he beat you when you were a little fellow, and he'd just come."

"As if I cared for that," cried Van in a dudgeon, "that was nothing. I didn't half try; and he went at me like a country sledge-hammer."

"Yes, I remember," Percy nodded placidly, "and you got all worsted and knocked into a heap. Everybody knew it."

"Do you suppose I'd pound a visitor?" cried Van wrathfully, his cheeks aflame. "Say, Percy Whitney?"

"No, I don't," said Percy, "not when 'twas Joe."

"That's just it. He was Polly's brother."

At mention of Polly, Percy's color rose, and he put out his hand. "Beg pardon, Van," he said. "Here, shake, and make up. I forgot all about our promise," he added penitently.

"I forgot it, too," declared Van, quieting down, and thrusting out his brown palm to meet his brother's. "Well, I don't care what you say if you'll only go halves in this lark," he finished, brightening up.

"Well, I will," said Percy, to make atonement.

"Come up to our room, then, and think it out," cried Van gleefully, flying over the stairs three at a bound. "Sh -- sh! and hurry up!"

Just then the door-bell gave a loud peal, and Jencks the butler opened it to receive a box about two feet long and one broad.

"For Miss Phronsie Pepper," said the footman on the steps, holding it out, "but it's not to be given to her till to-morrow."

"All right," said Jencks, taking it. "That's the sixth box for Miss Phronsie that I've took in this morning," he soliloquized, going down the hall and reading the address carefully. "And all the same size."

"Ding-a-ling," Jencks laid the parcel quickly on one of the oaken chairs in the hall, and hurried to the door, to be met by another parcel for "Miss Phronsie Pepper: not to be given to her till to-morrow."

"And the i-dentical size," he ejaculated, squinting at it as he went back to pick up the first parcel, "as like as two peas, they are."

Upstairs Polly was at work with happy fingers, Alexia across the room, asking every third minute, "Polly, how does it go? O dear! I can't do anything unless you look and see if it's right."

And Polly would turn her back on a certain cloud of white muslin and floating lace, and flying off to Alexia to give the necessary criticism, with a pull here and a pat there, would set matters straight, presently running back to her own work again.

"You see," she said, "everything must be just right, for next to Mamsie's wedding, this is to be the most important occasion, Alexia Rhys, that we've ever known. We can't have anything too nice for Phronsie's getting-well party."

"That's so," said Alexia, twitching a pink satin bow on the handle of a flower-basket. "O dear me! this bow looks like everything! I've tried six different times to make it hang down quite careless and refined. And just to provoke me, it pokes up like a stiff old thing in my face. Do come and tie it, Polly."

So Polly jumped up again, and laying determined fingers on the refractory bow, sent it into a shape that Alexia protested was "too lovely for anything."

"Are you going to have a good-by party?" asked Alexia after a minute.

"I suppose so," said Polly. "Grandpapa said I would better, but O dear me, I don't believe I can ever get through with it in all this world," and Polly hid her face behind a cloud of muslin that was slowly coming into shape as a dress for one of Phronsie's biggest dolls.

"It will be dreadful," said Alexia, with a pathetic little sniff, and beginning on a second pink bow, "but then, you know, it's your duty to go off nicely, and I'm sure you can't do it, Polly, without a farewell party."

"Yes," said Polly slowly, "but then I'd really rather write little notes to all the girls. But I suppose they'll all enjoy the party," she added.

"Indeed they will," declared Alexia quickly. "O dear me, I wish I was going with you. You'll have a perfectly royal time.

"I'm going to work hard at my music, you know," declared Polly, raising her head suddenly, a glow on her round cheek.

"Oh! well, you'll only peg away at it when you've a mind," said Alexia carelessly, and setting lazy stitches. "Most of the time you'll be jaunting around, seeing things, and having fun generally. Oh! don't I wish I was going with you."

"Alexia Rhys!" cried Polly in astonishment, and casting her needle from her, she deserted the muslin cloud summarily. "Only peg away when I have the mind?" she repeated indignantly. "Well, I shall have the mind most of the time, I can tell you. Why, that's what I am going abroad for, to study music. How can I ever teach it, if I don't go, pray tell?" she demanded, and now her eyes flashed, and her hands worked nervously.

"Oh! nonsense," cried Alexia, not looking at the face before her, and going on recklessly, "as if that meant anything, all that talk about your being a music-teacher, Polly," and she gave a little incredulous laugh.

Polly got out of her chair somehow, and stood very close to the fussing fingers over the pink satin bow. "Do you never dare say that to me again," she commanded; "it's the whole of my life to be a music-teacher -- the very whole."

"Oh, Polly!" down went the satin bow dragging with it Alexia's spool of silk and the dainty scissors. "Don't -- don't -- I didn't mean anything; but you really know that Mr. King will never let you be a music-teacher in all this world. Never; you know it, Polly. Oh! don't look like that; please don't."

"He will," said Polly, in a low but perfectly distinct voice, "for he has promised me."

"Well, he'll get out of it somehow," said Alexia, her evil genius urging her on, "for you know, Polly, it would be too queer for any of his family, and -- and a girl of our set, to turn out a music-teacher. You know, Polly, that it would."

And Alexia smiled in the most convincing way and jumped up to throw her arms around her friend.

"If any of the girls in our set," said Polly grandly, and stepping off from Alexia, "wish to draw away from me, they can do so now. I am to be a music-teacher; I'm perfectly happy to be one, I want you all to understand. Just as happy as I can possibly be in all this world. Why, it's what I've been studying and working for, and how else do you suppose I can ever repay dear Grandpapa for helping me?" Her voice broke, and she stopped a minute, clasping her hands tightly to keep back the rush of words.

"Oh, Polly!" cried Alexia in dismay, and beginning to whimper, she tried again to put her arm around her.

"Don't touch me," said Polly, waving her off with an imperative hand.

"Oh, Polly! Polly!"

"And the rest of our set may feel as you do; then I don't want them to keep on liking me," said Polly, with her most superb air, and drawing off further yet.

"Polly, if you don't stop, you'll -- you'll kill me," gasped Alexia. "Oh, Polly! I don't care what you are. You may teach all day if you want to, and I'll help get you scholars. I'll do anything, and so will all the girls; I know they will. Polly, do let me be your friend just as I was. O, dear, dear! I wish I hadn't said anything -- I wish I had bitten my tongue off; I didn't think you'd mind it so much," and now Alexia broke down, and sobbed outright.

"You've got to say it's glorious to teach," said Polly, unmoved, and with her highest air on, "and that you're glad I'm going to do it."

"It's glo -- glorious to teach," mumbled poor Alexia behind her wet handkerchief.

"And I'm glad you're going to do it," dictated Polly inflexibly.

"I'm glad you're going to do it," echoed Alexia in a dismal tone.

"Then I'll be your friend once more," consented Polly with a slow step toward Alexia, "that is, if you never in all this world say such a dreadful thing again, Alexia Rhys."

"Don't ask me. You know I won't," promised Alexia, her spirits rising. So Polly went over to her and set a kiss on her wet cheek, comforting her as only Polly could, and before long the pink satin bow, with the spool of silk hanging to it, and the scissors were found under the table, and Polly attacked the muslin cloud with redoubled vigor, and the girls' voices carried merry laughter and scraps of happy talk, and Mrs. Chatterton stole out of the little reading-room next to them and shut herself up in her own apartment.

"Dear me, how fine that doll's gown is to be, Polly," exclaimed Alexia after a bit. "Is the lace going on all around the bottom?"

"Yes," said Polly, biting off her thread, and giving the muslin breadths a little shake; "Felicie is tucking the flounce; then I shall have to sew on the lace."

"How many dolls are there to refurbish before to-morrow?" asked Alexia suddenly.

"Four -- no, five," said Polly, rapidly counting; "for the one that Grandpapa gave her Christmas before last, Celestine, you know, does need a new waist. I forgot her. But that doesn't count the new sashes, and the hair ribbons and the lace ruffles around the necks; I guess there are almost fifty of them. Dear me, I must hurry," and she began to sew faster yet.

"What a nuisance all those dolls are," said Alexia, "they take up every bit of your spare time."

"That isn't the worst of it," said Polly. "Alexia, I don't know what we shall do, for Phronsie works over them till she's quite tired out. You ought to see her this morning."

"She's up in the play-house at it now, I suppose," said Alexia, "dressing every one of them for the party to-morrow."

"Yes," said Polly, "she is."

"Well, I hope no one will give her a doll to-morrow," said Alexia, "at least no one but Mr. King. Of course he will."

"Oh! no one else will," declared Polly cheerfully. "Of course not, Alexia."

And then Jencks walked in with his seven boxes exactly alike as to size, and deposited them solemnly in a row on the blue and white lounge. "For Miss Phronsie Pepper, and not to be opened till to-morrow, Miss Mary."

"Polly," said Alexia in a stage whisper, and jumping up as Jencks disappeared, to run over to the row, "do you suppose they are dolls?"

"I shall die if they are," declared Polly desperately, and sitting quite still.

"They surely look like dolls on the very covers," said Alexia, fingering the cords. "Would it be so very wrong to open one box, and just relieve our suspense? Just one, Polly?"

"No, no, don't," cried Polly sharply. "They belong to Phronsie. But O dear me!"

"And just think," said Alexia, like a Job's comforter, and looking over at the clock, "it's only half-past eleven. Polly Pepper, there's time for oceans more to come in yet."

"It's perfectly horrid to get such a scrap of an outing," said Joel that night, sprawling on the rug before the library fire, "only four days! Why couldn't Mr. Marks be sick longer than that, if he was going to be sick at all, pray?"

"These four days will give you strength for your 'exams,' won't they, Joe?" asked Van.

Joel turned his black eyes on him and coolly said "Yes," then made a wry face, doubled up a bit of paper, and aimed it at Van.

Davie sighed, and looked up anxiously. "I hope Mr. Marks will come out all right so that we can go back Monday."

"I only hope he'll stay ill," said Joel affectionately. "'Tisn't safe anyway for us to go back Monday. It may be typhoid fever, you know, Mamsie," looking over at her.

"They'll let us know soon enough if that's the case," said Mother Fisher in the lamp-light over by the center-table. "No, I expect your letter to-morrow will say 'Come Monday.'"

"Well, it's a downright shame for us to be pulled off so soon," cried Joel indignantly, sitting straight.

"Think how soon the term ends, Joe," cried Polly, "then you have such a long outing." She sighed as she thought of the separation to come, and the sea between them.

"That's nothing; only a dreadful little time -- soon will be gone," grunted Joel, turning his face to look at the brightly-leaping flames the cool evening had made necessary.

Ben glanced over at Polly. "Don't talk of the summer," he was going to say, but stopped in time. Phronsie set her doll carefully in the corner of the sofa, and went over to Joel.

"Does your head ache often at school, Joel?" she asked, softly laying her cool little palm on his stubby hair.

"Yes," said Joel, "it does, awfully, Phronsie; and nobody cares, and says 'Stop studying."

A shout greeted this.

"That's too bad," said Phronsie pityingly, "I shall just write and ask Mr. Marks if he won't let you stop and rest when it aches."

"'Twouldn't do any good, Phronsie," said Joel, "nothing would. He's a regular old grinder, Marks is."

"Mr. Marks," said Phronsie slowly, "I don't know who you mean by Marks, Joel. And what is a grinder, please?" getting down on her knees to look in his face.

"And he works us boys so, Phronsie -- you can't think," said Joel, ignoring the question.

"What is a grinder, Joel, please tell me," repeated Phronsie with gentle persistence.

"Oh! a grinder is a horrid buffer," began Joel impatiently.

"Joel," said Mrs. Fisher, reprovingly. The fire in her black eyes was not pleasant to look at, and after one glance, he turned back to the blazing logs once more.

"I can't help it," he muttered, picking up the tongs to poke the fire.

"Don't ever let me hear that excuse from a son of mine," said Mother Fisher scornfully. "Can't help it. I'd be master of myself, that's one thing."

Joel set the tongs back with an unsteady hand. They slipped and fell to the hearth with a clang.

"Mamsie, I didn't mean," he began, finding his feet. And before any one could draw a long breath, he rushed out of the room.

There was a dreadful pause. Polly clasped her hands tightly together, and looked at her mother. Mrs. Fisher quietly put her sewing into the big basket and got out of her chair.

"Oh! what is the matter with Joey?" cried Phronsie, standing quite still by the deserted hearth-rug. "Mamsie, do you suppose his head aches?"

"I think it must," said Mrs. Fisher gravely. Then she went out very quietly and they could hear her going up the stairs.

With a firm step she went into her own room, and turned up the gas. The flash revealed Joel, face downward on the broad, comfortable sofa. Mrs. Fisher went over and closed the door, then came to his side.

"I thought, my boy," she said, "that I should find you here. Now then, tell mother all about it," and lifting his head, she sat down and took it into her lap.

"O dear!" cried Joel, burrowing deep in the comfortable lap, "O dear -- O dear!"

"Now, that is silly, Joey," said Mother Fisher, "tell me at once what all this trouble is about," passing her firm hands over his hot forehead, and trying to look in his face. But he struggled to turn it away from her.

"In the first place I just hate school!" he exploded.



XXII

Joel


"Hate school?" cried Mother Fisher. "Oh, Joey! think how Ben wanted more schooling, only he wouldn't take the chance when Mr. King offered it to him because he felt that he must be earning money as soon as possible. Oh, Joey!"

That "Oh, Joey!" cut deeply. Joel winced and burrowed deeper under his mother's fingers.

"That's just it," he cried. "Ben wanted it, and I don't. I hate it, and I don't want to go back."

"Don't want to go back?" repeated Mrs. Fisher in dismay.

"No, I don't. The fellows are always twitting me, and every one gets ahead of me, and I'm everlastingly staying in from ballgames to make up lessons, and I'd like to fire the books, I would," cried Joel with venom.

Mrs. Fisher said nothing, but the hands still stroked the brown stubby head in her lap.

"And nobody cares for me because I won't be smart like the others, but I can't help it, I just hate school!" finished Joel in the same strain.

"Joel," said Mrs. Fisher slowly, "if that is the case, I shall go down to Mr. King and tell him that we, Father Fisher and I, Polly and Phronsie, will not go abroad with him."

Joel bolted upright and, putting down his two hands, brought his black eyes to bear on her.

"What?"

"I shall go directly downstairs and tell Mr. King that Father Fisher and I, Polly and Phronsie, will not go abroad with him," repeated his mother slowly and distinctly while she looked him fully in the face.

"You can't do that," said Joel in amazement. "He's engaged the state-rooms."

"That makes no difference," said Mrs. Fisher, "when a woman has a boy who needs her, nothing should stand in the way. And I must stay at home and take care of you, Joel."

Joel sprang to his feet and began to prance up and down the floor. "I'm big enough to take care of myself, mother," he declared, coming up to her, to prance off again.

"So I thought," said Mrs. Fisher composedly, "or I shouldn't have placed you at Mr. Marks's school."

"The idea, Mamsie, of your staying at home to take care of me," said Joel excitedly. "Why, feel of that." He bared his arm, and coming up, thrust it out for inspection. "Isn't that splendid? I do verily believe I could whip any fellow in school, I do," he cried, regarding his muscles affectionately. "If you don't believe it, just pinch them hard. You don't mean it really, Mamsie, what you said, of course. The idea of staying at home to take care of me," and he began to prance again.

"I don't care how many boys you can whip," observed Mother Fisher coolly, "as long as you can't whip your own self when you're naughty, you're too weak to go alone, and I must stay at home."

Joel stopped suddenly and looked at her.

"And before I'd give up, a boy of thirteen, and beg to be taken away from school because the lessons were hard, and I didn't like to study, I'd work myself to skin and bone but I'd go through creditably." Mrs. Fisher sat straight now as an arrow in her corner of the sofa. "I've said my say, Joel," she finished after a pause, "and now I shall go down and tell Mr. King."

"Mother," howled Joel, dashing across the room to her, "don't go! I'll stay, I will. Don't say that again, about my having to be taken care of like a baby. I'll be good, mother, and study."

"Study doesn't amount to much unless you are glad of the chance," said Mrs. Fisher sharply. "I wouldn't give a fig for it, being driven to it," and her lips curled scornfully.

Joel wilted miserably. "I do care for the chance," he cried; "just try me, and see."

Mrs. Fisher took his sunburnt face between her two hands. "Do you really wish to go back to school, and put your mind on your books? Be honest, now."

"Yes, I do," said Joel, without winking.

"Well, you never told me a lie, and I know you won't begin now," said Mother Fisher, slowly releasing him. "You may go back, Joe; I'll trust you."

"Phronsie," said Jasper, as the sound of the two voices could be heard in Mother Fisher's room, "don't you want to come into my den? I've some new bugs in the cabinet -- found a regular beauty to-day."

Phronsie stood quite still just where Joel had left her; her hands were clasped and tears were rolling slowly down her cheeks. "No," she said, without looking at him, "Jasper, I don't."

"Do come, Phronsie," he begged, going over to her, and holding out his hand. "You can't think how nice the new one is, with yellow stripes and two long horns. Come and see it, Phronsie."

"No, Jasper," said the child quietly. Then in the next breath, "I think Joey must be very sick."

"Oh! Mamsie is taking care of him, and he'll soon be all right," broke in Polly cheerily. "Do go with Jasper, Phronsie, do, dear." She took hold of the clasped hands, and smiled up into the drooping face.

But Phronsie shook her head and said "No."

"If Grandpapa should come in and find her so 'twould be very dreadful!" exclaimed Polly, looking over at the five boys, who in this sudden emergency were knocked speechless. "Do let us all play some game. Can't some one think of one?"

"Let us play 'Twenty Questions,'" proposed Jasper brightly. "I'll begin it, I've thought of something."

"That's horrid," cried Van, finding his tongue, "none of us want to play that, I'm sure."

"I do," said David. "I think 'Twenty Questions' is always nice. Is it animal, vegetable or mineral, Jasper?"

"I'm sick of it. Do play something not quite as old as the hills, I beg."

"Well, you think of something yourself, old man," said Jasper, nodding furiously at him. "Hurry up."

"I'd rather have Polly tell a story than any game you could possibly think of," said Van, going over to her, where she sat on the rug at Phronsie's feet. "Polly, will you?" he asked wheedlingly.

"Don't ask her to-night," interposed Jasper.

"Yes, I shall. It's the only time we shall have," said Van, "before we go back to school. Do, Polly, will you?" he begged again.

"I can't think of the first thing," declared Polly, pushing back little rings of brown hair from her forehead.

"Don't try to think; just spin it off," said Van. "Now begin."

"You're a regular nuisance, Van!" exclaimed Jasper indignantly. "Polly, I wouldn't indulge him."

"I know Phronsie wants a story; don't you, Phronsie?" asked Van artfully, and running over to peer into her face.

But to his astonishment, Phronsie stood perfectly still. "No," she said again, "I don't want a story; Joey must be sick."

"Jasper," cried Polly in despair, and springing up, "something must be done. Grandpapa's coming; I hear him."

"Phronsie," said Jasper, bending to speak into her ear, "do you know you are making Polly feel very unhappy? Just think; the next thing I don't know but what she'll cry."

Phronsie unfolded her hands. "Give me your handkerchief, Polly," she said, winking back the rest of the tears.

"Now, there's a dear," cried Polly, pulling out her handkerchief and wiping the wet, little face. None too soon; the door opened and Mr. King came in.

"Well -- well -- well!" he exclaimed, looking over his spectacles at them all. "Playing games, hey?"

"We're going to," said Ben and Jasper together.

"No, Polly is going to tell a story," said Van loudly, "that is, if you want to hear it, Grandpapa. Do say you do," he begged, going over to whisper in his ear.

"I want immensely to hear it!" declared the old gentleman, pulling up an easy-chair to the fireside. "There now," sitting down, "I'm fixed. Now proceed, my dear."

Van softly clapped his hands. "Phronsie," Mr. King beckoned to her, and then suggestively touched his knee, "here, dear."

Phronsie scurried across the room to his side. "Yes, Grandpapa."

"There, up she goes!" sang Mr. King, swinging her into position on his lap. "Now then, Polly, my child, we are all ready for the wonderful tale. Stay, where is Joel?"

"Joel went upstairs a little while ago," said Jasper quickly. "Well, now, Polly, do begin."

"I'll tell how we went to buy Phronsie's shoes," said Polly, drawing up an ottoman to Mr. King's side. "Now, boys, bring your chairs up."

"Joel ought to know that you are going to tell a story, Polly," said Mr. King. "One of you boys run out and call him at the foot of the stairs."

"He's in Mamsie's room," said Ben. "I suppose when she gets through with him, he'll come down."

"Oh! ah!" said the old gentleman. "Well, Polly, then perhaps you would better proceed."

So Polly began on the never tiresome recital, how Phronsie fell down the stairs leading from the kitchen to the "provision room" in the little brown house, with the bread-knife in her hand; and how, because she cut her thumb so that it bled dreadfully, mother decided that she could at last have a pair of shoes bought especially for her very own self; and how Deacon Brown's old horse and wagon were procured, and they all set forth, except mother, and how they rode to town, and how the Beebes were just as good as gold, and how the red-topped shoes fitted as if they were made for Phronsie's feet, and how they all went home, and how Phronsie danced around the kitchen till she was all tired out, and then went to bed carrying the new shoes with her, and how she fell asleep with -- 

"Why, I declare," exclaimed Polly, reaching this denouement in a delightfully roundabout way, "if she isn't asleep now!"

And indeed she was. So she had to be carried up to bed in the same old way; only this time it was Jasper instead of Polly who held her.

"Don't you believe we'd better put it off till some other night?" whispered Percy to Van on the way upstairs to bed, the library party having broken up early. "A fellow doesn't want to see a burglar on top of the time Joel has had."

"No, no," said Van; "it'll be good for him, and knock the other thing out of his head, don't you see, Percy? I should want something else to think of if I were Joel. You can't back out; you promised, you know."

"Well, and I'll do it," said Percy testily.

"It's no use trying to sleep," declared Joel, in the middle of the night, and kicking the bed-clothes for the dozenth time into a roll at the foot, "as long as I can see Mamsie's eyes. I'll just get up and tackle that Latin grammar now. Whew! haven't I got to work, though! Might as well begin at it," and he jumped out of bed.

Stepping softly over to the door that led into David's little room, he closed it carefully, and with a sigh, lighted the gas. Then he went over to the table where his schoolbooks ought to have been. But instead, the space was piled with a great variety of things -- one or two balls, a tennis racket, and a confusion of fishing tackle, while in front, the last thing that had occupied him that day, lay a book of artificial flies.

Joel set his teeth together hard, and looked at them. "Suppose I shan't get much of this sort of thing this summer," he muttered. "Here goes!" and without trusting himself to take another look, he swept them all off down to the floor and into a corner.

"There," he said, standing up straight, "lie there, will you?" But they loomed up in a suggestive heap, and his fingers trembled to just touch them once.

"I must cover up the things, or else I know I'll be at them," he said, and hurrying over to the bed, he dragged off the cover-lid. "Now," and he threw it over the fascinating mass, "I've GOT to study. Dear me, where are my books?"

For the next five minutes Joel had enough to do to collect his working instruments, and when at last he unearthed them from the corner of his closet where he had thrown them under a pile of boots, he was tired enough to sit down.

"I don't know which to go at first," he groaned, whirling the leaves of the upper book. "It ought to be Latin -- but then it ought to be algebra just as much, and as for history -- well there -- here goes, I'll take them as they come."

With a very red face Joel plunged into the first one under his hand. It proved to be the Latin grammar, and with a grimace, he found the page, and resting his elbows on the table, he seized each side of his stubby head with his hands. "I'll hang on to my hair," he said, and plunged into his task.

And now there was no sound in the room but his hard breathing, and the noise he made turning the leaves, for he very soon found he was obliged to go back many lessons to understand how to approach the one before him; and with cheeks growing every instant more scarlet with shame and confusion, the drops of perspiration ran down his forehead and fell on his book.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, "it's horribly hot," and pushing back his book, he tiptoed over to the other window and softly raised it. The cool air blew into his face, and leaning far out into the dark night, he drew in deep breaths.

"I've skinned through and saved my neck a thousand times," he reflected, "and now I've got to dig like sixty to make up. There's Dave now, sleeping in there like a cat; he doesn't have anything to do, but to run ahead of the class like lightning -- just because he" -- 

"Loves it," something seemed to sting the words into him. Joel drew in his head and turned abruptly away from the window.

"Pshaw! well, here goes," he exclaimed again, throwing himself into his chair. "She said, 'I'd work myself to skin and bone but I'd get through creditably.'" Joel bared his brown arm and regarded it critically. "I wonder how 'twould look all skin and bone," and he gave a short laugh.

"But this isn't studying." He pulled down his sleeve, and his head went over the book again.

Outside, a bright blue eye applied to the keyhole, gave place to a bright brown one, till such time as the persons to whom the eyes belonged, were satisfied as to the condition of the interior they were surveying.

"What do you suppose he's doing?" whispered the taller figure, putting his face concealed under a black mask, closely to the ear of the other person, whose countenance was similarly adorned.

"Don't know," whispered the second black mask. "He acts dreadfully queer, but I suppose he's got a novel. So you see it's our duty to break it up," he added virtuously.

The taller figure shook his head, but as it was very dark on their side of Joel's door, the movement was unobserved.

"Well, come on," whispered the second black mask. "Are you ready?"

Yes.

"Come then."

"O, dear, dear!" grunted Joel, "I'd rather chop wood as I used to, years ago, to help the little brown house out," swinging his arms up over his head. "Why" -- 

And he was left in darkness, his arms falling nervously to his side, while a cautious step across the room made his black eyes stand out in fright.

"A burglar -- a burglar!" flashed through his mind. He held his breath hard and his knees knocked together. But Mamsie's eyes seemed to look with scorn on him again. Joel straightened up, clenched his fist, and every minute expecting to be knocked on the head, he crept like a cat to the further corner, even in this extremity, grumbling inwardly because Mr. King would not allow firearms. "If I only had them now!" he thought. "Well, I must get my club."

But there was no time to get it. Joel creeping along, feeling his way cautiously, soon knew that there were two burglars instead of one in the room, and his mind was made up.

"They'll be after Grandpapa's money, sure," he thought. "I have got to get out, and warn him."

But how? that was the question.

Getting down on all-fours, holding his breath, yet with never a thought of danger to himself, he crept along toward the door leading into the hall, then stopped and rested under cover of the heavy window drapery. But as quick as a flash, two dark figures, that now, his eyes becoming more accustomed to the darkness, he could dimly distinguish, reached there before him, and the key clicking in the lock, Joel knew that all hope from escape by that quarter was gone.

Like a cat, he sprang to his feet, swung the drapery out suddenly toward the figures, and in the next second hurled himself over the window-sill, hanging to the edge, grasping the blind, crawling to the next window, and so on and over, and down, down, by any friendly thing he could grasp, to the ground.

Two black masks hung over the deserted window-edge.

"Joe -- Joe! it's only we boys -- Percy and Van. Joe -- Joe!"

"He'll be killed!" gasped Van, his face as white as Joel's robe fluttering below them in his wild descent. "Stop him, Percy. Oh! do stop him."

Percy clung to the window-sill, and danced in distress. "Stop him!" he was beyond uttering anything more.

"Yes, oh, Joe! don't you see it's only Percy and Van?" cried Van persuasively, and hanging out of the window to the imminent danger of adding himself to Joel's company.

Percy shoved him back. "He's 'most down," he said, finding his breath. "Now we'll run downstairs and let him in."

Van flew off from the window. "I'll go; it's my scrape," and he was unlocking the door.

"I'm the oldest," said Percy, hurrying to get there first. "I ought to have known better."

This made Van furious, and pushing Percy with all his might, he wriggled out first as the door flew open, and not forgetting to tiptoe down the hall, he hurried along, Percy behind him, to hear the noise of men's feet coming over the stairs.

Van tried to rush forward shouting, "Thomas, it's we boys -- Percy and Van." Instead, he only succeeded in the darkness, in stumbling over a chair, and falling flat with it amid a frightful racket that drowned his voice.

Old Mr. King who had been awakened by the previous noise, and had rung his burglar alarm that connected with Thomas's and Jencks's rooms in the stable, now cried out from his doorway. "Make quick work, Thomas," and Percy saw the gleam of a pistol held high in Thomas's hand.

Up with a rush came bare feet over the back stairs; a flutter of something white, and Joel sprang in between them. "It's Percy -- it's Percy!" he screamed, "don't you see, Thomas?"

"I'm Percy -- don't shoot!" the taller burglar kept saying without intermission, while the flaring of candles and frightened voices, told of the aroused household.

"Make quick work, Jencks!" shouted Mr. King from his doorway, to add to the general din.

Thomas, whose blood was up, determined once for all to put an end to the profession of burglary as far as his master's house was concerned, now drew nearer, steadying his pistol and trying to sight the nearest fellow. This proved to be Van, now struggling to his feet.

Joel took one wild step forward. "Thomas -- don't shoot! It's Van!"

"Make quick work, Thomas!" called Mr. King.

There was but a moment in which to decide. It was either Van or he; and in an instant Joel had stepped in front of the pistol.



XXIII

Of Many Things


Van threw his arms around Joel. "Make quick work, Thomas," called Mr. King from his doorway. The pistol fell from Thomas's hand. "I've shot one of the boys. Och, murther!" he screamed.

And everybody rushing up supposed it was Van, who was writhing and screaming unintelligibly in the corner.

"Oh! I've killed him," they finally made out.

"Who -- who? Oh, Van! who?"

"Joey," screamed Van, bending over a white heap on the floor. "Oh! make him get up. Oh! I've killed him."

The mask was hanging by one end from his white face, and his eyes protruded wildly. Up flew another figure adorned with a second black mask.

"No, no, it was I," and Percy rushed forward with an "Oh, Joel, Joel!"

Somebody lighted the gas, that flashed suddenly over the terrified group, and somebody else lifted the heap from the corner. And as they did so, Joel stirred and opened his eyes.

"Don't make such a fuss," he said crossly. One hand had gripped the sleeve of his night-dress, trying to hold it up in a little wad on the shoulder, the blood pouring down the arm. At sight of this, Van collapsed and slid to the floor.

"Don't frighten Mamsie," said Joel, his head drooping, despite his efforts to hold it up. "I'm all right; nothing but a scratch. Ugh! let me be, will you?" to Mr. Whitney and Jasper, who were trying to support him.

And Mother Fisher, for the first time since the children had known her, lost her self-control.

"Oh, Joey! and mother was cross to you," she could only sob as she reached him.

Polly, at a nod from the little doctor's night-cap and a few hurried words, ran as in a dream for the case of instruments in his bedroom.

"All right, Mamsie!" exclaimed Joel in surprise, and trying to stagger to his feet.

"Good heavens and earth!" cried old Mr. King, approaching. "What? oh! it's monstrous -- Joel!"

"Och, murther!" Thomas sidled along the edge of the group, rolling fearful eyes at them, and repeating over and over, "I've shot that boy -- that boy!"

All this occupied but an instant, and Joel was laid on his bed, and the wound which proved to be only a flesh one, the ball cutting a little furrow as it grazed the shoulder, was dressed, and everybody drew a long breath. "Tell Van that I'm all right," Joel kept saying all the time.

Polly undertook to do this.

"Van -- Van!" she cried, running out into the hall to lay a shaking hand on his arm, where he lay on the floor. "Joel sent me to say that he is all right."

"Polly, I've killed him!" Van thrust his head up suddenly and looked at her, with wild eyes. "I have -- don't speak to me, or look at me. I've killed Joel!"

"Take off this dreadful thing," said Polly with a shiver, and kneeling down, she seized the strings that tied the mask. "O dear! it's all in a knot. Wait, I'll get the scissors," and she found her feet, and ran off to her room.

"Now you are all right;" he gave a little sob as the mask tumbled off. "Oh! how could you?" she wanted to say, but Van's distress was too dreadful for anything but comfort.

"Don't you see," said Polly, sitting down on the floor and cuddling up his head in her lap, "that Joel is really all right now? Suppose we hadn't a Father Fisher who was a doctor, what should we do then?" and she even managed a faint laugh.

"O dear! but I've killed Joel." Van covered his face with the folds of her flannel dress and wailed on.

"Now, just see here, Van Whitney," said Polly, with the air of authority, "I tell you that Joel is all right now. Don't you say that again -- not once more, Vanny."

"But I have ki -- I mean I saw Thomas shoot, and I couldn't stop him," and Van writhed fearfully, ending with a scream "I've ki" -- but Polly, clapping her hand over his mouth, kept the words back.

Meanwhile Percy had rushed out of the house.

"Oh!" cried Polly, when this new alarm sprang up, and everybody was running hither and thither to comfort him by the assurance that Joel was not much hurt, "do, Uncle Mason and Jasper, let me go with you."

"No, no, you stay here, Polly," cried Jasper, throwing wide the heavy front door. "Brother Mason and I will find him. Don't worry, Polly."

"I know I could help," said Polly, hanging over the stair-railing. "Oh! do let me," she begged.

"No, no, child," said Mr. Whitney, quickly. "Stay where you are, and take care of the others. Now, then, Jasper, is Jencks ready with the lantern?"

"All right," said Jasper. "Come on."

Polly, longing to fly to the window to watch, at least, the lantern's twinkling light across the lawn, hurried off to comfort Aunt Whitney, who at this new stage in the affairs, was walking her room, biting her lips to keep from screaming the terror that clutched at her heart.

"Oh, Polly!" she cried, "I'm so glad you've come. I should die if left alone here much longer;" her soft hair floated down the white robe, and the blue eyes were filled with tears. "Do tell me, don't you think they will find Percy?"

"Yes, indeed!" declared Polly, cuddling up to the little woman. "Oh, Auntie! remember when Dicky's leg was broken."

"But this is much worse," said Mrs. Whitney, sobbing, and holding close to Polly's warm hand.

"But we thought he was dead," and Polly gave a little shiver.

"Don't -- don't," begged Mrs. Whitney, clasping her hands; "Oh, Polly! don't."

"But he wasn't, you see, Auntie," Polly hurried on, "and so now you know it will come out all right about Per -- There! Oh! they've found him!" as a shout from the lawn rang out.

"Do you suppose it, Polly?" cried Mrs. Whitney, breathlessly. "Oh! do run to the window and see!"

So Polly ran to the window in the next room that overlooked that part of the lawn where Mr. Whitney and Jasper were searching, and strained her gaze up and down, and in every direction.

"Have they? oh! have they?" cried Mrs. Whitney. "Oh, Polly! do tell me."

"I don't see any of them," said Polly, listening eagerly for another cry, "but I do believe they've found him."

"Do come back," implored Mrs. Whitney; "there, now, don't go again, Polly," as Polly hurried to her side, "but just hold my hand."

"I will," said Polly, "just as tight as I can, Auntie."

"Oh -- oh! Percy is so much worse off than Joel," wailed Mrs. Whitney. "Oh! to do such a thing, Polly!" she groaned.

"They only meant it in fun," said Polly, swallowing hard the lump in her throat, "don't let us talk about it, Auntie."

"And Van," cried Mrs. Whitney, running on. "Oh! my poor, poor boys. Will your mother ever forgive me, Polly?"

"Oh, Auntie! don't talk so," said Polly tenderly; "and we both ought to be out helping. There's Van, Auntie; just think how he feels."

"I can't go near him," cried Mrs. Whitney in distress, "as long as he is in Joel's room, for I can see your mother's eyes, Polly. It would kill me to have her look at me."

The door opened at this, and the trail of a long silken wrapper was heard on the floor.

"Mrs. Chatterton," said Mrs. Whitney, raising her head and looking at the new-comer with as much anger as her gentle face could contain, "I really cannot see you in my room to-night. Excuse me, but I am unstrung by all that has occurred. Will you please not come in" -- 

"I thought I might sit with you," said Mrs. Chatterton. In the brief interval since the arousing of the household, she had contrived to make a perfect breakfast toilet, and she folded her hands over her handsome gown. "Polly might then be with her mother. But if you don't wish me to remain, I will go."

"I do not need you," said Mrs. Whitney, decidedly, and she turned to Polly again.

Mrs. Chatterton moved away, and closed the door after her.

"Auntie," said Polly, "she really wants to help you."

"Polly, you needn't say anything about it," exclaimed Mrs. Whitney, like many other gentle creatures, when roused, becoming unreasonably prejudiced; "I cannot bear the sight of that woman. She has been here so long, and is so intensely disagreeable to us all."

Polly's eyes became very round, and she held her breath in astonishment.

"Don't look so, child," said Mrs. Whitney at length, "you don't understand, my dear. But you would if you were in my place" -- 

"She's sorry for it," said Polly, finding her tongue at last.

"And father is nearly worn out with her," continued Mrs. Whitney. "And now to come parading her attentions upon me, it" -- 

"Who -- who?" Dicky, now that the excitement in Joel's room had died down, had lost his relish for it, and he now pranced into Mrs. Whitney's room. "Who, mamma?"

"Mrs. Chatterton," said Mrs. Whitney unguardedly. "She has disagreeably intruded herself upon me."

"Has she been in here?" asked Dick in astonishment.

"Yes; asking if she can sit with me," and Polly started at the look in the usually soft blue eyes.

"And you wouldn't let her?" asked Dick, stopping short and regarding his mother curiously.

"Of course not, Dicky," she made haste to say.

"Then I think you did very wrong," declared Dick flatly.

"Oh, Dick!" exclaimed Polly in consternation.

"And you don't act like my mother at all," said Dick, standing quite stiffly on his sturdy legs, and gazing at her with disapprobation. "Didn't Mrs. Chatterton save my life," he exploded, "when the real burglar was going for me? Say, didn't she?" he cried.

"I have yet to find out that is the truth," said Mrs. Whitney, finding her voice. "Oh, Dicky," she added, hurt that he should defend another, worst of all, Mrs. Chatterton, "don't talk about her."

"But I ought to talk about her," persisted Dick. "She saved me as much as she could. Because she won't let anybody thank her, I like her more myself. I'm going to stay with her."

With that, he held his head high, and marched to the door.

"Dick, Dick!" called his mother, "come back, dear."

Dick slowly turned and made his way to her side, but he still regarded her with disapproval.

"Dick, I want you to go to Mrs. Chatterton's room, and say that I am sorry I refused her offer to help, and that I would like to have her sit with me. Remember, say I am sorry I refused her offer to help, Dicky." She leaned forward and kissed her boy, her long, soft hair falling like a veil around the two faces.

Dick threw his arms around her neck.

"Now, you're a brick!" he declared impulsively. "I'll bring the old lady, and we'll both sit with you."

So Polly was free to run back to Mamsie. On the way there she opened the door of Phronsie's little room, just out of Father and Mother Fisher's.

"How good it is that she sleeps through it all," said Polly, listening to the regular breathing. Then she stole across the room and stood beside the small bed.

"She looks just as she did the night she took her new shoes to bed," thought Polly; "one hand is over her head, exactly as it was then. Oh, Phronsie! to think that you're to have no party to-morrow," and she turned off with a sigh, went out, and closed the door.

"Percy's here -- all right!" cried Jasper, running over the stairs to meet her at the top.

His eyes were gleaming with excitement, and his face was torn and bleeding.

"Are you hurt?" cried Polly, feeling as if the whole family were bound to destruction. "Oh, Jasper! did you fall?"

"Nothing but a scratch. I was fool enough to forget the ledge, and walked off for my pains" -- 

"Oh, Jasper!" cried Polly, with paling cheeks, "let me bathe it for you, do;" her strength began to return at the thought of action, and she sprang for a basin of water.

"Nonsense. No, Polly!" cried Jasper, with a quick hand detaining her, "it's nothing but a mere scratch, I tell you, but I suppose it looks terribly. I'll go and wash it off. Run and tell his mother that Percy is found."

"Is he all right?" asked Polly fearfully, holding her breath for the answer.

"Sound as a nut," declared Jasper; "we found him streaking it down the locust path; he said he was going to run off to sea."

"Run off to sea!" repeated Polly. "Oh, Jasper!"

"Well, he was so frightened, of course he didn't know what to say," replied Jasper. "And ashamed, too. He didn't care to show his head at home. I don't know as I blame him, Polly. Well, it's too bad about Phronsie's party, isn't it?" added Jasper, mopping up his face as the two went down the hall.

"Yes," said Polly with a sigh, stopping at Mrs. Whitney's door, "but, oh! think how happy we are now that Percy is safe, Jasper."

"Still, it's too bad for Phronsie," repeated Jasper, looking back.

But Joel flatly declared that the first one that even so much as hinted that a single item of the arrangements for Phronsie's getting-well party should be changed, he'd make it disagreeable as only he knew how, for that one when he got up from his bed. "Yes, sir!" and he scolded, and fretted, and fussed, and laid down the law so generally to all, not excepting the doctor, that at last it was decided to let the party go on. Then he lay back against the pillows quite exhausted, but with a beatific face.

"I should think you would be tired, Joe," exclaimed Jasper, "you've bullied us so. Dear me! people ought to be angelic when they're sick, at least."

"If you'd had him to take care of as I did," observed Dr. Fisher, "you'd know better; goodness me! the little brown house scarcely held him when he was getting over the measles."

"What's the use of being sick," said Joel reflectively, turning on his pillow, "if you can't make people stand around, I'd like to know. Now that point's settled about Phronsie's party, won't you all go out? I'd like to speak to Father Fisher a moment."

"You don't mean me, Joey?" said Mother Fisher at the head of the bed, holding her boy's hand.

"Yes; you, too, Mamsie," said Joel, giving her an affectionate glance, "it's something that only the doctor and I are to know."

"You're not hurt anywhere else, are you, Joey?" asked his mother, a sudden alarm leaping to her black eyes.

"Not a scratch," said Joel promptly. "I want to see Father Fisher about something. Sometime you shall know, Mamsie." He gave her hand a sudden pressure, then let it go.

"Perhaps you would better step out, my dear," said the little doctor, nodding to his wife. So Mrs. Fisher, smothering a sigh, went out reluctantly.

"All out?" asked Joel, trying to raise his head to see for himself.

"Every soul," said Dr. Fisher.

"Well, see here, will you," said Joel, pointing to the table, the schoolbooks scattered as he had left them, "pack those things all away in the closet on the shelf, you know, and put the rubbish on the floor there, back on the table?"

Dr. Fisher could not for his life, refrain from asking curiously, as he did as requested, "Been having a pull at the books, eh, Joe?"

"Um -- um -- maybe," said Joel, twisting uneasily. "Well, now, come here, please, Father Fisher."

The little man turned away from the table, with its sprawling array of delightful things, to stand by the bedside.

"You must get me well as soon as you can," said Joel confidentially.

"All right; I understand," Dr. Fisher nodded professionally.

"And whatever you say, don't let it be that I must be careful of my eyes," said Joel.

"All right; that is, if you get up quickly," agreed the doctor.

"That's all," said Joel in great satisfaction. "Now, call Mamsie in and the others."

And in the morning, no one told Phronsie what had happened the night before. She only knew that Joel was not very well, and was going to keep his room; all her pleadings to do something for him being set one side by Grandpapa's demands upon her instant attention whenever the idea suggested itself to her. And so the time wore along till the party began.

Alexia was the first to arrive, her bowl of orange jelly in her hand, and after her, a tall slight figure jumped from the carriage, her flaxen hair streaming out in two pale braids.

"I thought I'd pick Cathie up," said Alexia carelessly; "had to pass her door, you know. O dear me, what perfectly dreadful times you had last night, Polly Pepper."

"I didn't bring macaroons," said Cathie, "as I really think that they wouldn't be good for Phronsie. Besides, I've forgotten how to make them, and our cook was cross and said I shouldn't come into her kitchen. But I bought a doll for Phronsie; my mother said it would be a great deal more sensible present," and she hugged the long box under her arm with great satisfaction.

"O dear! dear!" groaned Alexia, falling back with Polly as the three raced along the hall, "she showed it to me in the carriage, and it's a perfect guy, besides counting one more."

But afflictions like this were small to Polly now, and although for the next hour it rained dolls into Phronsie's puzzled hands, Polly helped her to thank the givers and to dispose them safely on neighboring chairs and tables and sofas.

Mrs. Chatterton's was the pattern of old Mr. King's phonograph doll, at which discovery he turned upon her with venom in his eye.

"My gift to my little granddaughter," taking especial care to emphasize the relationship, "has always been a doll, I suppose you knew that, Cousin Eunice; and to try to procure one exactly like the one I have purchased, is very presuming in you, to say the least."

"And why may I not present a doll to Phronsie Pepper, if I care to, pray tell?" demanded Mrs. Chatterton in a high, cold tone.

"Why? because you have always showed a marked dislike for the child," cried old Mr. King angrily, "that's why, Cousin Eunice."

"Grandpapa -- Grandpapa," said Phronsie, laying her hand on his arm.

"And to parade any special affection, such as the presentation of a gift indicates, is a piece of presumption on your part, I say it again, Cousin Eunice."

"Grandpapa!" said Phronsie again at his elbow.

"Now, Phronsie," turning to her, "you are to take that doll," pointing to a gorgeous affair reposing on the sofa, with Mrs. Algernon Chatterton's card attached to it, "and go over to Mrs. Chatterton, and say, very distinctly, 'I cannot accept this gift;' mind you say it distinctly, Phronsie, that there may be no mistake in the future."

"Oh, Grandpapa!" cried Phronsie in dismay.

"Yes, child; I know what is best for you. Take that doll, and do exactly as I bid you."

A dreadful pause fell upon the room. Polly clasped her hands, while Alexia and the other girls huddled into a corner saying softly, "Oh! how perfectly dreadful!"

"No use to say anything to father when he looks like that," groaned Jasper, when Polly besought him to try his influence, "his blood is up now; he's borne a good deal, you know, Polly."

"O dear, dear!" whispered Polly, back again, "just look at Mrs. Chatterton's face, and at poor Phronsie's; can't you do something, Jasper?"

"I'm afraid not," said Jasper gloomily. "No; he's making her give it back; see, Polly."

"You'll know it's for the best," Mr. King was repeating as he led the child to Mrs. Chatterton standing cold and silent at the end of the room, "sometime, child, and then you'll thank me that I saved you from further annoyance of this sort. There, Cousin Eunice, is your gift," taking the doll from Phronsie's hand, and placing it in the long, jeweled one. "My little granddaughter receives presents only from those who love her. All others are unwarranted, and must be returned."

Phronsie burst out tearfully, "She's sorry, Grandpapa, I know she is, and she loves me now. Please let me keep the doll."

But Mrs. Chatterton had left the room, the doll in her hand.



XXIV

Away


And after that everybody had to be as gay as possible, to keep Phronsie's sad little face from being flooded with tears.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Jasper, "here comes Candace! Now what do you suppose she has for you, Phronsie?"

Candace sailed through the doorway with ample satisfaction with everything and herself in particular.

"Whar's little Miss?" she demanded, her turban nodding in all directions, and her black eyes rolling from side to side.

"There, Candace," said some one, "over in the corner with Jasper."

"Oh! I see her," said Candace, waddling over to them. "Well, now, Phronsie, seein' you couldn't come to me for somethin' I made 'xpressly fer you, w'y, Candace has to come to you. See dat now, chile!"

She unrolled the parcel, disclosing the wonderful doll adorned with Candace's own hair, and "Ole Missus' ruffles," then stood erect, her bosom swelling with pride and delight.

"O my goodness me!" exclaimed Alexia, tumbling back after the first and only glance, and nearly overturning Cathie who was looking over her shoulder. "Polly Pepper, O dear me!" Then she sat down on the floor and laughed till she cried.

"Hush -- hush!" cried Polly, running over to her, "do stop, Alexia, and get up. She'll hear you, and we wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world. Do stop, Alexia."

"O dear me!" cried Alexia gustily, and holding her sides while she waved back and forth; "if it had been -- a -- respectable doll, but that -- horror! O dear me!"

"Stop -- stop!" commanded Polly, shaking her arm.

But Alexia was beyond stopping herself. And in between Candace's delighted recital how she combed "de ha'r to take de curl out," and how "ole Missus' ruffles was made into de clothes," came the peals of laughter that finally made every one in the room stop and look at the girls.

"Candace, come into my 'den' and get a pattern for some new pins I want you to make for me," cried Jasper, desperately dragging her off.

"It's no use to lecture me," said Alexia, sitting straight as Candace's feet shuffled down the hall, and wiping her face exhaustedly. "I know it was dreadful -- O dear me! Don't anybody speak to me, or I shall disgrace myself again!"

"Now, Phronsie, what do you suppose we are to do next?"

Phronsie looked up into old Mr. King's face.

"I don't know, Grandpapa," she said wonderingly.

"Well, now, my dear, you've had Punch and Judy, and these nice children," waving his hand to indicate the delegation from the orphan asylum, "have sung beautifully for you. Now what comes next, Phronsie?"

"I don't know, Grandpapa," repeated Phronsie.

"When gifts become burdensome they no longer are kindnesses," said Mr. King. "Now, Phronsie, I have found out -- never mind how; little birds, you now, sometimes fly around telling people things they ought to know. Well, I have discovered in some way that my little girl has too many children to care for."

Here Phronsie's brown eyes became very wide.

"And when there are too many children in the nest, Phronsie, why, they have to go out into the world to try their fortunes and make other homes. Now there are so many poor little girls who haven't any children, Phronsie. Think of that, dear; and you have so many."

Phronsie at this drew nearer and stole her hand into his.

"Now what is to be done about it?" asked the old gentleman, putting his other broad palm over her little one and holding it fast. "Hey, my pet?"

"Can't we buy them some children?" asked Phronsie with warm interest. "Oh, Grandpapa dear, do let us; I have money in my bank."

"Phronsie," said the old gentleman, going to the heart of the matter at once and lifting her to his lap, "I really think the time has come to give away some of your dolls. I really do, child."

Phronsie gave a start of incredulity and peered around at him.

"I really do. You are going abroad to be gone -- well, we'll say a year. And your dolls would be so lonely without anything to do but to sit all day and think of their little mother. And there are so many children who would love them and make them happy." Now Mr. King's white hair was very near the yellow waves floating over his shoulder, so that none but Phronsie's ears caught the next words. "It's right, Phronsie dear; I'd do it if I were you," he said in a low voice.

"Do you want it, Grandpapa?" asked Phronsie softly.

"I do, child; but not unless you are willing" -- 

"Then I do," declared Phronsie, sitting quite straight on his knee. And she gave a relieved sigh. "Oh, Grandpapa, if we only had the poor children now!" she exclaimed, dreadfully excited.

"Come, then." Old Mr. King set her on her feet. "Clear the way there, good people; we are going to find some poor children who are waiting for dolls," and he threw wide the door into a back passage, and there, presided over by Jencks, and crowding for the first entrance, was a score of children with outstretched hands.

"Oh -- oh!" exclaimed Phronsie with cheeks aflame.

"Please, he said we was to have dolls," cried one hungry-eyed girl, holding out both her hands. "I've never had one. Please give me one quick."

"Never had one?" echoed Phronsie, taking a step toward her.

"Only a piece, Miss, I found in a rag-barrel. Please give me one quick."

"She's never had a doll -- only a piece," repeated Phronsie, turning back to the family, unable to contain this information.

"Ask the others if they have had any," said Mr. King, leaning against a tall cabinet. "Try that girl there in a brown plaid dress."

"Have you ever had a doll?" asked Phronsie obediently, looking over at the girl indicated, and holding her breath for the answer.

At this, the girl in the brown plaid dress burst into tears, which so distressed Phronsie that she nearly cried.

"Yes, but it died," said the girl after a little.

"Oh, Grandpapa, her doll died!" exclaimed Phronsie in horror.

"No, it didn't, Jane," corrected another girl, "the dog et it; you know he did."

"Yes, I know," said Jane, between small sobs, "it died, and we couldn't have any fun'ral, 'cause the dog had et it."

"Well, now, Phronsie," exclaimed Mr. King, getting away from the support of the cabinet, "I think it's time that we should make some of these children happy. Don't you want to take them up to the playroom and distribute the dolls?"

"No, no," protested Phronsie suddenly. "I must go up and tell my children. They will understand it better then, Grandpapa. I'll be back in a very few minutes," and going out she went quickly upstairs, and after a while returned with both arms full.

"This doll is for you," she said gravely, putting a doll attired in a wonderful pink satin costume into Jane's arms. "I've told her about your dog, and she's a little frightened, so please be careful."

"What's the fun down there now?" asked Joel of Van, who with Percy could not be persuaded to leave his bedside a moment, "open the door, do, and let's hear it."

So Van threw wide the door.

"Go out and listen, Percy, will you?" he said.

"I don't want to," said Percy, who shared Van's wish to keep in the background.

"You two fellows act like muffs," said Joel. "Now if you want me to get well, go out, do, and tell me what the fun is going on down there."

So persuaded, the two boys stole out into the hall in time to see Phronsie go down the stairs with her armful, and carefully using their ears they soon rushed back with "Phronsie's giving away her dolls!"

"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Joel, "if you can't bring back anything better than that yarn, you might as well stay here."

"But I tell you it's true," declared Van, "isn't it, Percy?"

"Yes, it is," said Percy. "I heard her distinctly say, 'This doll is for you' -- and she had her arms full, so I suppose she's going to give those away too" -- 

"A likely story," said Joel, bursting into a laugh. At the noise up in the boys' room, Mother Fisher ran quickly over the stairs.

"Oh, boys! what is it? Joel, are you worse?"

"No, indeed," said Joel, "I was laughing. Percy and Van have been telling such a big story. Mamsie, they actually said that Phronsie was giving away her dolls."

"Is that all?" cried Mrs. Fisher in relief. "Well, so she is, Joel."

"PHRONSIE GIVING AWAY HER DOLLS, MAMSIE?" screamed Joel. "Why, what does Grandpapa say?"

"He's the very one that proposed it," said Mrs. Fisher. "There, Joey, don't get excited, for I don't know what the doctor will say," as Joel sank back on his pillow, overcome by this last piece of news.

When Phronsie went to bed that night she clasped Mr. King's new gift to her breast.

"Grandpapa, dear," she said confidingly as they went up the stairs together, "do you know I really think more of this doll, now that the others are gone? Really I do, Grandpapa, and I can take better care of her, because I shall have more time."

"So you will, dear," assented Mr. King. "Well, Phronsie, I think you and I, dear, haven't made a bad day's work."

"I think my children will be happy," said Phronsie with a small sigh, "because you see it's so nice to make good times for their new mothers. And, Grandpapa, I couldn't play with each one more than once a week. I used to try to, but I couldn't, Grandpapa."

"Why didn't you tell me, Phronsie," asked the old gentleman a bit reproachfully as they reached the top step, "how it was, dear? You should have given them away long ago."

"Ah, but," said Phronsie, slowly shaking her head, "I didn't want to give them away before; only just now, Grandpapa, and I think they will be happy. And now I'm going to take this newest one to bed, just as I used to take things to bed years ago, when I was a little girl."

And after all, there was an extension of time for the three boys' vacation, Dr. Marks not getting up from his sudden attack of fever as quickly as was expected. But there came a day at last, when Percy, Van and David bade Joel "good-by."

"It won't be for long," observed that individual cheerfully, "you'll be back in three weeks."

"O dear!" groaned Percy when safe within the coach, "we've ruined all his chances. He certainly will be plucked now -- with those three weeks to make up."

Van gathered himself up and leaned forward in his corner.

"Don't look so, Dave," he cried desperately.

David tried to smooth the troubled lines out of his face, but only succeeded in making it look worse than before.

"And it will kill Mrs. Fisher," Percy continued gloomily, "if he does get plucked, as of course he will."

"Keep still, will you?" cried Van, his irritation getting beyond bounds. "What's the use of talking about a thing till it's done," which had the effect to make Percy remember his promise to Polly and close his mouth.

But Joel's wound healed quicker than any one supposed it possibly could, and Percy and Van, who both hated to write letters, gave up much time on the playground to indite daily bulletins, so that he declared that it was almost as good as being there on the spot. And Mother Fisher and her army of servants cleaned the great stone house from top to bottom, and sorted, and packed away, and made things tidy for the new housekeeper who was to care for them in her absence, till Dr. Fisher raised his eyebrows and hands in astonishment.

"I really must," he said one day, "put in a remonstrance, wife, or you'll kill yourself before we start."

"Oh! I'm used to working," Mrs. Fisher would say cheerily, and then off she would fly to something so much worse that the little doctor was speechless.

And Polly set herself at all her studies, especially French, with redoubled vigor, notwithstanding that she was hampered with the faithful attentions of the schoolgirls who fought among themselves for her company, and showered her with pathetic "O -- dear -- me -- ow -- I -- shall -- miss -- you," and with tears when they got over it. And Jasper buried himself in his den, only bursting forth at meal times, and Mrs. Whitney bemoaned all preparations for the travelers' departure, and wished a thousand times that she had not given her promise to keep the house and look after the boys. And everybody who had the slightest claim to a calling acquaintance, now dropped in upon the Kings, and Polly had her "good-by party," and it was pronounced perfectly elegant by Alexia and her set, and the three boys came home for the long vacation -- and in two days the party would sail.

"Who do you think is going abroad with us?" asked Mr. King suddenly, as they all sat in the library for a last evening talk; "guess quickly."

"Who?" cried several voices.

"Why, I thought you didn't want any outsiders, father," exclaimed Jasper in surprise.

"Well, and I didn't when I said so, but circumstances are changed now -- come, guess quickly, some one?"

"The Cabots," said Jasper at a venture.

"No, no; guess again."

"Mr. Alstyne?"

"No; again."

"The Bayleys, the Dyces, the Herrings," shouted Mr. Whitney and Van and Joel.

"No, I know," broke in Percy, "it's Mrs. Chatterton," with a quick glance to make sure that she was not in the room.

"NO!" thundered Mr. King. "Oh! how stupid people can be when they want to. Two persons are to meet us in New York to-morrow. I didn't tell you till I was sure; I had no desire that you should be disappointed. Now guess again."

"Auntie, do you know?" asked Polly suddenly, leaning back, as she sat on the rug in front of the fire, to lay her head in Mrs. Whitney's lap.

"No, I'm sure I don't," said Mrs. Whitney, stroking lightly the brown hair, with a pang to think how long it would be before she should caress it again.

"How any one can desire to cross the ocean," remarked Mr. Whitney, folding his hands back of his head and regarding meditatively the glowing fire, "is more than I can see. That I never shall do it again unless whipped over, I'm morally certain."

"Are the persons men?" asked Ben suddenly.

"One is," replied Mr. King.

"And the other is a woman?"

"The other is a woman," said Mr. King. "Well, what are their names? Isn't anybody smart enough to guess them? Dear me, I've always said that the Peppers were remarkably bright, and the rest of you children are not behind other young people. Go on, try again. Now who are they?"

Polly took her head out of Mrs. Whitney's lap, and rested her chin in her hands, Davie walked up and down the room, while Ben and the two Whitney boys hung over Mother Fisher's chair.

"Dear me!" fumed Joel. "Who ever could guess. There's such a lot or people in the world that Grandpapa knows. It might be any two of them that he had asked."

Little Dr. Fisher's eyes roved from one to the other of the group. "I couldn't begin to guess because I don't know many of your friends," he said quietly.

"You know these two people very well," said Mr. King, laughing, to see the little man's face.

"Now I think I know," said Jasper slowly, a light coming into his gray eyes, "but I don't suppose it's fair to guess, for I saw the address on a letter father was writing two or three weeks ago."

"You did, you young scamp, you!" cried Mr. King, turning on him. "Well, then, 'tisn't a guess for you, Jasper. Keep still, my boy, and let them work away at it. Will no one guess?"

"Mamsie," cried Polly, bounding up from the ring, nearly upsetting Phronsie, who was sitting beside her in a brown study, "can it be -- do you suppose it is nice, dear Mr. and Mrs. Henderson?"

"Well, Polly," said Mr. King, beaming at her, "you've done what the others couldn't. Yes, it is Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, and they are going with us to stay until the autumn."

"Good, good!" cried every one till the big room seemed full of joy.

"Oh, father!" exclaimed Mrs. Whitney, "I'm so glad you've done this. They were so kind to Dicky and to me when he was hurt."

"They were kind to Dicky and to you," said her father; "and besides, Marian, Mr. Henderson is a man who doesn't preach at you only once a week, and Mrs. Henderson is a fine woman. So it's a pity not to ease up things for them now and then. Well, how do you like the plan?" He spoke to Dr. Fisher, but his gaze took them all in.

"Immensely," said the little doctor; which being again echoed heartily by all the rest, old Mr. King began to feel very much elated at his part in the proceedings, and in a quarter of an hour it seemed as if the expedition had been especially planned for the benefit of the Hendersons, so naturally had it all come about.

And on the morrow, the whole family, Kings, Whitneys, Fishers and Peppers, turned their backs on the gray stone mansion and went down to the city.

And Alexia Rhys persuaded her aunt to do her semi-annual shopping at this time, and to take her too; and Mr. Alstyne also had business that necessitated his going, and Mr. Cabot and Mary Taylor, and her father found they must go along too; and Hamilton Dyce was there, and Pickering Dodge, of course, went to be company for Ben on the way back. And at the last moment who should jump on the train but Livingston Bayley.

"Had a telegram," he explained; "must be there at noon. So glad of the unexpected pleasure of meeting you all."

And Cousin Eunice Chatterton went; for, at the last minute, she had suddenly discovered that she had visited at the gray stone mansion as long as she cared to, and notified the family accordingly. And Mr. King had so far made up for his part in the late unpleasantness as to ask her to go with the party, on her way to her nephew's in the city. So there she was with the others, bidding them good-by on the steamer.

"Phronsie," she said slowly, under cover of the babel of tongues, "you are a good child, and I've done well by you. This little bit of paper," putting it into her hands, "contains a message to Mr. King, which you are to give him after you have started."

"I will go and give it to him now," said Phronsie, her fingers closing over the bit.

"No, no," said Mrs. Chatterton sharply, "do as I say. Remember, on no account to let any one see it till after you have started. You are a good child, Phronsie. Now, remember to do as you are bidden. And now, will you kiss me, child?"

Phronsie lifted her eyes and fixed them on the long, white face, and suddenly raising herself on her tiptoes, she put up her lips.

"Look at Phron," cried Joel in the midst of the group, "actually kissing Mrs. Chatterton!" and everybody turned and stared.

Cousin Eunice dropped her veil with a quick hand, and moved off with a stately step, but not in time to lose young Bayley's drawl:

"'Pon me word -- it's the most extraordinary thing. Phronsie, come here, and tell us what 'twas like." But Phronsie stood quite still as if she had not heard.

"Yes, I hope you'll have a nice time," Pickering Dodge was saying for the dozenth time, with eyes for no one but Polly, "now don't stay away for a year."

Polly with her heart full of the boys, who were hanging on either side, answered at random.

"Oh, Ben! I can't go," she was exclaiming, and she hid her head on his shoulder, so Pickering turned off.

But Joel set his teeth together. "You must," he said, for Ben was beyond speech with the effort to control himself.

"I can't," said poor Polly, "leave you, Ben, and the boys."

And then Mrs. Whitney came up just as Polly was near breaking down.

"My dear child," she said, taking Polly's hands, "you know it is right for you to go."

"Yes, I know," said Polly, fighting her tears.

"Then, Polly, be brave, dear, and don't begrudge me my three new boys," she added playfully. "Just think how happy I'm to be, with six such splendid fellows to call my own."

Polly smiled through her tears.

"And one thing more," said Mrs. Whitney in a low voice, "when you feel badly," looking steadily at Polly and the three boys, "remember what Dr. Fisher said; that if your mother didn't stop working, and rest, she would break down."

"I'll remember," said Ben hoarsely.

"So will I," said David.

"And I will," said Joel, looking everywhere but into Polly's eyes.

"Well, I hope, Miss Polly," said young Mr. Bayley, sauntering up, "that you'll have an uncommonly nice time, I do indeed. I may run across in September; if I do, we shall probably meet."

"Miss Mary Pepper?" suddenly asked a man with a huge basket of flowers, and pausing in front of her.

Young Mr. Bayley smiled indulgently as he could not help reading the card thrust into the flowers. "She will receive my flowers at intervals all the way over, if the steward doesn't fail me," he reflected with satisfaction, "while this boy's will fade in an hour."

"Miss Mary Pepper?" the florist's messenger repeated, extending the basket to Polly.

"It's for you, Miss Polly," said young Mr. Bayley. "Let me relieve you," taking the basket.

"Oh! are they for me?" cried Polly.

"I believe you are Miss Mary Pepper," said young Bayley. "Pretty, aren't they?" fingering the roses, and glad to think that there were orchids among the flowers to which his card was attached, and just placed under the steward's care.

"I suppose I am," said Polly, with a little laugh, "but it seems as if I couldn't be anything but Polly Pepper. Oh! thank you, Pickering, for these lovely roses," catching sight of him.

"Glad you like them," said Pickering radiantly. "Say, Polly, don't stay away a whole year, will you?"

Young Mr. Bayley set the basket in his hand and turned on his heel with a smile.

"Come, Polly, I want you," cried Alexia, trying to draw her off. "You know she's my very best friend, Pickering, and I haven't had a chance to say one word to her this morning. Come, Polly."

"Polly, come here," called Mrs. Fisher.

"O dear!" cried Alexia impatiently, "now that's just the way it always is. It's Polly here, and Polly there," as Polly deserted her and ran off with her basket of roses.

"You don't do any of the calling, of course," said Pickering, with a laugh.

"Well, I'll have her to myself," declared Alexia savagely, "before it's time for us to get off the steamer, see if I don't."

"I don't believe it," said Pickering. "Look at her now in a maelstrom of relatives. You and I, Alexia, are left out."

And the next thing Alexia knew somebody unceremoniously helped her from the steamer with a "Beg pardon, Miss, but you must get off," and she was standing on the wharf in a crowd of people, looking in a dazed way at Polly Pepper's fluttering handkerchief, while fast-increasing little ripples of greenish water lay between them.

And Phronsie was running up to Mr. King:

"Here, Grandpapa, Mrs. Chatterton wanted me to give you this," unclasping her warm little palm where the bit of white paper lay. "The Dickens she did," exclaimed the old gentleman; "so she has had a last word with you, has she? Well, she won't get another for a long spell; so never mind. Now, let's see what Cousin Eunice says. Something interesting, no doubt." He spread the crumpled bit straight and read, Phronsie standing quite still by his side:

COUSIN HORATIO: I have made Phronsie Pepper my sole heir. You may like it or not, as you please. The thing is done, and may God bless Phronsie. EUNICE CHATTERTON.

<eob>

The Blossoming Rod

By

Mary Stewart Cutting



Mr. Langshaw had vaguely felt unusual preparations for a Christmas gift to him this year; he was always being asked for "change" to pay the children for services rendered.

It might have seemed a pity that calculation as to dollars and cents entered so much into the Christmas festivities of the family, if it were not that it entered so largely into the scheme of living that it was naturally interwoven with every dearest hope and fancy; the overcoming of its limitations gave a zest to life. Langshaw himself, stopping now, as was his daily habit, to look at the display made by the sporting-goods shop on his way home the Friday afternoon before Christmas Monday, wondered, as his hand touched the ten-dollar bill in his pocket -- a debt unexpectedly paid him that day -- if the time had actually arrived at last when he might become the possessor of the trout-rod that stood in the corner of the window; reduced, as the ticket proclaimed, from fifteen dollars to ten.

The inspiration was the more welcome because the moment before his mind had been idly yet disquietingly filled with the shortcomings of George, his eldest child, and only son, aged ten, who didn't seem to show that sense of responsibility which his position and advanced years called for -- even evading his duties to his fond mother when he should be constituting himself her protector. He was worried as to the way George would turn out when he grew up.

This particular trout-rod, however, had an attraction for Langshaw of long standing. He had examined it carefully more than once when in the shop with his neighbour, Wickersham; it wasn't a fifty-dollar rod, of course, but it seemed in some ways as good as if it were -- it was expensive enough for him! He had spoken of it once to his wife, with a craving for her usual sympathy, only to meet with a surprise that seemed carelessly disapproving.

"Why, you have that old one of your father's and the bass-rod already; I can't see why you should want another. You always say you can't get off to go fishing as it is."

He couldn't explain that to have this particular split bamboo would be almost as good as going on a fishing trip; with it in his hand he could feel himself between green meadows, the line swirling down the rushing brook. But later Clytie had gone back to the subject with pondering consideration.

"Ten dollars seems an awful price for a rod! I'm sure I could buy the same thing for much less uptown; wouldn't you like me to see about it some day?"

"Great Scott! Never think of such a thing!" he had replied in horror. "I could get much cheaper ones myself! If I ever have the money I'll do the buying -- you hear?"

" -- Hello, Langshaw! Looking at that rod again? Why don't you blow yourself to a Christmas present? Haven't you got the nerve?"